ThatWhiteGirl’s a Spitey Bitch (c’mon… act shocked)

This is a story that got brought up in conversation with some work folk the other day. I thought it was a good idea to also share it on this platform. So that everyone* can know the story.

*By “everyone”, I mean, all 8 of you.

In my defense, this story took place when I was very young. So young that I don’t even remember it; it’s just a story that my family likes to remind me of. Every. Chance. They get. As such, this story is told according to how it has been told to me.

When I was very young, I lived with Mom (my mother), Granny (my maternal grandmother) and Danny (my older brother). I loved Granny more than life itself. She basically couldn’t have a waking moment alone without me following her around and being a general pest. Anywhere Granny went, I went too; anything Granny did, I wanted to do too. Naturally, she nicknamed me her shadow.

Despite the fact that Granny loved me almost as much as I loved her, there were times when I just couldn’t tag along. I hated these times probably as much as Granny longed for them.

One day, there was something Granny had to do that I couldn’t be a part of. She walked out the door with a grin on her face and I stood there scowling with my hands on my hips. You could say I was unhappy with being left at home while Granny frolicked. Or went to the doctor, but whatever, I was 3.

Shortly after Granny returned home, her and Mom noticed something.

Upon closer inspection…

Upon even closer inspection…

Eventually the “where did the shit come from” game ended and Granny made her way upstairs to her bedroom.

That’s right. I shit on my grandmother’s bed to get back at her.

Moral of the story: Don’t piss me off and leave me alone with your things.

Curry in a hurry

I really enjoy cooking, but I’ve fallen out of the habit as of late. As a result, I’ve been sustaining myself on prepared foods as well as eating out and taking in. None of which are very good for my nutritional needs, pocket book or waist line.

I’ve decided I need to start getting back into it. The other day, I left work early enough that stores were open (what a concept!). I was able to purchase items for the meal I was planning on making. Partially because I didn’t have the forethought to defrost some meat, but also because I wanted an ingredient I don’t normally purchase.

I was feeling pretty good about myself as I was driving home and started envisioning myself in the kitchen for the first time in weeks. Then it hit me.

I don’t know how I’d forgotten. I also don’t know how I’ve gone grocery shopping about a dozen times since I ran out and never once purchased it.

I didn’t want to break stride, so I convinced myself that I didn’t need pepper in my life.

I was planning on making curry. Normally when I make curry, I make, what I like to call, the white person version of curry (surprise, surprise). Basically a curry-flavoured stew. All the meat and veg are tossed in a pot, sauce is made, simmered down and once the texture of everything is converted to mush, it’s served over rice.

In my experience, a brown person would never, ever, do this. They have a different curry for every dish. From goat to chicken, from chick peas to potatoes; every curry has a different blend of spices. I decided that I was going to be less white when I made curry that night. I was going to make beef vindaloo and aloo gobi (potato cauliflower). They were going to be separate, they were going to have different flavours and they were going to be delicious, dammit.

I didn’t anticipate the troubles I would have from being so out of practice.

I started the aloo gobi because I knew the potatoes would take awhile to cook. Once that was going, I started the beef vindaloo. But I was a bit short on time, so I knew I wouldn’t be able to let the curry reduce as much as normal. I decided to coat the beef in flour in order to thicken the sauce without having to reduce it. Good idea in theory, but in practice…

I may or may not have gone overboard.

I also didn’t take into consideration the sheer water content of cauliflower.

An hour after I started, I jacked up the temperature on the aloo gobi to try and evaporate off some of the excess water.

But it was taking too long. I already added broth to my vindaloo to try and thin it out and despite my best efforts my aloo gobi was soup. I was hungry and my rice was getting cold.

So I took the dishes that I painstakingly kept separate and mixed them together. Blending meat and veg together. Blending mango/madras curry with vindaloo.

The end product had the most perfect consistency. It was also delicious. Even if those of Indian descent would probably cringe.

A Day in the Life…

Sometimes I find the thoughts that run through my mind thoroughly entertaining. Tonight was no exception. Here’s a glimpse into my everyday life.

I got off work late and drove home. As I walked in my front door, I noticed that it was particularly warm in my place. I live in a basement suite. It’s January and it just snowed. This is abnormal. I checked the heater that I recently bought (and works like a charm, I might add):

Even though this particular heater is supposed to be super safe, I’m still massively paranoid of burning my house down, so I tend to turn it off when I leave, even though that means my house is less than toasty when I get home from work.

