July.
After a blow out with my family over (my) shit that needed to be dealt with (long time coming, will skip details but write sappy, dark, wrist-slashing prose later), I run away to recover a.k.a. calm my raging temper. Said temper, by the way, sends cortisol through my system leading to belly fat which makes me even more maddened. Frick.
So, I run away to Quadra Island, BC, which is a 10-minute ferry ride from where I’m ‘staying’ with my LMLotFM (Little Mexican Lady on the Floor Mom) since I sold all my possessions and ran away to California last year after having a 7-year midlife crisis after my divorce, which lead to a secret life in Seattle and, thereafter, the whole Cali thing—too much detail. (See “Memoir.”)
Where was I? Oh, right, Quadra Island. I’ll sum up since we’re all anxious to get to the AB-beef-makes-me-horny bit. Quaint abode on a hobby farm, tucked away in tall trees, birds chirping, sheep bleating, etc. Super Zen.
I re-edited my entire manuscript, bathed a couple times (no shower), hiked once, unravelled my rage, apologized to family, scratched the farmer’s ass (his donkey, it’s a farm, remember?), breathed deep, chilled out, and felt the love. It was very productive time. Cool. Check.
Of course, in the midst of this mind-altered natural irrational state, I’d also booked other getaways, namely Calgary, AB (where AB BFF has lived for 2 years nary a visit from me) and Tofino, BC (where I go to write the wrist-slashing stuff as Tofino has that vibe—though more so in winter).
So, off I go to Calgary. Just before we get to the beefy side of this story, I need mention that for part of my California culturing, I became a Vegan (WTF). The non-shaving of legs was just laziness. But shortly after I returned home to Redneck City, I downgraded to Vegetarian (lacto-ovo, I believe they say; I added eggs and cheese—hey, I was vitamin deficient. Supplements require manufacture, plastic and transport—yeah, now who’s the [enviro]-murderer? [Smug expression.]).
Calgary. My AB BFF is not so susceptible to my mightier-than-thou, high-horse enviro/ethical food ideals. She grew up on an Alberta ranch. Alberta ranches are not the hobby farms of rural outskirts or Quadra Island. No, Alberta ranches are the big-ass plots of land with big-ass beef production. Relevance? It’s no hobby; it’s a way of life.
So, while in Calgary I ate hamburgers, barbequed steak, meat-sauce lasagne, more hamburgers. One might think I’d have had a tummy ache. Interestingly, not so much. (Mind you, I didn’t … err [TMI] for a week and, when I did, I nearly broke porcelain with those briquettes. Small price to pay, I say.) I didn’t eat bacon. (Somehow, this makes my fall from anti-animal-eating grace more gracious.) I didn’t buy cowgirl boots. (I did buy jeans and a T-shirt at Value Village for $17.) And, no, I didn’t molest any cowboys, despite the beef side effects.
Aside from the lack of ass hides and fibre, Alberta was another productive journey (justifying impulsive travel decisions): I caught up with BFF; accomplished the details for my new website and branding (to be created by AB BFF); went to some real estate Open Houses (to keep my head in the game [sideways glance]—day job); talked endlessly about relationships (my favourite topic); met the Canadian Olympic Gold Medalist for bobsleigh (Heather Moyse); wore her medal—oh, yeah (!); met the Mayor of Calgary (!), Naheed Nenchi—I must interject to give Calgary extra credit. To my knowledge, Mayor Nenchi is East Indian and gay (as in happy and as in homo). Kudos to Cow Town! And, okay, fine, I didn’t officially meet him per se, but I did quip him from the sidelines between film clips of a ‘Kensington is open for business’ TV promo segment—
Taking photos with my iPad, I say, “You’re fabulous!”
He fake flips his hair, “III know.”
Anyway, moving on. I arrive home full of B12 and B6 and BM but feeling great! I’m back on the island (Vancouver Island), back on the fibre and, for some reason, feeling frisky. WTF? This is new—well, new since before I’d become a Vegan-down-graded-to-Vegetarian. Since this is Top News at Six, I text my Calgary BFF.
