Amalgam of select grandmotherly advice for general health

I'm not going to drink my pee.

Three movies, one and a half novels, an entire clove of garlic, a full tablespoon of cayenne pepper, a teaspoon of ginger, honey, five zinc lozenges, one vitamin C tablet, several litres of water, one litre of pure cranberry juice, chicken soup, two ibuprofen, all-day bed rest, and a steamy hot Epsom salt bath later, and I am finally functional again. This hodge-podge recipe for health, inherited in bits and kisses from a thousand grandmothers, contains all known elements that might purge my clammy, pale, virus farm of a body of this nasty seasonal flu.

I didn't even cheat. No vitamin-sucking coffee or black tea, and certainly none of those delicious minty chocolates my mother sent me, no matter how much I wanted my mom at my bedside, would tempt me to risk my sure-to-be speedy recovery.

Still, I knew I was missing a key element, a little TLC. Halfway through the day, I stopped ignoring my phone in hopes that a friend would give me the sympathy I so craved. Relieved to hear the loving voice of a best friend on the other end, I let loose with my whining for only a minute or two, and sweetly, she listened. Then, with a lilt in her voice she suggested I drink my pee. Some people's grandmothers somewhere have been recommending the practice as a cure for eons, and if it was good enough for Gandhi...

Sudden tryst death

Be it a creak, a rattle, a slow swoosh, a click or sudden snap, no other sound will catch your attention, force a pause, or shift the nature of your actions quicker. You know the signature of your own front door better than any other sound in your home, and you are conditioned to hear it, especially if you live alone. Save for the dog and cat, he lives alone.

That's why, when I opened the first of the double doors this morning, its click and creak catapulted my stomach into my heart. Most of me preferred a clean escape. If I am ever to confront this incompatibility face-on, I wish not to do it with smudged make-up, yesterday's clothes and morning breath. And, I'd definitely prefer see it through on neutral territory, and not surrounded by his things, his history, his everything familiar. The rest of me was reluctant to acknowledge the impossibility of creating a healthy, balanced tryst, though, so I consoled my palpitating little heart with possible justifications for this situation which had me running.

I'd wakened alone in a bedroom that wasn't mine. It was my second night in his bed, one beyond decorum. The one was cuddly and warm, innocent and uncomplicated. But today, the sun was up by the time I realized there were only three of us sleeping there, the dog, the cat and me. My pride crumbled, the dog snorted and stretched, unaffected. The absentee had slipped away so quietly that not even his codependent pets noticed; he was that careful. If only I could manage the same. Thanks be that the bedroom is nearest the main entrance, my exit.

It should have been an easy feat. I mean easily executed, not to suggest it could be done with emotional ease. I gathered my things, wrote a short note (to salvage some pride), and regretted my decision to stay at his place that one awkward night too many. All the while, I could hear my mother sucking air through her teeth and saying "it's better to know sooner than later." The note, penned to prevent future awkwardness, and to imply that I understood that this would be the friendly end, read: Good morning! Sorry to run you from your bed. It was comfy, though...

I added the exclamation point to imply that I was still cheerful. And the ellipses, because I didn't want to believe the tryst would end so gracelessly.

Sure we are incompatible. His interests aren't mine, and he didn't venture forth to find common ground, instead he stood his own, and waited for me there. He phrased questions to assess my familiarity with the things he already loves, and with each substandard response, I felt pushed farther from either of our comfort zones. Our senses of humour are not entirely shared, nor are our definitions of moving, intriguing or profound. The schism led him to another bed, and me to the exit. To his creaky, clunky double doors.

I consoled myself that perhaps he simply couldn't sleep, and resorted to the lullaby of a late night film. Or, perhaps my own unresponsiveness left him feeling uncomfortable. Maybe I pushed him out of his bed. The last he'd touched me after all, was to deliver an unsolicited back rub before I rolled away, wished him sweet dreams, and he wished me the same. Maybe I could, after all, preserve a portion of my pride. I was willing to adopt all fault for the privilege.

I clunked and creaked my way out the first set of doors, and I knew he must have wakened; anyone would have. I knew that in the adjacent room, in front of the television, he remained still and quiet and blameless. This would be his chance to intercede my clumsy departure, to suggest a next meeting, to explain his behaviour or ask about mine, to make it better. Or, he could let the tryst die a sudden, merciful death. I dislodged the heavy lock of the front door from the frame, tripped on the rug in the entry, pulled my hat over my ears and stepped out into the cold. I closed the final door behind me, aware that he would likely wait a few moments before checking to see that it was shut tight, allowing me time to add my footprints to the few that already marked the snowy sidewalk, and turn the corner.

I looked back briefly, to reflect on from where I'd just come. The impressions of my heeled winter boots in the fresh snow, so distinctly feminine, marked the only trail from his doorstep. Like for those who came before me, I knew it would never lead anywhere but away.

