Wednesday, March 28, 2012

What will happen this time?

Alright, folks. It’s Wednesday night; I leave for Mexico early Saturday morning. But it’s so early, I’m calling it Friday night since I have to be at the airport for 4am. I’m not sure what’s going to happen this time around, but I’m fairly certain that it’s going to be fun. I’ll make the most of it, anyway. I usually do.

Reasons why this trip will be different from the last:

  1. I am not about to implode from stress/depression/life’s bullshit, so a complete and utter decompression isn’t as necessary. I might actually do things!
  2. I haven’t been drinking nearly as much as of late so my tolerance is weakened. This will either result in less drinking, or being more sick. Either way, less debauchery?
  3. I’ve been taking dancing lessons, so likely will spend more time dancing than last time. Or at least be better equipped at doing it.
  4. I may or may not have a valid reason not to make out with a 17 year old boy (don’t know what I’m talking about? Read Mexico – Part 3 from last time)

I hope that list doesn’t make it sound like my trip is going to be ultra-lame-o. But just like last time, I’ll blog extensively about it when I get back.

Wish me luck! … Check ya later... See ya folks!!

Monday, March 26, 2012

Year of the Rat

I went and checked my mail the other day. Big news, I know. On my way back from the front of the house, I discovered a dead rat on my walkway. I hadn’t checked my mail in well over a week; I had no idea how long that thing was lying there.

Dead rat

I skirted around it and went back inside. Normally, my plan of attack is to ignore my problems until they go away. Unfortunately, this time, I had to do something because my brother and his dog were coming over and would walk down that path. I knew Butters would try to eat the thing, and then there would be no way that dog was coming anywhere near me ever again.

I didn’t want that to happen to us, so I knew I had to take action. It took several hours for me to muster up the courage and come up with an actual plan of attack. I grabbed my (disposable) implements, took a deep breath and went out to take care of the job. Only when I rounded the side of the house, I noticed something was different.

Dead rat - moved

The fucking thing had moved.

I know, logically, that it’s dead and that it didn’t move on it’s own, but at that moment I was freaked out. I felt my courage drain out of me. I stood there with my implements hanging limply at my sides staring down at the rat wondering if it just “looked dead”.

White girl defeated

Suddenly my implements weren’t good enough to dispose of a zombie rat, so I retreated back to my place and accepted defeat.  Only I couldn’t just leave it there and I didn’t have enough time to get tanked up in order to restore my courage. Also, that would be awkward when my brother showed up to have a normal dinner with me and realized that I was completely shitfaced on a Sunday afternoon.

So I did what most girls would do in that situation; I called a guy for help.

I texted my neighbour and asked if he was at home. He responded and said no but then immediately called to see if I was okay. I told him about my problem and he told me not to worry about it and that he’d take care of it. 20 minutes later, he got home and I got a text saying “It’s gone”.

Thank God you George!!

Thursday, March 22, 2012

Drugs: They’re good, when you know they’re there.

I’ve been known to drink from time to time; I’ve also been known to drink excessively. Despite the fact that it is something I enjoy doing, what I do not enjoy doing is throwing up. Sometimes, drinking in excess can lead to such catastrophes. So, I pretty much make it my mission that if I’m going out to get plowed, I stick within my limit to avoid any vomiting. I also try not to fall down and make an ass of myself, but some things are easier to achieve than others.

I have certain steps that I take to reduce the risk of being a drunken train wreck when I’m just planning on being a drunken mess, including, but not limited to:

  • Food – I must eat a good dinner before I start drinking and eating while drunk is probably a good idea too.
  • Water – drink lots of it. Especially before bed while I’m waiting for the room to stop spinning.
  • Never try to ‘catch up’ – this always ends badly but seems like a good idea at the time.

One night, a few years back, I was going to a pub night with a bunch of work friends. A few of us agreed to meet up for lunch/dinner before hitting the bar to meet everyone else. With dunch, I put back two beer and three glasses of water. I was already well on my way of keeping my first two rules. After leaving the first pub, we went to the next pub to meet up with friends. There, I shared a pitcher of beer with someone (another two glasses).

Again, I mentioned that I’ve been known to drink from time to time, so although this may seem like a lot of alcohol to someone that doesn’t drink much. Trust me, it’s not. I’m Irish, Scottish and German; my tolerance to alcohol can be sky high if I drink excessively on a regular basis and at this time of my life I certainly was.

