When I was a reporter, I was always happy to cover any stories that featured local teens doing something positive.

Since I’m light years away from parenting any of the little hormone tornadoes myself, I still have the opportunity to think they are generally pretty cool.

Yes, they can be obnoxious and self-absorbed and just far too goddamned loud, but I love their idealism, their energy and their belief in possibility and I feel like too often they are cast in a negative light.

Do you know who’s not pretty cool?

Pigeons.

City pigeons, to be precise.

Small-town pigeons are fine. They just go about their business, sitting on rooftops and coo-ing politely to one-another without any need for human interaction.

Totally reasonable.

City pigeons however, are another story.

They are constantly underfoot, eating old hot dogs, pecking at their mangey feathers, walking in stupid circles, and worst of all, waiting way too long to get out of the way of oncoming pedestrian traffic and then panicking and  flying directly into people’s heads.

I know it’s not their fault, I know they probably didn’t choose “horrible flying city rat with a tiny brain” from some reincarnation catalogue, but I just hate them.

And they are EVERYWHERE.

And, as the spring air becons through open high school windows, guess who else is everywhere?

Teenagers.

Recently I had the misfortune of encountering both at once.

I was warily preparing to pass a group of pigeons, just as a group of (I would guess) 17-year old boys loped around the corner towards me. I saw the gleeful grin creep onto one of their faces an instant before he stomped towards the pigeons, sending them directly towards me in a flurry of beaks and wings and garbage and dirt.

 Suddenly, all of that teens-getting-a-bad-rap nonsense slipped out of my brain and I became the most scoundrel-hating old lady ever to shoo kids off her lawn, with a shotgun laid neatly across her afghan-covered knees.

I pointed at the offending teen and yelled “Never do that!!!” in a voice like a super-crazy muppet.

As I sailed past the group of young bros, staring at me in perplexed fear, I considered that maybe my reaction was a mite extreme.

But mostly? I blame the pigeons.

You know how you occasionally hear stories of people who met, moved in and married within a matter of months?

Of people who just looked at each other and knew.

Of love at first sight?

And maybe you think, “Wow, that’s so nice.” Or maybe you think, “Wow, that’s so recklessly insane.”

And maybe either way you think you’re far too practical and grounded to ever be swept up into such a crazy, whirlwind of romantical nonsense.

Well.

Approximately two months ago, I was feeling a little blue, as one more string of dates fizzled into one more perfectly amicable acquaintanceship, so I called one of my nearest and dearest.

“Hey! We ended things! I’m feeling feelings,” I pouted. “Come over and distract me?”

Her response was something along the lines of: “I’ll bring wine and we’ll make you an online dating profile!”

Perfect.

We got started on the agonizing process of coming up with a suitable online handle (“Why not your initials? SNM? Oh…”) and, not wanting to abandon me in my time of disgruntled dating, my friend was kind enough to invite me along to dinner with herself and an old friend of hers who was in town for the night.

I’d met this friend once a few years before and had a vague recollection of a funny guy with nice eyes. Sitting across from him at dinner, I wasn’t sure how my memory could have been so blasé. “Nice” didn’t do these eyes justice, and he wasn’t “funny,” he was brilliantly hilarious, as well as friendly and confident and interesting.

He accompanied us to a party and huddled over my laptop while we continued to work on my online dating profile. It didn’t occur to me that it was maybe a little odd for someone who was virtually a stranger to be so invested in my dating life, but there was a moment when his foot brushed mine that made me catch my breath a little.

We said a friendly goodbye at the end of the night and, as he was flying back across the country the next morning, I figured that was that.

The next day he added me to facebook, and the first message he sent me made me belly laugh at my computer.

It was a matter of days before we were talking face-to-face through the magic of Skype, and days again before we were staring at each other in giggly, electric bewilderment, asking each other, “How did this happen?”

He told me if someone was building a trap for him, it would look an awful lot like me.

I felt like I made him up.

He just made his second flight back across the country since the end of February after a two week visit with me.

