You have no idea how hard it is to find a nice gift for a rich girl.

I mean, guys are easy. Alcohol always raises the spirits.

But girls, man, girls are always so hard. Girlfriends are easy, because the whole romantic crap comes naturally for me. But female friends? That’s a whole new ball game.

And then there’s the rich factor. What do you get a girl who has everything?

A Care Bear.

“Hi, I’m looking for a care bear,” I said, “but none of those post-2000 bears. I want one of the Original Ten.”

The sales girl peered at me strangely.

I counted off my fingers, “Funshine Bear, Grumpy Bear, Tenderheart Bear, Wish Bear, –”

“– I’m sorry,” she interrupted me before I could get through the Original Ten, “we don’t sell those here.”

I could see her shoulders quivering as she snickered silently.

And that’s how it went. Store after store. I must have stopped by a dozen places. Toys’R'Us, Carleton Cards, Hallmark, Special Moments, Zellers, you name it, I went there. All they had were crappy second-rate care bears. Badly mutated care bears. It was awful. A grizzly battlefield of cheap bears made by little Chinese labourers.

Then I went to the Carleton Cards at Billings Bridge Plaza.

You know that 1977 song by Dan Hill, “Sometimes When We touch”?

I almost felt like singing that song. Right there, smack middle in the shopping mall.

Holding my new bear.

“What’s yer’ name lil fella?” I asked.

“Shine Bright Bear,” she said.

Shine Bright Bear had one of those youthful, girly voices. You know, like a typical Disney character. ‘Cept it was so finely articulated that you just knew it was some 45 year old black guy behind that 12 year old itty bitty voice.

Anyways, Shine Bright Bear’s just perfect. She’s all about doing the best she can, and putting a special polish on things. Plus, she loves to dress up, being Care-Bear’s fashion princess and all.

She told me so.

And uh, it’s written on the card.

So today, this tall and rather pretty Russian girl plops herself down next to me while I have my head buried deep within a mess of articles and scribblings.

“So you’re in math,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Sure,” I say.

“Tell me what a math person does,” she demands.

Hoo boy.

And so I found myself explaining various topics to a girl who had never before taken a Physics class and who — to be truthful — didn’t seem all that interested in math (though she did ask, so sue me).

I talked about:
1. Solitons and the Edinburgh Canal.
2. How light can be interpreted as both a wave and a particle.
3. Fiber optics and the future of high speed communications.
4. Famous Russian and German mathematicians.
5. What I do and why math is so beautiful a subject.

She talked about:
1. How Russian women are encouraged to marry rich men.
2. Her former 6 foot long pet snake.
3. Her two jobs as a cocktail waitress and restaurant waitress.
4. How she wanted to be an artist, but had to study Commerce because she was afraid of not finding a job.

She stands up to leave, grabs my pencil, and scribbles her phone number on the (very important) document strewned out before me.

“If you ever have time, and you want to give me another math lesson…”, she mumbles.

Then she walks away, leaving me to my thoughts.

Not that it matters, but she wasn’t my type. And unless you haven’t figured it out already, I have a pretty grim No-Dating-Rule, at least until I get my shit all sorted out.

But I don’t often meet impulsive women with this sort of bravado. I guess I’m used to the reserved type that shyly giggles while I prattle on about math.

Certainly not any tall leggy Russian ones.

It’s rather refreshing.

Yes, the post has been taken down. Hot on the heels of my La Petite Anglaise article, I’ve been hesitant to post things that risk offending others and more importantly, risk my professional career.

The fact is, what I was referring to as a “momentary lapse in judgement” in the previous post, I really did mean momentary. Nothing major happened.

I mean it.

But it’s the case that I’ve received a whole host of e-mails regarding the late-night entry, ranging from the curiously fascinated to the downright insulted. It really is my fault, and I left too much to the imagination in writing that post.

The other night was an opportunity to have fun and enjoy myself. But instead, I found myself babysitting drunk people. Making sure intoxicated people had made it safe and sound into their hotel rooms, helping girls down flights of stairs when they were a little too wobbly to walk, and offering napkins to those who were a little too cavalier with their goblets.

And repeating to one very attractive, very drunk, and very beguiling lady that I was simply “not that kinda guy.”

But how I wish I was.

And other than the opportunities to dance with a few pretty girls, there was little rewarding about the whole kerfuffle. Except maybe one moment.

After I had gone down several floors to make sure one of my friends had made it into his hotel room safe and sound, his girlfriend ran out of the room and caught me before I entered the elevator.

“I just want to thank you for doing that,” she said sencerely.

I simply nodded.

“It’s hard to find guys like you.”

“It’s what I do,” I said before entering the lift.

Later in the evening, I was referred to by another girl as, “that hot guy who acts like a total gentleman”. It was a nice compliment, sure, but ultimately a glorified version of the truth. What she failed to mention was that guys like me are inconsequential in every way that counts.

The truth is I’m tired of being a walking, talking cliché. A posterboy for this so-called Gentleman’s Club.

Given my past history with women (or lack thereof), I think I deserve to have fun at least once every few years.

So take my advice, folks. Go out, get drunk, have fun, feel free to make out with strangers who think you’re the best thing to come along since prepackaged meats and sliced bread.

Otherwise, you’re going to realize one day that all you have are your goddamn ethics.

“You should come out to the formal,” I told one of my students, rather matter-of-factly. “Dress up and have a good time. Bring your sister as well.”

“I don’t know…”

“It’ll be great,” I assured her. “I’ll be there,” I said, as if my being there was worth the price of admission alone.

“What am I going to do there?” she stubbornly asked.

“Mingle? Enjoy the company?”

“I wouldn’t know anybody there…” she continued.

“You’d know me!” I said, with an arrogant puff of my chest and a silly grin on my face.

“But aren’t you like…King Shit in the math department?” she asked innocently.

“…King…Shit…?” I slowly repeated, confused.

“Yeah, like V.P. of the Math Society and everything. Other people say you’re like, King Shit. You’ll be too busy with everybody else.” she accused, as if it was painfully obvious.

It’s not often I’m left speechless. Then again, it’s not often I’m called “King Shit” of anything.

It’s 11:00 and a typically quiet night at the Tim Hortons restaurant near home. That is, it was a typically quiet night.

Like a parade of elephants trampling through the downtown district, a group of high school punks wander in and obliterate any sign of the quiet atmosphere I was enjoying.

Elephants on crack.
Elephants with bad fashion sense.
Elephants with adolescent angst and acne.

There’s a rather fetching brunette if not for the lummox of a boyfriend who’s accompanying her. Loose raggedy t-shirt, large belt with metal studs, and jeans hanging so low, one could practically make out the colourful patterns on his boxers. What are they? Yellow smiling faces or happy sunshines?

He catches me looking and I glare. Unflinching. Yes, dude-with-inability-to-fasten-belt, I’m looking at you. Don’t fuck with me, yo.

There’s an ugly short girl. Skanky is what skanky does and boy, was this slut trying. Hair dyed as green as pesticide-written grass and black, tight jeans cut off at the ankle.

She looks like Krusty the Clown wearing black spandex.

Then there’s the tall guy with the big belly who’s wearing the oddest accessory ever: a straw hat. Something like what you might see on an old lady after having spent way, way too long in the sunny pastures. But get this: from the the neck down, he’s practically a walking and talking recruitment poster for white thugs and gangstas. White t-shirt down to the knees and jogging pants three sizes too large.

I try not to laugh as I think of Eminem gone Country.