Oh no! Not another one!?!?!?

Alright, it’s official. I have another stalker. I know this because they left a creepy message on my car. I found it when I left work on Friday. This is it in all it’s glory:

Naturally, I spent the majority of my car ride home laughing, things like “Oh, Gorm, that’s a good one!” running through my head.

But then, my mind started wandering… have I said what kind of car I drive on my blog? I know I’ve said that I work near my school but I never said which school… And then for the briefest of seconds:

Because I wouldn’t be surprised if I got another stalker under my belt… And he’s probably hoping for the very same thing.

Do the mash… the Monster Mash…

Uncle Keith made the best mashed potatoes ever. I’m not sure how he did it, but he made the smoothest, creamiest mashed potatoes in all the world and he didn’t accomplish it, like a cheater, by using a hand mixer. No, no, he made it happen with a mixture of elbow grease and pure determination. And probably a shit load of milk.

So, it’s no wonder that when I was growing up, I can distinctly remember that any time potatoes needed mashing and Uncle Keith was around, the chef always called him into the kitchen to mash those puppies up. No one was ever disappointed the finished product.

Fast forward to five years ago. Dave invited me over for dinner one night after boasting about his roasting abilities. He said he was going to make a pork roast dinner with all the fixings. Shortly after walking into his place, he told me that it would only be a little bit longer; he was just waiting on the rice to finish cooking.

The following conversation occurred:

Dave: Is that okay? Do you like rice?

Me: Yeah, sure, rice is great, but I thought you were making a roast dinner…

Dave: I am!

Me: Soooo… where the hell are the potatoes?!?

Dave: I don’t make potatoes, I make rice…

Me: You don’t make potatoes?? Where do you put the gravy???

Dave: On the rice…

Me: WTF?

I wasn’t convinced it was the same; I’d never had gravy on rice before that night. I accepted the fact that some people make rice with their roast dinners and that some people are fucking weird. I ate my gravy rice and enjoyed it, but I never let him live that down. I mean, come on, have I ever been known to let something like that go?

Fast forward to two years ago. Dave, in a feeble attempt to make it up to me, invited me over for dinner once again. I don’t recall if it was another roast that he was whipping up, but I do recall that there was going to be gravy and he made a point of telling me that there were going to be potatoes to put the gravy on.

Just to be sure that he knew that I had high standards in the mashed potato arena, I told him about Uncle Keith’s mashed potatoes (for probably the third time); he said that he also makes really creamy ones. I was eager to try them. I didn’t have to wait long; shortly after, I was instructed that dinner was ready and I could dish up. But as soon as I grabbed the potato spoon, I knew something wasn’t right.

I was assured that they were, in fact, real potatoes. I said that the texture was weird; I asked what kind of potatoes they were.

I told him that potatoes out of a box are not real potatoes. He told me they were real; he showed me the ingredient list… the list that included “real potato flakes”. I told him real mashed potatoes are made by taking potatoes and mashing them!

I haven’t been invited over for dinner since. Honestly, it’s a wonder he puts up with me.

Circus freak

Growing up, we didn’t do too much as a family. Between Mom working all the time and us being the working poor (the two may or may not be related), we didn’t have a lot of time, money and/or a vehicle for things like family camping trips, picnics, going to museums or… whatever it is that families do together.

But there were a couple things that we did almost every year. Going to the PNE and Stanley Park being the main ones. But also, the circus.

I loved the circus. Looking back, I’m not quite sure what happened at the circus as far as exhibitions. I’m sure they had trapeze artists and tigers tricks (it was the ‘80’s after all), but what I remember most are the balloons.

I loved the balloons. I loved having the string wrapped around my wrist with the balloon bobbing around above my head. I loved how it trailed behind me as I walked. I loved how it quickly turned into the ball/paddle game, but instead of a ball, it was a balloon and instead of a paddle, it was my fist.

One day, as we were leaving the circus, I was playing with my balloon when the worst possible thing happened.

That’s right… the string securing the balloon to my wrist failed. I was horrified as I watched my balloon float higher and higher and further and further away. It was truly the worst moment of my life thus far.

#ThatWhiteGirlsProblems

My lower lip began to tremble. My eyes began to well with tears. My heart sank. And then Uncle Keith did the most amazing thing ever. He ran across the street, dodging cars and pedestrians, with the agility that only an uncle with two legs can have. He chased after my balloon with all his might and he caught it.

He strutted across the street with the smug look of success written all over his face; spectators cheered as he handed me my rescued balloon. The tears in my eyes dried up, my heart lifted and my lip stopped trembling. From that day forward, he was my favourite uncle.

Until Uncle Jim let me knock on his wooden leg, of course.

Being drunk and the damage it can do

I went dancing again! And although my back is tip-top, other parts… aren’t. Allow me to explain.

In the salsa clubs, as the weather outside has gotten nicer and nicer, I couldn’t help but realize that more and more ladies were wearing skirts and dresses instead of pants. I wanted to be one of those girls. But I didn’t have the right shoes.

So, naturally, I went shoe shopping for skirt shoes and boy, did I find them! They’re pretty and comfy, which, in my experience, is an rare combination when looking for heeled shoes. Needless to say, I was rather excited about testing out the bad boys and getting them on the dance floor.

I had my opportunity a couple weeks ago. I was all gussied up for a wedding, skirt and all, and decided to hit the salsa club. It was getting late and I was pretty tired, but thought all that would change (except for the late part, I guess) once I got my blood pumping.

I walked into the club and it was dead. There were about seven guys and I was one of two girls. The bonus of being one of two girls is that you will dance the entire time. The downside of being one of two girls is that the seven guys have resorted to drinking heavily because there was nothing else to do. Can you blame them?

Within minutes of walking in the door I got asked to dance. Within minutes of dancing, Drunkie stepped on my toes (literally). Open toed shoes + drunk guy shoes = pain. I sucked it up and continued dancing, but my toe was very sore. A quick trip to the bathroom revealed a small crack in my toe nail and a fair amount of blood. I cleaned it up, put on my brave face and went back in.

I was a bit gun shy after that. Dancing somewhat awkwardly just to keep my damaged foot out of the line of fire.

As in most cases, when things are going well, you forget why you’re being paranoid, you grow complacent and let your guard down. Which is exactly what I did. Drunkie stepped on my toes again. The same toe. It hurt like a bitch. My reaction was to stop dancing and immediately take the weight off my foot.

I may have stood in the middle of the dance floor looking like a flamingo. Drunkie apologized, and then tried to keep dancing with me. I don’t think he understood that when one foot is in the air, the dance is over. I hobbled over to my table and sat down. He left me alone for about two minutes before coming back and trying to get me to dance with him again. I pointed at my toe and shook my head.

Once I could bear weight on my foot again, I gathered up my jackets and moved it to the exits. I guess it was closing time. The walk to my car was an interesting combination of trying to maintain a normal gait without crying or passing out.

When I got to my car, I inspected my toe. The small crack in the nail had grown. The entire top half of my nail was broken and holding on by a thread. When I got home, I soaked my foot to clean away most of the blood before going to work on removing the remnants of my nail.

Also, I’d just had a pedicure done 3 weeks earlier, so that was pretty much ruined.

Right: before; left: after

I’m not sure if open-toed dancing shoes are my friends.