I started preparing dinner, while my chicken cutlet was frying over medium heat, I sat down to check my email. Shortly after, I heard the tell-tale noises of a hot pan. I went to check on my dinner, flipped over the cutlet and found that side nearly completely charred.

Funny how I was more concerned about my heater being a fire hazard when left unattended, but I had no problem leaving oil in a hot pan unattended. The irony was not lost on me.

I then had to open my front door (no hood fan on my stove) so I could get all the smoke out of my place. While simultaneously removing all of the heat that had built up by my first fire hazard.

As I was cooking, I decided that I wanted a cup of tea, but since it was 8pm, I couldn’t very well have the tea I wanted. I typically drink black tea, which is caffeinated, which will keep me up all night if I drink it at 8pm. So I brewed a cup of this “fruit infusion” “tea”. It was ready around the time I was plating up my charred cutlet. I added a bit of sugar and milk (how I normally drink my tea) to this hot beverage.

A quick glance in my cup and all seemed well. I thought to myself “Well, it didn’t curdle so it should be good”, just as I watched the tea turn from milky tea to tea with milk chunks.

Well… Shit.

I posted pictures on my facebook account of my trip to Thailand. Within an hour of posting, Thailand liked one of them. Other people like the same picture, but the other people aren’t the ones I chose to focus on, now are they?

No. I spent the next hour (or more) overanalyzing everything in life. Why would you like my picture when you haven’t spoken to me in months? I was practically done thinking of you, why’d you have to ruin it by looking at my things and liking them? When did I turn into a crazy girl?

I was having a hard time sleeping because overanalyzing really takes up a big part of your brain, so I got up to get some water. As I was passing my computer, I decided it would be a good idea to send him an email. I guess you could say I wasn’t thinking clearly.

I logged onto facebook and typed up a message:

I went to Thailand!

I stared at it. I decided that nothing good could come from it, that there was no point in sending it and that clearly I have lost my mind. I mean, it’s not like he was extending an olive branch, or doing anything to show that things had changed… I highlighted the message and was about to hit delete when I dropped my laptop off the top of my lap. It crashed to the floor. I was very concerned; it hit the ground hard, I wanted to make sure it was okay.

I opened the (now shut) lid and found that the screen was intact and even turned on. I wasn’t prepared for what I saw next. My heart sunk.

In my attempt to save my computer from impact, I must have hit keys. I must have clicked somewhere.

I hit send.

I closed my laptop and went to bed with an increasing feeling of doom. I fell asleep almost immediately. I guess shock will do that do you. My eyes cracked open in the morning and my first thought was “Fuck. I sent him an email. I. Sent him. An email.” Something I never intended to do, aside from that 30 seconds of delirium I experienced the night before. I intended to walk out of his life and never walk back in. I intended to never think of him again. I guess I didn’t live up to my intentions.

I decided it was okay. Much like my text message, I would receive no response. I could easily pretend like it never even happened. I bet I could even convince myself that I was really drunk, or high on peyote, and imagined it all. Peyote will do that to you every time, right?

I went about my morning, casting nervous sidelong glances at my computer, but never looking directly at it. Because that will change things. Eventually I opened my computer and went about my routine of checking email accounts. I logged onto facebook and saw 18 notifications. Oh, the “popularity” of 3 people liking 6 of your pictures. And one email. Well… Shit.

The internet is a weird, weird place

I’m convinced Google is fucking with me. It all started a few weeks back when I decided to check my personal email at work one day. I logged on to the website and it was all in German.

Having to know the fields in order to log on wasn’t necessary; I was able to navigate the website no problem.

I mean, seriously, “Nutzername and passwort”??

Luckily Google didn’t translate all my emails into German, so I was actually able to read them. Once I logged out of the account, everything returned to normal. I thought it was weird, but carried on and didn’t think about it again until a week or so later when I re-discovered the glitch while checking my email from work. 

About a week after that, it started happening when I was at home. About a week after that, it started affecting my search results; the entire webpage of results would show up in German. Most of the time Google would give me the option of translating the page into English. Thanks Google.

But, like the German glitch, the translator would glitch out too and wouldn’t always be available. I started having to learn the German words for “images” and “maps”. And when I looked up a map… that’s right… all the directions were in German.