And despite my practical, grounded side, who has been rolling her eyes for the better part of two months, the second I saw him step out of baggage claim confirmed what, if I didn’t know at first sight years ago, I just might have known at second:

Damned if he’s not my soulmate.

One of the great advantages of having a significant other, is that they are an easy go-to reason to turn down anyone who might want your phone number and/or to go on a date with you.

Not that anyone owes anyone else an explanation for rejection after just having met. I should really just learn to smile and say a firm, “No thanks!” but I just get way too chatty and nervous for that, and I’d rather not lie, even to a stranger. 

I just have a hard time coming up with a polite way to say “Yeah, I’ve really enjoyed talking with you too…just not enough to care if I ever do it again in my life,” especially when I’ve been blind-sided.

And often my incurable optimism pipes up and convinces me that maybe the person in question will win me over, given a chance.

Consequently, I occasionally wind up giving my phone number to people, who, while perfectly nice, I am not terribly excited about hearing from.

This happened recently, and when the gentleman in question contacted me, I decided to nip things in the bud, by telling him that while it was nice to meet him, I was actually seeing someone and was waiting to see if we were going to make things exclusive. I told him I would give him a shout if my situation changed.

It was close enough to the truth and walked a nice line between polite and firm.

He seemed to accept that and said that he’d leave the ball in my court.

Perfect.

I breathed a quick sigh of relief and moved on.

However, two weeks later, wouldn’t you know there was a new text from him, asking to get together with me the following weekend.

While I guess I admire his persistence, I was left with some questions:

If the ball was in my court, what exactly did he just lob my way?

Was there another ball in another court he just went and nabbed? How the heck many balls are there? Did he sneak into my court and steal my ball? That’s got to be against regulations.

And what sport is it we’re playing, exactly?

In the end, I decided it was dodgeball and left it at that.

Dear people who claim feminism is no longer relevant since women have the right to vote, 

When your fridge is empty and you go to the grocery store, do you pick up the first item on your list, shrug, say “good enough” and then go home and eat milk for a week? 

 Just curious. 

Living in the city has taken a few adjustments on my part, but every so often I try to get it to adjust to me.

Occasionally I appreciate the anonymity offered by city streets (walking home from Bikram in giant sweatpants, bathed in my own sweat being one example), but for the most part, I miss the cozy sense of community that comes from something as simple as acknowledging the presence of the people you’re sharing the sidewalk with.

While I’m not about to try and hello-bomb every person rushing past me as I dash down the escalator to the subway, I feel it is perfectly reasonable to greet the people I pass on my own quiet residential street. Especially if I recognize them as neighbours.

My ex initially tried to get me to curb my hello habit.

“You know this is the city, right? You don’t have to do that.”

But, once I had set my mind to it, there was no going back.

“Don’t worry. I’m just going to keep doing it until the entire city is a friendlier place. Or, at least until our immediate neighbours stop looking at me like I’m from Blargon 6 and start smiling and saying hello back like polite human beings.”

Now I know that happiness comes from within, etc. but I also know that a friendly greeting from a neighbour or even a complete stranger can put a smile on your face and make you more likely to go a little out of your way or your comfort zone to do something to brighten someone else’s day.

So. Nearly two years later, I have still not given up. I have however, concentrated my efforts.

There was one particularly sullen gentleman who I found myself crossing paths with each morning as he walked his adorable puppy. After a couple of exchanges primarily involving me talking to his dog, while he glowered silently from within his hoodie, I made my move.

“I’m Sarah, by the way. It’s nice to meet you. I will be stopping to pet your dog every morning. Have a nice day!”

He grunted his name and slunk away as I trotted off to work and I was pretty sure he would immediately revise his dog-walking schedule to avoid me forever.

But, the next morning, there he was. And the next. Begrudgingly hello-ing back until finally, one day without provocation he said:

“I like your shoes.”

I considered it a victory.

You know you might be kind of into a guy when you ask him if he wants to chat on skype, then get so fluttery and nervous when you remember he’ll be able to see you, that you not only frantically fix your hair and freshen your lipstick, but you put on perfume.

Smooth customer.

I can see why people are grinchy about Valentine’s Day.