So, putting down four beer over the course of two or three hours was nothing for me. Don’t get me wrong, I would have been buzzed up, but I wouldn’t ordinarily be a train wreck.  Needless to say, I wasn’t quite prepared for what came next.

After going outside for some fresh air, I came back to find my spot was taken. I pulled up a spot at the other end of the table and started chatting up the folks there. I realized that my glass/pitcher was long empty and that I should order another drink, but then I also realized that I was really drunk. So when the waitress walked by without taking my order, I didn’t care all that much.

As I’m chatting with these folks, I started realizing that I was having a hard time following basic conversations; I was asking the same questions time and time again, which I noticed when I got the same answers time and time again. I felt like I was about 20 drinks in and I was pretty sure I was going to throw up. I decided to go to the bathroom.

Once there, I had a very difficult time actually using the bathroom because I had to hold onto the wall at all times in order to maintain my balance. Undoing, pulling down, pulling up and doing up my pants was a very difficult task seeing as I only had one functioning hand. That, and I was completely trashed. After I accomplished that task, I started throwing up.

Note - I have never thrown up in bar before or since that night. I staggered out of the bathroom only to find one of my friends approaching me with a look of concern on her face.

Her: Oh, there you are!!

Me: What? Was I gone that long? *sarcastic*

Her: Yeah. You were. *not sarcastic*

Me: Oh… okay…

I went and sat down and immediately realized that I needed to throw up again. I turned around to get up and realized that my friend was still there, standing over me, concerned.

Her: Are you okay?

Me: I’m really fucked up…

Her: You seem like it. Let’s go for a walk.

So we walked out of the bar, down the road and back again. Before turning towards the bar, I started throwing up again. Only this time I was on the corner of a busy street, in broad daylight, with downtown shoppers skirting past. I remember thinking this was an all-time low of my life. The friend that escorted me out was someone that I had lunch with and who shared the pitcher with me. We had exactly the same amount of alcohol; she was fine. I was throwing up outside of a bar at 8pm.

I started freaking out; I kept saying “This isn’t right, this isn’t like me… something is wrong”. She assured me that I was right, but that didn’t keep me from repeating it repeatedly. It was at this point that she suggested the obvious.

Her: You and I had the same lunch, we had the same amount of beer at the Irish Heather and we shared the same pitcher here. I’m fine. And I’ve seen you drink way more before and you’ve always been fine.

Me: I know, that’s what is so weird. I don’t know what went wrong.

Her: Someone put something in your drink.

Of course. It was around this time that she convinced me to call my dad. My dad, a fellow that rarely crosses the river, had to drive 45 minutes to downtown Vancouver in order to pick up his drunk-ass daughter. Naturally, my friend had to do most of the talking when I was making the call because I was a mess. If it was up to me, he would have been waiting outside of the first bar that we went to because, apparently, I’d forgotten that we’d moved on.

My dad drove me home, put me to bed and told me to sleep on my side. I woke up the next day with the worst hangover ever; I was sick for 2 days and I haven’t been back to that bar since.

Thursday, March 15, 2012

That White Girl’s Dilemma

Having the last name White is sometimes more worry than it's worth. Sure, it makes giving my information over the phone super easy; probably the most convoluted conversation has consisted of:
Operator: Last name, please?
Me: White.
Operator: Like the colour?
Me: Yup.
Sometimes, just to mix things up, they ask "With an "i" or a "y"?" instead; both variations of the question require simple one word answers. But for every 10 instances where it has saved me the hassle of having to spell it out in full, it has caused a very awkward, or hilarious, conversation to occur.

For example, several years ago, I was looking for a place to rent. I did the walk through of the suite, had the interview with the landlord and filled out the application. The landlord quickly scanned over the application to make sure all the fields were filled in; he asked to see my driver's license, so he could write the number down (and verify my identity, or so I thought).

But it became very obvious that he didn't read my application at all; when I handed him my license, he gasped and said "They're putting this on licenses now?!". I peered over his shoulder to see if there was something on my license that I hadn't noticed before...
drivers license

Everything looked in order to me, so I questioned his reaction. He pointed at my license and said "White! What does my license say? Chinese?!??!". I politely informed him that it was my last name while trying to maintain a straight face. It was difficult considering how comical he found it. I thought it was funny too, the first couple times anyway, but he kept bringing it up again and again. By the end of our visit, I wasn't sure if he was drunk, or borderline retarded.