It was getting increasingly difficult to find information on the internet, so I did what any normal person would do: I Google’d it.

And all the webpages were displayed in… that’s right… English.

Forgetting my intentions entirely, I spent the next five minutes trying to trick Google into thinking I was German. Suddenly the problem became that Google didn’t think I was German anymore. Google was having none of it. All English, all the time.

I decided that finding a solution to my problem was unnecessary since my problem no longer existed.

Until a couple days later, when the problem reared it’s ugly head once again. Since then, I haven’t had to get directions so having German Google hasn’t been too much of a pain in the ass. That’s why I haven’t tried to fix it again. Also, I’m lazy.

A couple days ago, I realized that this would make a fairly entertaining blog post. I started writing it up; one of the first things I did was go to my email account and screenshot the log in screen. More than halfway through this post, I decided to screenshot a results screen. I put in a dummy search term into Google and awaited the results.

Results… in English. Naturally. And now I’m waiting for it to go back to the German default, but it’s not. It’s all “Of course you’re English, why would I think you’re German?”.

It’s like Google knows that I’m writing about it and wants to really fuck with me.

Breaking up is hard to do

I may have mentioned on here before that I have a tendency to break things. And I have someone in my life that helps me fix them. Mostly because he loves me and is able to fix stuff, but also because if he doesn’t, I call him the worst friend ever.

I may or may not be a giant asshole.

I don’t always call on Dave when I need things fixed, I also call on him when I need help with things. Big difference, I know. For instance, my dad gave me a picture for my birthday last year. It wasn’t, what I call, wall-ready (it didn’t have a hanging wire); I also didn’t have a nail in the house to hang it even if it was wall-ready. I know, I’m useless. So I did the next best thing: I propped it up against my dresser and that’s where it lived for months.

One day, Dave & I were in home depot picking up hinges for a cabinet that I broke when I mentioned the picture. We purchased the necessary supplies and when we got back to my place he made it all happen. He installed a hanging wire on the frame and I put a nail in the wall to make myself feel useful.

A few weeks later, I purchased another picture that, again, was not wall-ready. Armed with my picture hanging supplies and my hanging wire know-how, I did all of it myself. I was pretty proud of myself and called Dave to get my congratulatory pat on the back. He wasn’t nearly as pleased about it as I was; he felt as though I didn’t need him anymore. I tried to assure him that there were plenty of other things in my life that I have absolutely no clue about; he wasn’t convinced.

A few months later, I purchased, yet another, wall hanging (for the record, prior to this picture buying spree, I had two things on my wall and one of them was a clock). The most recent purchase was large and unruly. The frame came with all the necessary accessories, handy-dandy instructions and wasn’t complicated (thank-you IKEA), but I was having a hard time wrestling it on my own.

Thus, Dave to the rescue. He came over and finished the job I started and we got it on the wall. This was several months ago. Fast forward to last week. I was lying on my couch looking at the picture when I noticed that it looked… weird. Upon further inspection (i.e. getting my ass off the couch) I realized that it was warping. The backing was bowing out at the top; I guess the frame is too heavy for the thin backing. (thank-you IKEA)

I took the picture off the wall and resisted the urge to call Dave immediately whining. I was going to see him two days later; I would whine then. And whine I did. He told me he didn’t know if there was anything he could do. He was inches away from being the worst friend ever again, but then he said he would come over and take a look. Phew. Sometime this year.

Then I told him that he better come over soon to fix his shoddy work.

I don’t know why he puts up with me.

Thanks Dave! (P.S. It’s June 18th!)

Mexico 2.1

Sunday I woke up late (~1:30pm), between the sleep deprivation and hangover, I didn’t leave my room until 5pm. I handed in some paperwork, walked around the resort for half an hour and then went back to bed. I awoke around 8pm feeling much better; I got cleaned up and went out in search of food.

I left my big, blue cup at home because I “wasn’t really going to drink” and went about my night. Dinner, nightly show, followed by the disco once again. The disco, where I drank more than I should have… again.

The girl from the lawn was there, we started chatting and dancing. She got up on the bar and danced while the bartenders watched and continued slinging drinks. White girls seem to get away with pretty much anything in Mexico. At one point, she staggered over to me…

I simply asked “Why?”, she responded with “Why not?”. I said “I dunno… I’ve never kissed a girl before”, she thought this was all the more reason to do it. Next thing I know, she’s kissing me.