There’s the commercialism, of course. The cash grab from jewellery, chocolate and hideous stuffed singing teddy bear companies is enough to sour even the happiest of happy couples on the whole thing.

And, of course, if you’re not part of an adorable matching set, the day can serve as a glaring and painful reminder that you are obviously hurtling towards a terrifyingly inappropriate number of cats-filled spinsterhood.

The last time I was single on Valentine’s day was six years ago. I was freshly broken up with and pretty miserable.

While my more recent breakup is thankfully headed for stale at this point, I knew the day might still bring certain challenges.

And yes, I know that really, it’s just a day and it can’t have any power that I don’t give it to make me feel one way or the other about anything. But still, it’s hard when there are reminders everywhere, not to compare it to last year, when yes, you came home to a dining room table decorated with a heart of chocolate truffles and a stuffed baby penguin supporting the World Wildlife Foundation, but more importantly, you came home to someone.

So, rather than follow that line of thought down a pretty depressing back alley, I decided to go all out.

First, another single friend and I decided to appease the Valentine’s monster by throwing it a party the weekend prior. A gothic/Edgar Allen Poe-themed party, to be exact.

Let me tell you, if you want to guarantee yourself some valentines, just host a weird party and get everyone to decorate envelopes with their names on them, hang them on the wall and then provide blank cards your guests can write sweet (or, as it turns out, delightfully vulgar) nothings on and deliver them to one-another fairly anonymously throughout the night.

I promise it only seems lame until your second glass of wine.

My favourite was one that my cousin received. Someone had ripped the original message off a Spiderman card so that all that was left was a picture of the webbed wonder in a threatening pose, and on the back they had written, “I’m going to get you.” Haha.

Sweet? No. Creative and hilarious? Check.

Then last night, rather than just going home and eating my weight in chocolate after work, I went to yoga, then ate my weight in chocolate, and then headed out to Heartbreak Karaoke.

It’s tough to feel too morose about things in a room full of rosily and stylishly dressed young folks singling their achey-breaky hearts out.

We laughed and sang and danced our single little feet off and, while it was definitely not the goal of the evening, we even had some phone numbers thrown our way.

Valentine’s vanquished.

 My ex-boyfriend was an actor.

The ex before him was an actor-in-training while we dated.

Now, before you start thinking I must really like role-play, consider that I grew up in a city basically divided into farmers and actors, my dad works in theatre, and my best friend is a talent agent.

I don’t seek them out, they just happen to be around.

So.

When I meet someone who works in the realm of theatre or tv, I am aware that it’s possible they’ve had some kind of interaction with my ex at some point and I tread accordingly.

 Imagine my surprise when, on a date with someone I thought was safely removed from that part of the industry, he asked: Do you know (insert terribly familiar name here)?

 I laughed nervously. “Yeah, I’ve known him for years. How do you know him?”

 “I used to live with his current girlfriend. How do you know him?”

 “Oh, you know, just, from around and stuff and also I, erm…datedhisbrotherforfouryears. SO! (deflector shields up) you lived with his girlfriend, eh? How did that come about?”

 “Well, we went to the same arts high school in Ottawa, (insert second terribly familiar name here). You’ve heard of it?”

 I nod, slowly.

 “Oh. Did you know someone who went there too?”

 I nod again, lips pressed tightly together.

 “who?”

 “Um, do you know (insert third name here)?”

 “Totally! He was in this great band!”

 He then went on to describe said band in detail and sing a few lyrics for me.

 And, just when I thought I was safe:

 “So how do you know him?”

 I sat back and examined my fork, deflector shields exhausted.

 Sigh. “I dated his brother for six years.”

 Two for two. Amazing.

 He didn’t seem put off, and in fact, went on to talk about how cool my ex was and how everyone in the high school knew him and how there had been a poster of him looking all manly and romantic framed in the halls or something.

 Somehow though, I just wasn’t feeling a second date.

You live eight or more hours apart with no end to the distance in sight.

I’ve done this before and promised myself I never would again.

What say you, would you stick around to see just how much fonder absence can make a person?