“What the heck goes in those animals? Ship me some slabs!”
“Lol, you can get it there!”
“Holy shit! Okay @#%&#!”
I text Local BFF, who I’m going to Tofino with to (supposedly) surf—even though I’m terrified of the ocean, having almost drowned in it twenty odd years ago.
“Hey, I think I got my groove back. Might abandon self-imposed celibacy contract!”
“Good for you!”
“Let’s eat hotdogs!”
“Woohoo!”
“Organic ;)”
“LOL”
Tofino, BC. If you haven’t heard of it, you don’t surf. This remote, Vancouver Island, west coast, wind-battered beach town is the cat’s ass for summer or winter wave lovers. Well, it’s the best we’ve got north of California (though it is ranked in the Top 20 worldwide, according to somewhere I read).
(Tofino locals now hate me.)
Okay, so super small surf town is fully booked for hotels—we’d decided we would save camping for another time. We manage to get into Tofino’s Slum Dog Hotel at an off-season Luxury Resort price so we can have a hot shower. Of course, cut to next scene: no hot water. NO water. Broken main line. No worries, though, it’s almost like camping, and the fridge works so we have a place to store our Vodka. Check.
Later, after sufficient vodka has worn off (I’m the DD) and Local BFF has shaved her knees to the second layer of dermis in the bath (pre-pipe bust) while I sat on the (lid-closed) loo laughing and discussing the relationship problems of the world, we go out to the local watering hole and run into friends from home. (Didn’t we high tail it to get away from people we know?)
Nonetheless, we ramble like drunks in a bar. (We are drunks in a bar; okay, it’s a pub per se, and I’m not drunk but am rambling as if.) We look for eye-candy (beef effect), but the only yummy morsel is ‘married’ (common law but same deal) with rug rats. This kitty don’t do that, though chat is permitted. I take the opportunity to ask my ‘next book research’ questions.
“Can boys and girls be just friends without sexual tension or risk to their primary relationship? And what do you think about friends with benefits?”
He raises his eyebrows under his straight-brim ball-cap. (Note: straight-brim ball cap—dealbreaker, anyway. Even for a friend with benefits. Hey, I make my rules.)
We get into the discussion, though I don’t get a definitive answer out of him. He keeps talking around the topic.
“We’ve been together [over ten] years. We wanted to start a family early…”
“Um, excuse me, man with nice hands, you’re not answering my questions.” I grab one of his hands and display for my gal pals, “Looks at these! Seriously, dude, you have nice hands.” (Nice hands: dealmaker. Dealmakers do not trump ‘married.’)
Local BFF is drilling Nice Hands’ buddy with the same questions about male/female friendships, but he just wants to talk about his divorce. So far, we’re zero for two.
The conversations go in circles and off topic, and no conclusions are drawn. And though I am inappropriately drawn to Nice Hands, I leave it at conversation and admiration and, when Local BFF and I finally leave, I gush all the way back to Slum Dog Hotel about innate desires and moral conduct, damn it.
“Where did this randy-pants-me business come from?”
“Must be the beef!”
“Fucking beef.”
Note to self: If local, ethical animal farms trump vats of vitamins in the enviro department and if the side effect is healthy horniness, then I’m in!
*
What have I (re)learned?
Summertime hamburgers are the best! Eat with side salad. Men talk to pretty girls regardless of moral conduct; this doesn’t mean they’re immoral.
Homework:
Make a list of ‘book research’ inappropriate questions to ask strangers: a potentially great way of meeting people!
Eat salad first.
Learn to surf like a pro! (Or! Boogie board once. Or stand by the shore, good enough.)
Find friend with benefits to get cardio and offset cortisol. (Ignore self-imposed celibacy contract.)
DO NOT let benefit’s side effect—oxytocin¹—maim my mind!
***
¹Oxytocin: chemical hormone thingy released by females during (good) sex, orgasm, laughing & nursing – creates bonding / real or perceived sigh-so-in-love effect. Damn it.