She pulled away and said “So….??”, I shrugged my shoulders and said “Meh…”. She got all indignant and offended: “What do you mean “Meh”?! You didn’t like it? Why didn’t you like it?! What’s wrong with you?!?!”

Then she walked away all in a huff and started making out with the guy from the lawn. I continued chatting up the bartender, Catarino, at one point he looked over at her and nodded in her direction:

Catarino: I don’t like her.

Me: Really?! Why not?

Catarino: Because she kissed you…

Me: Oh… … … okay…

Catarino: You kissed her too.

Me: So does that mean you don’t like me either?

Catarino: No, I like you.

Me: Why? What’s the difference?

Catarino: Because you didn’t like it.

I remember telling the bartender that I needed to go home; he asked if I wanted someone to walk me there. I pathetically agreed to the escort. The security guard took me outside and we waited for my escorts to arrive. I was really drunk and just wanted my bed. I told him this; he said we were just waiting for the other security guards to get there.

I told him I was just going to go by myself because I was tired of waiting and “was just fine”; he said “Show me”. I got up, took a few stumbling steps in the direction of my room; he said “No, no, no”, grabbed my arm and had me sit down once again. If his English was better, he probably would have said “Sit down before you fall down”.

My escorts arrived and walked me to my room; upon arrival, I immediately went to the bathroom to take out my contacts. But I was so intoxicated, I couldn’t do it. I assure you, this has never happened before. I decided sleeping with contacts in isn’t going to kill me one time and I staggered to bed and crashed.

I woke up the next day, surprisingly early, feeling, unsurprisingly hungover. I immediately hopped in the shower to wash away my illness; but I was feeling so under the weather, that I decided to sit down throughout the duration of my ablutions.

The shower didn’t have the best set up and the shower curtain was a bit unruly. I didn’t much care, given the state I was in. The moment I stepped out of the shower, I realized I probably should have cared a bit more. It looked like half of the shower water had escaped the confines of the stall and flooded the bathroom… and my entrance way… and it even went out my door.

There I was, completely hungover, trying to mop up litres and litres of water from my room using only my bathmat. It was inefficient at best.

Devastation central

I haven’t forgotten about this thing I call a blog. And by “I call”, I mean, “everyone on Earth calls”. Doubtful that “everyone on Earth” knows about this blog… but whatever. The point is I’m really upset about something.

I can’t make my tablet work. The touch function works so I thought it was my pen; I bought a new one and it still doesn’t work. I’m really upset. And my next Mexico post REQUIRES pictures. And a track pad just doesn’t cut it. I’m going to break out my mouse and see if that helps the situation, but I’m not optimistic.

Anybody know anything about drawing tablets?

*giant sad face*

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!

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...

A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down

Here is the second installment of Heather vs Hot Dogs. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, go here. It may or may not help your understanding of this post.

My elementary school used to include swimming lessons as part of our PE class during the last month of school (when the weather could be warm enough to use the neighbourhood outdoor pool). On the last day of our lessons we had a picnic; we were instructed to bring our own hot dogs and buns to the picnic so they could get grilled up on the portable barbecue.

The thing about swimming for me is that it is an activity that leaves me ravenous. I knew this even as a young child. The morning of my last swimming lesson, my mom was packing my lunch and she asked me if I wanted one hot dog or two. Automatically, I said two; Mom was skeptical and said "But they're really big, are you sure?". I assured her that I was sure and that I would eat both hot dogs; she packed both hot dogs.

After swimming, we all piled out of the pool and into the park; I brought my lunch to my teacher. She looked skeptically at the lunch my mom had packed and asked if I was sure I wanted two hot dogs, they were really big after all. I assured her that I was sure and that I would eat both hot dogs; she grilled both hot dogs.

After getting my lunch back, I pulled up a piece of ground and started eating. I started out with gusto; I was going strong and two hot dogs were no match for me. Why anyone doubted the eating ability of an 8 year old girl was beyond me. That is until I got most of the way through the first one. With the first one firmly in my gut, I felt very full; I thought I just had to walk it off, make room for the second one. I started walking around the park, but the more I walked, the more nauseous I felt.