A few years later, I was discussing my mechanic situation with a friend. I told him how my mechanic was a good friend of my uncle and worked out of the garage at his house. I wasn't sure if he had all the new fangled tools, since he's a home mechanic. And sometimes small jobs take longer than they should, since he's pretty much a raging alcoholic. If the car doesn't get there before 3pm, it probably won't get worked on until the next day.
Brain: So why don't you take it to my friend's garage?
Me: Because I like taking it to him.
Brain: But... you just said...
Me: I know, I know, but I get the White rate, so it's worth the hassle.
Brain: You might not want to say that out loud... *looks around crowded restaurant*
Me: *oblivious* What? It's not like it's a secret, he gives everyone in my family that rate...
Brain: Well, say that then...
Me: But that seems like a lot of words... White rate is easier.
Brain: Well, at least add "family" into it!
Me: *still oblivious* What? Why?
Brain: Just say "the White family rate"... it sounds... ... better.
Me: *light bulb moment* OH!
Brain: *face palm*
That's not the only time it has been the source of an unintentional racial slur. Very recently, I was having a drink with Thailand, before he went to Thailand. In an effort to keep in touch while abroad, he asked me if I was on facebook. When I said yes, he pulled out his phone; while navigating to facebook, he asked me for my last name, never taking his eyes off the screen. I told him. His eyes shot up to meet mine. I looked at him. He cocked his head to the side and said "Seriously?". I said "Yes... Don't I look White to you?" with my "I'm a jackass grin" on my face. He said "... Yeah... of course... ... I just didn't think... nevermind... ... So... White, eh?".

He typed my name into the search field and pressed enter. I peered across the table at the screen. Nothing showed up. "Does it always do that?" I asked. He said "Maybe it'll take a minute... sometimes it's weird searching on the phone.". "There are a lot of us with that name..." I suggested. After preventing it from going into standby-mode several times, he grew frustrated. "Oh, come on! ... ... ... Gawd... why does there have to be so many White people on facebook?!?!".

He immediately recognized his slip; his eyes shot up to meet mine once again and he started back pedaling furiously. "I mean... why does there have to be so many White... ... fuck ... White people... ... shit... Ummm... why are there so many ... people ... with the last name White... on facebook?". He looked at me with a mixture of regret, fear and "If I was white, I probably could have gotten away with that...".
I smiled and said "The results are up...". It took a second for what I said to sink in. A quick glance at his phone and it all registered. Relief washed over his face and he said "Okay... let's try and find you..." I'm not sure if he was more relieved that I wasn't offended or that he had something to distract him (me?) while he re-grouped.

*Update*I can't believe I forgot my favourite one...

 I used to work with an Asian girl with the last name Hong. At some point, we started with the racial-slur-nicknames; she called me Whitey, naturally, I called her Honger. At first, it was really funny; after awhile, it became such a regular thing that we started forgetting how ignorant it sounded. One day, I was walking past her, there was a new person in the lab, who also happened to be Asian.

Honger: Hey Whitey!
Me: What's up, Honger?!
The look on the new girl's face was complete and utter shock. This is where I'm working?! Honger immediately started explaining. The explanation made sense, and the new girl accepted it, but the fact that I can't remember who that new person was just goes to show that she didn't stick around for long. Oooops.

Saturday, March 10, 2012

Peter the Rabbit

When I was a little girl, my favourite time was when Granny would tell me a story. She was quite the storyteller! Granny didn't read her stories from a book and, as a result, her stories never came out the same way twice. She was just making shit up, after all.

My favourite story was about Peter the Rabbit. Peter was a rambunctious little rabbit who hopped around town and got into trouble with the local farmer... Farmer Mac? I can't remember his name. Anyway, Peter would go into the farmer's field and eat all the carrots and then get chased away by the farmer. He had all sorts of adventures. I loved hearing about Peter the Rabbit.

Note: I realize that Granny didn't invent Peter the Rabbit. She used the basic story and made it her own. Why? 1) We didn't have the book for her to read it from. 2) She drank too much whiskey to remember all of the nuances of the original story. Case and point: one time she told me the story before bed; immediately after finishing the story, I asked to hear it again. I got a different version all of five minutes later.

Being raised in a city, you'd think that I would have had limited access to farmer's fields. But I was raised in Vancouver, BC, which seems to have a high per capita rate of backyard gardens.

I clearly remember this neighbour that lived down the alley from us. I guess the yard was elevated from alley-level because there was a steep concrete incline leading up to his fence. Most of his yard was a garden and the house was far enough away that gave me the illusion that it was actually a farm. I liked playing by his fence; pretending that Peter the Rabbit was in his garden stealing carrots.

