18 hours in the life of a single girl

Friday night: the art of turning down a date

I had a rough week emotionally, yeah? This and this and this.

Friday morning, I was exhausted as soon as I opened my eyes. In exchange for fulfilling my adulting obligations of going to work, I promised myself that I’d spend a quiet evening at home doing laundry, sipping on some locally brewed cider and reading a book. I couldn’t wait. After a useless day at the office (#braindead), I got stuck in endless traffic – cementing my resolve to be a Friday-night hermit. By 7pm, groceries were done, PJs and fluffy pink slippers adorned me and I was all set to win ALL of the dance-offs against myself to Ed Sheeran’s Shape of you.

The phone rang as I was starting the washing machine. I declined the call.

The phone rang again – same dude – as I was cracking open my first bottle of cider. I declined the call, texting Dude1, “You’re pocket dialing me.” He replied, “No, you idiot, I don’t pocket dial twice in a row. PICK UP.” So of course, instead of picking up, I finished prepping my load of laundry. Then I hydrated myself with cider. THEN I called back Dude1 (#priorities); he was inviting me last minute to join him for foodstuffs and drinks.

In case y’all were wondering, it is impossible to diplomatically tell a guy “I’m turning you down because I prefer doing my laundry.




Saturday morning: how to unsexify sexting

Saturday mornings = savage workouts with Coach Dr. Booté. One simply does not mess around with Coach and his workouts. If he requests the pleasure of our presence at a certain hour, we show up. On time. Ready to go. That is just how it works with Coach. #bossyman

So, it stands to reason that despite finding myself in the midst of a rather successful sexting session with Hickster, when the clock chimed 11am, I told Hickster I had to go workout. He requested I send him a naughty pic in exchange for my impending silence. I apologetically refused: no time, no way I would risk Coach’s wrath! I suggested Hickster use his imagination or the internet instead, bc I’m helpful like that.

Giggling, I told Coach and the boys what had just happened. The reactions included:

  • “Who sexts at 11am?”
  • “Who doesn’t sext at 11am?”
  • “So you just gave a guy blue balls by text?”
  • “Of COURSE you shouldn’t be late to MY workouts. Clearly, this bro doesn’t realize that MY workouts are the reason you have a sextable booté in the first place. He needs to learn.”

One of the guys suggested that I send a “dirty” video of me all hot and sweaty working out like an Amazon, lifting heavy shit. “Hey baby, this is what you meant, right? I’m so dirty. And I can whoop your ass. Bye!”

Hickster didn’t find it hilarious. Hihi.


Because sharing is caring, behold Vanilla’s dirty videos:

And another, by which time I’d forgotten the stated objective of the videos, bc I was consumed by the pain of my burning muscles.


Getting hit in the solar plexus

I got a haircut yesterday! And unlike last time, I actually do resemble Anne Hathaway, and no one will mistakenly assume that my inspiration was Jamie Lee Curtis from True Lies. My hairdresser is brilliant. In just a few snips and choppity chop chops she saved me from the outgrown, middle-aged, soccer mom look I’d been sporting, and made me beautiful.

She is good for the soul. My soul happens to be very vain.

What was less good for my soul was the experience I had with the assistant who washed my hair and gave me an excellent scalp massage. She was young (under 25?) and charming. She told me she used a special shampoo/conditioner combo for people with thin hair – reasonable, since not only do I have baby hairs, but I also don’t have many of them. I’ve struggled to accept my thin hair over the years – luscious flowing locks is the second most feminine imagery after tits and ass – and have accepted it much more easily ever since I found my hair dresser who is skilled in constructing hair cuts that deceive the eye and create volume… before even being styled!

Aaaaaaaaaaanyhow, after the shampoo station, I spent a few minutes discussing various shampoos for thin hair with the assistant, and as she led me towards my hair dresser’s station, she politely asked me what had caused my thin hair, as I surely must not have always had so little. Did the thinness happen as a result of the pregnancy?

What? Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat did you just say, wench?

“Is it because of the pregnancy? Some women experience extreme hair loss after giving birth!”

No, I managed to croak out. No, it is not because of the pregnancy.

The assistant seemed skeptical. Without quite asking me if I was sure,  she did ask what, therefore, was the cause of my thin hair? So I explained how I had 10 surgeries in 6 years during my adolescence, including 6 requiring general anesthetics, and how the repeated shock to my system of those invasive drugs had resulted in permanent hair loss. I didn’t bother explaining that I was not, had never been, preggers, because I couldn’t face the risk of her making a further comment about my body-type or age that might be unintentionally brutal. I hoped that my explanation of medical difficulties would illicit some kind of compassionate reaction.

Instead, she shrugged, “Anesthetics can cause hair loss? I didn’t know.”

I gave up.

On the plus side, my hair dresser made me look beautiful, young, and not pregnant.

I think I need to commit to that diet

An anticipated introduction

Back in the day, I’d been dating a great guy, who would later turn into my first serious boyfriend, for several weeks, and was considering introducing him to my parents, when friend after friend asked me if I was anxious about my parents’ reaction. The first time I was asked that question, I was confused – reaction to what? They’d roll their eyes, as though it was obvious: to his being black. (This was only uttered by my Caucasian and Asian friends. South Americans and African-Americans, upon seeing him (half-Guayanese, half-Canadian) would scoff and exclaim, “but he is only half black!” Or as my friend Nene put it, he’s “like a cone of soft ice cream, half-vanilla, half-chocolate.” How yummy!)

Sure enough, nobody in my family cared about his background or skin color. My Baba did whisper earnestly to my mother that he should be careful about his dreadlocks – somebody might mistake him for a musician!

During that first introductory dinner, he got interrogated by my uncle and aunt. He was studying engineering, had been a high school football player, and had played in bands his whole life, usually as a drummer. My mother sitting further down the table, turned to me and blurted out: “A drummer? That’s great, at least you know he’ll have good rhythm! ” She caught herself, and glanced, embarrassed, at my 9-yr-old god-daughter, who’d been sitting with us, listening attentively.


All in all, I think my friends severely mis-judged my source of anxiety leading up to that introduction.