I was stumbling around the park, looking sick and carrying a hot dog. After a bit more stumbling, I started feeling really, really sick; I went into the bathroom, sure I was going to vomit. I walked into the stall and stared down at the toilet, willing myself not to throw up. Once I gained composure I took in my surroundings; I stared death in the face when I realized I was still carrying that blasted second hot dog.

I felt nauseous at the thought of eating it, I felt stupid for being so adamant that I could finish both hot dogs. I couldn't very well admit defeat, apparently something I've never been good at. I decided to put the hot dog in it's place. And I did. I flushed that bad boy down the toilet.

Since I was just a kid and didn't understand basic concepts such as indoor plumbing, I didn't break it up into small pieces and flush them one or two at a time. No, no. I literally flushed the entire hot dog down the toilet. I realized mid-flush that it may have been a mistake, but I went with it and down it went. I breathed a sigh of relief and skipped out of the bathroom with new found enthusiasm one can only get from narrowly escaping death's grip.

My teacher saw me shortly after, saw that I had no lunch left. She asked me if I had finished both hot dogs, I smugly replied that I had.

As our little conversation was wrapping up, another student came running up to the teacher and asked if she knew how to get parks people to come down; she asked the student why she thought the park ranger was required. The student replied that one of the toilets in the girl's washroom was clogged and was flooding the entire bathroom.

I guess it didn't go down as well as I thought.

Karma is a spiteful bitch

My pixilated pictures on here don't show it, but I wear glasses in real life. I've been wearing these particular glasses for about 9 years or so. In that time, I've replaced the lenses, but that was 6 or 7 years ago, so not by any means recently.

The lenses desperately have to be replaced, but over the past year, I've held the notion in my head that I was going to get laser eye surgery and I don't need to invest in a new pair of glasses or lenses. It would be a waste of money, after all.

I was recently talking with a friend about this and he told me about ordering glasses online; he's done it and has had success. Plus they're cheap - two pair for $100 kind of cheap. And they're not crap-pieces either. I thought this was a great idea and decided I was going to get an eye test and order them online in the new year, once I recouped some of the money spent on Christmas.

Last night, I went for a walk in the rain. Normally when I do this, I either bring an umbrella or wear my contacts so that rain doesn't get all over my glasses. For some odd reason, I decided I didn't need to do that. I ventured out into the night and walked around for over an hour. Practically cursing myself the entire time seeing as I repeatedly had to stop and wipe my glasses. No easy feat when you're bundled up to protect yourself from the rain.

I was on the "heading home" leg of the journey when I stopped under this tree to wipe my glasses. Almost instantly, I felt the lens pop out of the frame. These are not lens-popping-out-frames. I knew it was bad. I inspected my glasses and discovered the metal holding the lens in had completely snapped off the bridge of the nose.

My first thought, aside from "Oh no!", was "I should have worn my contacts". I lovingly put the pieces of my glasses into my pocket and started the blinded walk home. I figured I'd bring my glasses to my dad's place the next day (I was going there for Christmas dinner anyway) and have him look at them. I figured he could solder it, or glue it, or something, so that I could last into the new year, or at the very least, last until I could get myself to the optometrist.

As I was walking home, I became increasingly paranoid about losing the loose lens. I started constantly routing around my pocket to make sure the lens was still there. As I approached my home, I went into the same pocket to get my keys. It felt like something was missing, I made sure the lens was still in place, which it was. I took an inventory of my pocket contents and everything seemed to be right.

I was walking up my driveway when it dawned on me; I spun around and looked into the night from the direction I just came. I made a half-hearted-blind effort to retrieve my lost goods. I knew I'd never find it; I didn't know where I lost it and I couldn't see anything because of the dark and the fact that I broke my glasses.

All I have left of my journey in the rain is regret, shame and a single eyeglass lens. Guess I'm going shopping sooner than I thought.

A Disney Story

A few years back, the company I work for hosted it's annual staff party at a local hotel. Being gracious hosts, the hotel offered the attendees a discounted rate in order to discourage drunk driving and encourage alcohol sales. One co-worker got a hotel room for the night.

Since someone had a hotel room, everyone was encouraged to meet at the room and partake in a bit of pre-drinking before the party started. Another benefit was that we all had a place to store our booze while we were downstairs (a.k.a a bathtub full of ice). I was a rye and ginger girl at the time, so naturally, I brought a 26'er of crown and a 2L bottle of Canada Dry. Best gingerale ever.