When I grew weary of Peter the Rabbit games, the tiny little ledge also provided hours of gymnast training. I'd pretend it was a balance beam and prance around on it as if I was training for the Olympics.

Danny used the alley for different forms of entertainment, namely, burning rubber. (That's what we called it when you rode your bike really, really fast. Like, so fast, that the rubber on your tires burned off!*)

*dramatization - may not have happened

Basically, he rode his bike up and down the alley repeatedly. He'd ride by and ask if I saw how fast he went that time, or if I saw the pop-a-wheelie that he pulled. I'd ask him if he saw my balance beam routine. We both agreed enough to satiate the other, in hopes that next time, they might actually be watching the trick.

I remember one day, my brother had a friend over, which meant that I got to play by the fence without having to repeatedly tell Danny that he just did the "best pop-a-wheelie EVER!". It also meant that there was someone else in the alley that day; someone that was much more judgemental of me and my form of entertainment than my brother was. I guess Danny was used to it.

I can remember this kid asking my brother "What is your sister doing?!"; my brother replied "Oh, she's just doing gymnastics...". Looking back, I'm thankful for the way he responded; he very well could have said "Playing with her imaginary rabbit friend, named Peter.".

Regardless, his friend was an asshole and wanted to ruin my fun. He started riding by and yelling things at me trying to break my concentration. I was consumed in my own little world, so I didn't pay attention to him. This just fueled his need to knock me down a peg. Or to just knock me down.

He started riding up on the incline, like some sort of motocross stuntman, in the middle of my routine. The first few times, I just kept right on going. I real gymnast wouldn't let a motocross racer interfere with the routine, right?

But he started getting more and more determined; riding farther and farther up the incline; getting closer and closer to me. He was relentless. Eventually, I started feeling the wind brush past me as he sped by. I started getting scared. I started becoming less confident in my balance beam abilities. I was succumbing to the stress of two very different sports colliding

I fell. Right down the concrete embankment. Pretty much face first. He laughed. I cried. My brother asked "Did anyone see that pop-a-wheelie?". I ran home. My brother's friend yelled at me for being a scaredy-cat; he "wasn't actually going hit me". By the time I got home, the blood was pouring out of everywhere

When she got the blood cleaned up, it turned out that my wounds were superficial and "I'd live". It didn't feel like it; I was traumatized and I wanted to feel better. She started putting band-aids on my wounds; I wanted a band-aid everywhere it hurt. I had a cut on the inside of my upper lip, it hurt. Granny told me a band-aid wouldn't stick there; I told her to put it on the outside, like a moustache. Geez!

When my mom got home later that night, Granny told her to "go on in and see Patches". Mom came into my room and saw 75% of my face covered in bandages. She rushed out and demanded to know "What the hell happened?!". Granny told her my story; Mom suggested that we go to the hospital. Granny told her that I was fine, Mom said "But her face....". Granny said "Oh, Lolo, half those band-aids weren't even necessary. I just put them on to shut her the hell up!". Love ya, Granny!

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

Turning something serious into something seriously funny?

I was once told that I have the ability to make pretty much any story funny. I'm not so sure about that. But let's give it a whirl... let me know how I do.

Four years ago today, my life changed. It was a Friday and I had the day off from work, which is pretty much a recipe for having an amazing day. Unfortunately, I spent the day holed up in my place doing schoolwork. Around 1pm, I decided I was going to go run some errands. Namely, I wanted to see about joining a gym (I had put on a few pounds and wanted to get rid of them... I had no idea how much worse it could get).

I walked out to my car and saw that I had a flat tire. I called BCAA; the nice mechanic came, switched over my spare tire and informed me that the tire was not repairable. I was devastated. I bought the car exactly two weeks earlier and had sunk literally all my money and then some into the purchase.

I ran a few errands on the pizza-cutter and went home to do some tire research. When I was leaving my house for the second time, I noticed that my car had been keyed while I was running errands. Fuck. Me. I went to my local reputable tire shop and had new tires put on (in record time, I might add).

I drove home, called my best friend and complained to her about the shit day I had so far. She suggested I drink. I told her I didn't have any booze and I'd spent all my extra money on tires so I couldn't even afford to buy any. She told me she had a few bottles and that I should come over and help drink them. I'll be right there! I hopped into my car and started driving over. She lived about 20 minutes away by freeway. I'd be drunk in no time.

