Missing: myself

The other day a friend of mine asked me how I was doing since The Ex Man had left my humble abode and my life. She asked if I missed him and if there was any chance that we would work things out.

It's been over a month so it was a fair question. I had time to be acclimatized to a bedroom without hitting my toe on a dresser that was too big for the space or sleep in the bed that kept mysteriously losing bolts (but only on my side - coincidence or murder plot... hmm...). I also had a full month of permanent garbage duty and poop patrol details, and a month of no cheesy lines or stories repeated verbatim ad nauseum.

The truth of the matter is that while I miss the companionship, the connection between two human beings I don't miss him as a partner. It was a partnership that never truly was. I don't miss the long silences and stares as he tried to guess how I would react before deliverying any news - from his dinner preference or weekend plans to his penchant for Money Mart loans. I miss laughing over Kao's antics or how he'd play hide and seek throughout the house and have Kao chase him up the stairs laughing (The Ex Man, not Kao - that's just ridiculous). I don't miss relying on someone who could not be relied upon.

Even though he was a quiet guy (and still is), the house is even quieter now. Kao has taken to grunting at me, constantly by my side to play, go out, romp, throw sticks, rubber chickens and pigs. He does let me sleep in and he hasn't tried to eat any more of my undergarments but I think even he feels the void. To say it's any one person, I can't say. He just senses the shift in dynamics, the table set for one. As I write this, he's grunting at me to go out or to give me a kiss. I sure wish he could use his words.

I miss words, conversation, a connection between two people who live in close quarters. I miss having my back scratched every night before sleep and someone to tell me how awesome, beautiful, sexy and smart I am. So now, I scratch my own back (don't use the spagetti strainer if ever you visit - it's not in the kitchen anymore). Every morning when I'm greeted with my image in the mirror, I tell myself exactly what I see: a strong, beautiful, sexy, smart and funny woman who stood her ground and refused to accept second best.

It's working, slowly but surely. But it's in these quiet times that I yearn for the hopes of days past when I believed in and was excited by the possibilities that lay ahead in the new relationship of four years past, and when I believed that there was a fork to match my spoon.

I know there will come a day when the quiet times and these feelings will slip away, and now, a month past, it is getting easier and easier. I may just have to keep the radio on 24-7 until I'm dancing joyously and missing nothing.

He's on a cougar hunt and he's found one...

I should have known when he danced up to our table and announced he was a progressive house DJ who hoped he would get the part-time gig as a sandwich master at Subway for which he had interviewed last week.

It was our first full day in Charlottetown and Anasatan and I had secured a table on the patio, listening to the band du jour at Peake's Quay down by the Charlottetown waterfront. We were tying on a few rum and Diet Cokes and were just thankful and excited to be back at Peake's, the scene for many a fun night during our last visit five years ago. We knew there would be young'uns but there had been a good mix of people in the past and we were looking forward to letting loose.

Mr. DJ looked about 19 though he swore he was 25, hip-hopping his way over to our table with an Alpine beer (swill) and Rev in hand. Besides his very stylish and exhuberant dancing, what stood out the most was his inability to look away, taking in what he thought was our predator pheramones.

We may have just entered the 40-club, but neither myself or Anasatan are ready to enter Cougar-dom just yet. Besides our need for mid-day naps, we did not look nor feel any of our 40 years. And, I certainly wasn't into the young meat Mr. DJ was showcasing. He was impressed that we hailed from just around Toronto, thinking we had the inside scoop of the latest raves, lounges and clubs. What he didn't realize was we were both more Jesus of Surburbia than downtown hipster. He also didn't realize that the conversation would turn from friendly to downright strange. He should have known. We, on the other hand, had no idea how the conversation (and our stomachs) would turn.

Just one of the things I love about Anasatan is her awesome sense of humour (and also her great taste in best friends), so I wasn't surprised when she quipped in with one of her zingers. After inviting Mr. DJ to join us at the table for some stimulating conversation and finding that he clammed up instantly when in the presence of our awesomeness, I was trying to make conversation and had asked him what brought him out on that particular windy night. I had grown tired of his adoration and non-blinking stare and needed to fill in the air space in with something other than his deep breathing and drooling (Yes, it goes without saying that we were hawt).

"Well, Scribe, he's out on a cougar hunt and he's found one," joked Anasatan in her usual devilish attitude, laughing at Mr. DJ's shocked expression. I wasn't sure how he was going to answer or if he'd manage a retort at all. He wasn't exactly rating high on the wit scale. What we got was even more shocking (and a whole load more disturbing).

"I can't do anything," he confessed. "I've got genital warts."

Yes, genital warts. Not "well, really, you're not my type and while I'm enjoying this conversation I think I'm going to drink up some lemonade and dance with the hipsters in the corner." Genital warts. Herpes. An STD broadcast.

And, while I appreciated his blatant honesty, the fact that I had not even expressed an iota of interest had me second guessing as to what phrase had actually left his lips. So, I asked him to repeat it. My ears had heard correctly. Genital warts. I did not know what to say, and it's a rare occasion that I'm left speechless and automatically feeling the need to wash my hands, my eyes, my ears and generally any part of my body that may or may not have come into contact with DJ Penil Warts.

Copious amounts of alcohol followed more to kill any germs that may have congregated on his chair during his thankfully brief time with us but also to be able to process what had just occurred. And process we did, telling everyone from the young ladies waiting for a taxi out in front of the patio bar to the waitress and the cab drivers we would hire throughout the week.

It also became our phrase of the entire holiday: "Oh, I can't do the dishes - I've got genital warts," "Oh, I think I need to  take a third shower today to ward off those genital warts," "Oh, Mr. Cab Driver, we can't possibly consider inviting you in for a drink - we've become afflicted with genital warts." You get the picture.

What a picture it is... having never seen or come into contact with anyone with genital warts I was curious. Rule to live by: never Google images of genital warts after ingesting a meal... or ever. In this case, it's better to remain curious than to be in the know. Unless you've got itching and your member looks like a roll of braille. Then it's time to go see a doctor and put that penis or vagina into hiatus, hiding or just chop it off.