Petition against email harassholes

Recently, I complained to my sister about two nasty emails an ex-boyfriend had sent me. I recalled other (also nasty) emails sent to me by other ex-boyfriends and over-zealous, and subsequently rejected, dates. It occurred to me that the only people who have ever sent me a nasty email have been people who had also once claimed to love me. Their love was declared verbally, and their hatred in print.

This made me think about two golden bits of advice my parents once gave me. My father told me not to write anything down that I wouldn't want the whole world to see. My mother told me not to make decisions when I am angry. Over and again, men I've unfortunately chosen as dates have demonstrated why.

During that same conversation with my forty-two-year-old sister, she said that when she was dating, she was able to just walk away from her unfortunate selections. She didn't understand why I kept getting harassed after the break-ups. For a moment, we concluded that I just chose particularly sensitive and angry men. Then we realized something. It's not me at all. It's technology. I'm not shirking responsibility for my choices in saying this; I am acknowledging a new phenomenon.

When my sister was still in the dating game, no one had access to email. If her exes wanted to say something, they had to say it to her face, or at least over the phone. Email makes things too easy for the sender. So do social networking sites. The rant can be prepared in advance, revised, rewritten and reviewed by friends. And, better yet, the recipient can't immediately respond. The message will wait patiently in their "in box", like a tiny emotional bomb. A jab. A stab. A slap across the face. A punch in the gut. A split second's click can launch a lasting attack.

What the angry sender doesn't realize in the fog of damaged pride is that the written word is not impervious to reinterpretation. The blips and bloops of digital information do not carry tone or context. Once the "send" button is clicked, the owner of the meaning of the message becomes the recipient.

So, if the message is bitter, petty, insulting and/or assaultive, you can be sure that only one meaning will be drawn from it. No matter how inclusive or well-thought out it may have initially seemed to its composer, all it really says to the recipient is that she is glad she got rid of you when she did.

Never date the needy

I date men who fall in love with me.

There have been three this year and I am starting to understand why that might be a problem. It is not fun. It is not a privilege. There is nothing especially remarkable about me that makes me irresistible. The answer is simpler: These are the men I choose.

I am self-aware enough to know that it is healthy to identify negative patterns in my life, address them and move ahead a little lighter, knowing that I'll "never make that mistake again". BUT. And, I also know there is always a "but", but how do I distinguish between sensitive men who treat me well and needy men who get angry when their sentiments aren't reciprocated?

During the most recent 4-month stint with an educated, well-read professional who was slightly older with tell-tale sprigs of ear hair, I reasoned that he was mature enough to no longer need coddling or constant reassurance. Uh-uh.

What complicates neediness in men is that often they do not know how to communicate their emotional needs to their partner. Women are often accused of the same, but not me. I am blunt, I am direct, I am honest. This, for many men, is confusing. They assume my words and actions are cryptic clues to be deciphered, as they may have been with past girlfriends; these men always get me wrong.

When I say, "I am not looking for anything serious." My date hears, "I haven't met the right guy yet, but I am pretty sure it might be you."

When I say, "Can we take this a little slower?" My date hears, "I am scared of letting myself fall in love with you."

When I say, "My independence is really important to me, I can't spend all my time with you." My date hears, "Please call me every night before bedtime to make sure I don't accidentally sleep with someone else."

Love is organic; it grows and withers and festers and flowers, and it probably even defecates. No one has the authority to punish anyone for losing love. Sometimes love behaves badly. Sometimes it moves away.

There are so many unspoken promises to be broken with the more deluded of the emotional men I date. I break them all, essentially because I didn't make them in the first place, but that's a moot point. According to my dates, I did, and now they somehow justify verbal and written assaults. Surprise emails, nasty phone calls. Honesty is lost on these men. I'd embargoed the one thing they thought they needed, and it was something I never promised them.

Last night, I received another angry email from the hairy-eared gentleman, a man who technically broke up with me. Apparently, one of the unspoken dating/un-dating rules was buffer time before new conquests, post-separation, and no "hunks" allowed.

I'm still considering what sort of response his words warrant, if any. It's futile to argue with someone's pride. When pride talks, everything it says is projection. It doesn't have a heart, ears, pulse, or the capacity for reason. All I can hope, is that this ill-equipped character trait will breed out quickly. Survival of the fittest.

Antibiotics - Antierotics

I am not sure how it happened, but somehow, Adonis is topless in my apartment, serving me tea with honey and lemon, and tickling the bottoms of my feet while I try to shake this fever. Maybe I am in a delirium. He’s surely a figment of my wishful thinking.

I am also not sure how I got tonsillitis. Following the standard three-and-a-half-hour wait in the lobby of the clinic, the doctor told me what I already knew, and gave me the prescription I needed. I have ahead of me 24 hours of being highly contagious, 48 hours of bed rest and 10 days of antibiotics. I’m not sure for how long I will benefit from the tender lusting care of this young traveller, new friend, and temporary housemate, but I’ll enjoy it as long as I can, like any self-respecting single twenty-something woman should.