It was about 6pm on a Friday night, so the freeway was busy, but not slow-to-a-crawl busy. I was in the right lane behind someone that was going unnecessarily slow (~75km/h). The centre lane was going about 35 km/h faster than I was; I wanted to pass the guy in front of me.

Again, the car was new to me, so I didn't know it's capabilities; I wanted to be sure that I would have enough time to get out from behind the slow poke and get up to speed without slowing down the cars in the centre lane. I didn't want to cause an accident, after all. As a result, I had to wait until the centre lane was clear before I was willing to make the lane change.

I got my opportunity; I switched lanes and started accelerating, watching my rearview for the car that was inevitably catching up to me. I got up to speed and passed the slow dude. That's about the time I noticed the noise. It wasn't anything in particular, just kind of a loud, humming that wasn't there moments before. I decided I needed to get back into the right lane. As I was making my second lane change, I noticed my steering wheel was shaking back and forth, fairly violently. Shit. Something is wrong and I need to get off the freeway NOW.

I had already passed a sign indicating that I was 600m away from the next exit (the first exit I had encountered on this trip) - I was so close that I could see it. I started slowing down and tried to reach the exit.

Next thing I know.... BAM!

Loudest fucking noise ever!! My car pulled to the left. Left... where cars were driving 110km/h. Left... where two lanes of cars were driving 110km/h and then the giant cement meridian. I didn't want to go left. I steered right. With purpose.

Next thing I know, there are headlights in my face.

I'd done about a 160 degree turn and was travelling backwards down the freeway. I remember thinking "Please don't hit anything, please don't hit anything". I turned around in my seat to see if I was going to hit one of those speed limit signs. My trajectory was clear; I turned forward and waited.


Second loudest noise ever!! I was flung into the driver's side door. Simultaneously, my backpack, which was in the passenger seat, was also flung about. It knocked me in the head, which knocked my head into the driver's side window. I was slowing down, all the while thinking "Please don't roll, please don't roll".

I came to a stop. I needed to get out of the car, like right fucking now. I got out of the car and was hit with the scent of moist dirt. I was on a grassy patch just off the freeway. Just off the freeway exit, actually.

I walked away from the car. I started taking in my surroundings. I noticed this trench dug through the grass. The trench was leading up to my car. This is what I saw:

Tire missing from car1.JPG

My tire wasn't originally in this location. Don't get my wrong. It used to be attached to the car, I just mean that it was found about 50m down the freeway. A nice gentleman retrieved it for me and brought it closer to the scene. So when I turned around, all I saw was my braking system. Where the fuck is my tire!??! So, I was driving down the freeway, backwards, going 90km/h on three wheels and my braking system. Not desirable.

In the top left hand corner of the picture, you can see another car's tire. And a curb. That is what I hit. That is what ripped off my front bumper. Guess what I hit the curb with?

Back axle - snapped.JPG

That's right. My rear driver's side tire. The same gentleman that retrieved my tire also informed me that I had snapped my rear axle. When I said "Really?!?!", he kinda looked at me funny and said "Look at your back tire... does that look right to you?". He said that he didn't want to be the bearer of bad news, but "it looks like you wrote your car off, darling". I was upset.

I told him I bought the car two weeks ago and I just had new tires put on. He questioned if the tires were put on at the dealership when I bought it. I told him I had them put on not even two hours earlier. It was his turn to say "Really?!?!". And then he asked where I went... not sure if I should divulge that information on here or not, so let's just say it's a major tire company.

A major tire company.

Eventually, the firemen showed up. When I was talking with one of them, another one came up and said he had to show me something. As we were walking over to the car, he kept stressing how important this information was. He knew that I was in shock, but he really wanted me to retain the conversation.

what's left of my braking system.JPG

Fireman: See those bolts?

Me: Yeah.

Fireman: Do you see how those bolts are threaded?

Me: Yeah... (...I've seen bolts before...)

Fireman: If you were driving crazy and did something to cause your tire to fall off, those bolts would be mangled. The force needed for the tire to come off would have caused the lug nuts to sheer off the bolts, or at least, the threading of the bolts. Understand?

Me: Yeah.

Fireman: Your bolts are not damaged. If your tire wasn't blown and if we could find your lug nuts, theoretically, we could put this tire back on and have you on your way. Do you know what this means?

Me: No....

Fireman: Your lug nuts weren't tightened.

So, I wrecked my car, I wrecked my back, my neck and my knee. My knee hit the window roller; my doctor said that if I hit it an inch higher or an inch lower I would have had no issues. The spot I hit was the sweet spot - the IT band; it's a muscle that runs from your hip to your ankle.