However, I was uncertain as to the amenities offered by the hotel, so I brought some of my own drinking devices, including a shot glass and a cup. Since alcohol was going to be involved, and since I was going to be carting around the drinking paraphernalia, I was concerned about breakage. So, I brought as many unbreakable things as I could.

I arrived at the hotel room and started making myself a drink. Instantly, I was teased about my drinking devices. I defended myself by saying that I wasn't sure if the hotel would have glasses and/or shot glasses. Turns out, I wasn't being made fun of because I brought these things, I was made fun of because of the things I brought.

Namely, the cup. The only plastic cup I had was a collector cup from my Burger King days (when I paid for the BK equivalent of a happy meal, of course). It was a Pocahontas cup.

For most of the night, I drank out of the cup in the hotel room only. As the night wore on and I got more and more intoxicated, I became less self-conscious of the cup and 'the rules'. I started carrying it around downstairs amongst the other attendees. Luckily, it was dark and no one noticed. Not even security.

Surprisingly, the rest of the night was rather uneventful. Or maybe I just don't remember it. The friend that had the hotel room had brought her boyfriend to the party. He had never met us before, so he used this first experience as a way to decipher which work friend she was referring to in the conversations following that fateful night.

At the time, there were two Heather's at my work. On the inside, I was disappointed that there was someone else with my name and that I wasn't one of a kind anymore. On the outside, well, it was pretty much the same story, because I have a hard time bottling up my feelings. At the end of the day, the other Heather and I are/were very different people. The other Heather was taller and blonder.

One day, work friend went home and was telling boyfriend a story about me at work. She started saying "Heather this" or "Heather that" when he cut her off; he wanted to know which Heather she was talking about.

So... is that "blonde Heather" or Pocahontas?

Fuck. Me.

Too hot to handle

I like to cook, but cooking for one day in and day out becomes rather mundane. Every so often, I need to break out of my routine and cook for someone else. Sometimes this desire is so strong that I'll force my way into cooking for a friend, even if it requires me bringing all the ingredients and cooking it at their house. I get oddly excited about it. I'm pretty sure it's quirk that most of my friends are willing to deal with (...unlike all those other quirks...)

A few years ago, I was at the BFF's house, cooking some dinner for her. I can't remember the entire menu, but I do know that we had pork tenderloin with broccoli and carrots.

I seared the tenderloin in her frying pan and finished it off in the oven. Right about the time the tenderloin was finished and I was going to start 'nuking the veggies, she remembered that she had a lone lamb chop in her fridge that she wanted to use up. It was already cooked, so it would only take a few minutes in the hot oven.

One small thing, but it threw me off my game. The chop was finished before I was ready for it, so everything got dished up and we were just sitting around waiting for the veggies to come out of the microwave.

I was certain that I could be using those 3 minutes better than just standing there.

I decided that I was going to be all efficient and get everything soaking in the sink so that it would be ready to wash once we were finished eating.

I grabbed the 375F pan off the stove and carried it over to the sink.

Without an oven mitt. It took a minute for it all to sink in...

It was hot. Like, really fucking, hot. I turned back to the stove and literally threw the frying pan at it. I immediately turned back to the sink and turned the cold water on full blast. It also took K a minute to realize what had happened. She tentatively asked me if I was okay. All I could do was shake my head and say, "It's bad".

It was bad.

I spent the night there, even though it was a Tuesday night and I had to work in the morning. After 3 hours of soaking my blistered hand in ice water, I realized that I was not going to be able to work. I could not have unscrewed a test tube if my life depended on it.

I spent the rest of the night trying to sleep with my hand in ice water. Once I used up all the ice in the house, I switched over to ice packs, once I used up all the ice packs, I went back to running it under cold water. It was a restless night.

In the morning I drove home and was fairly convinced I would be okay. Until I realized that I iced my burns for about 8 hours and they were still hurting. I decided seeing a doctor might not be a bad idea.

I went to the first walk in clinic I could find. They asked me to fill out a bunch of paperwork. They handed me a clipboard and a pen and moved onto the next patient. I stared at the paperwork. Rather than asking for help, I filled out the paperwork, with my left hand. (have I mentioned that I'm right-handed and I burned my right hand to shit? No? Well, I am and I did!)