I entered physio and a rehab program that took years to complete. Due to pain and limited mobility, I stopped cooking and moving. Not a good combination. I gained 40lbs in a 4 month period, which everyone was shocked to learn, because "I didn't look like I'd gained weight". Are you kidding me?!

When I told my brother, he said that he was told the same thing (he was in an accident two months earlier and had also put on weight). His take on it was "Great... so I was so fucking fat before that you don't notice when I put on 40lbs?!?!" And I thought I needed the gym before.

Recently, I woke up to go to work and came out to a flat tire; I cursed and walked to the bus stop. Everyone at work asked why I came in so late, most were satisfied with "flat tire this morning". One person was a bit more nosy.

Her: So... you were late because you were changing your tire?

Me: Fuck, no! I was late because I took the bus. I'll call BCAA on my way home and they can change the tire for me.

Her: Ha ha. That's what I would do too... If I had to change my own tire it would probably come off when I was driving down the freeway! Ha ha ha ha ha ha...

I just kinda looked at her. When I didn't say anything (what do you say?!), she looked over at me.

Her: What?!

Me: I'm just trying to figure out if you are trying to be funny or not...

Her: No... why?!!?

And then it hit her "Oh my god... that's exactly what happened to you, isn't it?!?! I didn't mean it... I wasn't even thinking... I'm sorry!! Oh, god, I'm such an asshole!!". Yes, you are, Linds; yes, you are.

Monday, March 5, 2012

Uh-oh... SpaghettiOs

I had a serious (self-inflicted) glitch with my blog. You probably won't notice. And I think I fixed everything. Basically, I had to delete and import and re-delete and re-import a bunch of stuff because I messed up the last time I imported a bunch of stuff. I should stop doing that...

Long story short... I think I caught all the glitches, but you can never really be sure. And it would take me roughly 86.9 hours to figure out if I caught them all.

I worry about comments and I worry about links. Like I said, I think I caught them all. So here's hoping this is a warning for nothing. BUT... if you notice things are weird, please let me know. There are a few other things I need to work through after all, so there bound to be things that I don't know about.

Thanks for you patience. (Even though you probably didn't notice!)

Also!!! I'm trying to add a "Best of" section... so if there are any posts that you think should end up in this section for new people to read, or to have your old favourites one click away, please let me know...

Friday, March 2, 2012

Chemistry: Either there's a reaction or there isn't.

During grades 5 through 7, going to school dances was my big thing. I guess dancing has been a part of my life for longer than I realized. I'm not sure why I liked them so much, I guess it was my first taste of freedom and it made me feel like a big girl. This was also around the time I started liking boys. Coincidence? I think not...

I can remember dancing with boys from my class; it usually went one of two ways...

Please stop.jpg

or else....

This is nice.jpg

A few times, I had a boyfriend when the dance was scheduled, so naturally, we went together. If at any point during the night, I felt like that first picture, I would end the 'relationship' shortly thereafter. If only because I didn't want to date someone where it was awkward being that close to them. I mean, how awkward would it be when we kiss?

High school was a haze fueled by drugs and alcohol, so I can't recall if we even had school dances. I'm sure we did, but I certainly didn't go to them. Eventually, graduation and prom rolled around and I went with my boyfriend of one year. We'd never really danced together before, except for that one time when he dipped me and then dropped me, head first, on concrete. Nice.

Anyway, it was nearing the end of prom night and we still hadn't danced. At one point, he turned to me and said "I suppose you want to dance now, don't you?". He seemed really excited about it, so I said "Yeah... kinda..." even though I'd been waiting the whole night for him to ask me to dance. The main reason you go to prom is to dance, am I right?

As we were walking to the dance floor, I can clearly remember thinking "Oh good, this shouldn't be awkward at all . We've had sex... dancing should be a piece of cake!" And then...


It was the longest 4 minutes in the history of the planet! I decided that I couldn't very well end a year long relationship based on criteria that I made up in grade 5, so I dated him for another 6 years and then wished that I hadn't wasted so much time. I guess I was wise beyond my years...

Recently, I was talking with a friend about salsa dancing; I was telling her how there are some guys that I dance with and we do it well right off the bat. And then there are others where I'm constantly struggling to keep up and have no idea what they want me to do. A mischievous grin spread across her face and she said "Oh yeah? So... when you're dancing with the good ones, does it make you think that'd you'd be good in bed together?". I said "No it doesn't... but it will from now on!".Bring it.jpg