I left any fields that I deemed unnecessary blank. Even still, by the end, my writing was so bad that the receptionist had to ask for clarification on a number of the necessary fields. I felt kinda bad, but my hand felt worse, so the guilt was fleeting.

I got in to see the doctor and she had one hell of a time bandaging me up. She tried to make it so that I had some use of the fingers that weren't burnt to shit. I had to go back every 2-3 days to have the dressing changed and to check for signs of infection. I went back to work on the Friday and got assigned some computer work.

The following Monday I decided that I could do my regular job. I was wrong. I went back to the make-work-project on the computer for the rest of the week.

And that is the story of how I burned my hand. Ever since, whenever I take a frying pan out of the oven and let it sit on the stove, I always cover the handle with an oven mitt. Extra insurance against stupidity. So far it has worked. *knock on wood*

There are children pleasant!

So, my desktop computer is dying a slow, painful death. I've been fairly convinced that it's on its last legs for roughly 2 years. But now, I'm really sure that it's going to die. I will, once again, start backing up my files.

Reasons I believe my computer is going to die:

1. It's running really slow and no amount of maintenance is speeding things up.


2. It decided that it no longer had Excel installed on it. All I had to do was pop in the MS Office disc for 37 seconds (not install it, just put the disc in) in order for it to realize that it does in fact have Excel.


3. It can take as long as 13 minutes to restart my computer and be able to do things again.


4. It stalls on the stupidest tasks... like opening a folder. It's not even a hidden folder, or tricky in some way. It's a folder on my desktop. It's been there forever.

Reasons it will be really sad if my computer dies tomorrow:

1. I have to ship my laptop back to Toshiba for a new hard-drive and won't get it back for two weeks. I would be without internet for two weeks. *gasp*


2. My laptop is incapable of recording music and I like to, so it doesn't really work for me.


3. A new desktop would also be incapable of recording music (thanks Windows 7), so this dinosaur is my only hope of recording in real time.


4. I haven't backed up my files and probably won't tonight.


5. All my favorites, shortcuts, and in progress projects will be lost (see point 4).

As you can see, the death of my computer would be very sad indeed although not unexpected.

Wow - she really barricaded through that door

I found a bunch of hot dogs in my freezer the other day. As it turns out, that in and of itself is weird on so many levels. (this (*) denotes one level of weird) For one, I didn't know I had them*, and I have absolutely no idea where I got them from*. Also, they made me realize that I have hot dog buns in my freezer*, which I happened to notice* moments before finding the dogs. I'm pretty sure I got the dogs and the buns at the same time, from the same place*. And even with that, I still can't figure out where they came from*. I'm going to blame my dad on that one.

Anyway, that's not the weirdest part. The weirdest part is that I've been thinking about hot dogs a lot lately*. I've even told stories about hot dogs*. In fact, I even have more hot dog related stories in reserve that I haven't had a chance to tell*.

So, onto the first installment of Heather vs Hotdogs*.

When I was a kid, I can recall watching my mom grate cheese for dinner one night. I was young, maybe 4 years old. I was mesmerized by it - it looked like so much fun and it produced a tasty treat. I wanted to try it, I wanted to help; my mom wouldn't let me because she was afraid I'd grate myself. Understandably, I was left to observe.

Another day, who knows how long after, I was sitting in the living room watching TV. It was one of those old wooden ones with a built-in speaker and everything. One day for lunch, Granny gave me a hot dog.

A raw hot dog. I can't recall if it was intended to tide me over until she could give me something else, or if she actually gave me a raw hot dog for lunch. We all know that, texturally, raw hot dogs are gross and we also know that if anything about food is going to throw me off, it's texture.

I may or may not have been too happy about having to eat the thing. That's about the time I noticed the speaker on the TV.

It looked an awful lot like a certain kitchen appliance that I'd seen my mom use. A certain kitchen appliance that I was not allowed to use because I'd hurt myself. I looked at the speaker. I looked at my hot dog.

I started grating. I grated a good portion of hot dog into the TV before I got caught.

I don't remember what happened next. I probably got sent to my room without real lunch. I may or may not have been spanked. But I'm 100% certain Granny had a hard time keeping a straight face on that one.

Big thanks to EliseArt for providing illustrations.