That White Girl’s Comeback

As I’ve said on here before, all my life I’ve heard about just how pale I am. Between my last name and my colouration, I’m the butt of many “why aren’t you tan” jokes.

I’ve grown accustomed to it; so much so that after a tropical vacation I already know my response to the above question.

A couple weekends ago, I was able to off-load some of the ammo. I was able to reciprocate just enough to feel powerful. Let me replay the situation.

I ended up at my local watering hole. I found myself a seat at the bar with a bunch of rowdies surrounding me. I may or may not have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

A heated discussion ensued. A heated discussion that would have driven many-a-people insane for the rest of the night. A heated discussion for which I happened to know the answer. This may or may not have garnered me a seat with them.

As I was conversing with a girl within the group, the guy that invited me over was having a discussion with the waitress. I’m not sure of her heritage (Italian? Greek?), but in the dead of winter she has colouration. Not a lick of sun has been about and she’s positively olive.

The guy beside me proclaimed something.

Not even knowing the basis of the conversation, I leapt on the opportunity.

Me: I’m sorry – you’re going to be as tanned as Maia?

Whitey2 – Yep!

TWG – Got some Irish in ya?? I call your bullshit!

W2 – What?

TWG – Look at you – you will NEVER be as tanned as Maia!

W2 – Sure I will!!

TWG – Where are you going?

W2 – Maui.

TWG – And how long will you be there?

W2 – A week.

TWG – Yeah. You’ll be red if anything.

W2 – What??

TWG – How much Irish you got in you exactly?

W2 – I’m full Irish…

TWG – Yeah, you’re not coming back tanned.

He questioned how I knew such a thing. I told him he had no idea just how White I am.

It was surprisingly fulfilling.

 

P.S. Dear Anonymous – I find it unfair that you seem to know who I am and I have no idea who you are. Reveal your identity. Please?!

Adventures in online dating: Part - Oh… I get it…

I found this in my drafts – I wrote it several months back, but since I’m chronically single, it still applies.

Hooray for being timeless.

I think I’ve finally figured out a reason, if not the reason, why I’m still single. Meh – who am I kidding there’s clearly a laundry list of reasons…

You know the dating technique where you trick someone into liking you by being not yourself and then dole out your true self in single-bite-size-servings so that, given enough time, you eventually become yourself, but it was done so gradually that the person you’re with didn’t realize just how weird/crazy/needy/sarcastic/(insert undesirable trait here) you really are until it was too late and they already like you and have already come to accept your character flaws?

Turns out that may be a problem, if not the problem, with … … well... me. I think that honesty is the best policy.

Allow me to explain my most recent epic fail. *Update – since this is not so recent anymore, I’m sure there’s more to come… Who am I kidding, I have some in reserves.

Although, my POF account is hidden and I’m not showing up in the general populations’ searches, I do log on, view profiles and email people. Not super frequently, but often enough.

I did this recently and started chatting with an attractive young man, who coincidentally enough, shares the same, uncommon (in the western world at least), name as Thailand. We’ll call him Thailand 2.0, or Thai2 for short.

I decided not to hold this against him, even though, more often than not, I cringe when I meet a prospect with the same name as my ex. Or my brother. Or my father. Sorry – but I got a thing with names!

So we start doing the whole email exchange thing. Back and forth for an hour or so every night. This lasted a few nights when one day Thai2 asked me what I was doing. I said I was at home, relaxing, doing some writing.

Something no one ever does is ask what exactly I’m writing. He does. I explain that I was writing some “short stories”; he asked what kind.

Something no one ever does is ask for my blog address. He does.

I wanted to discourage him, but I didn’t know what to say. My first thought was “No – I only share this with really good friends, or complete strangers and you’re too in between” which seemed like a ridiculous thing to say out loud. I settled with  “I don’t know about that…..” He sent me his website in exchange, so I sent him mine with a “don’t judge me!” disclaimer. He said he wouldn’t.

His website is themed around wine and is very professional and appropriate. And…  yeah… you’ve seen mine. A little while later, he asked who does my “artwork”.

A little while after that, he pointed out a specific post he liked. A post that was quite old. A post that happens to be in my “top posts based on nothing list”. I looked at the random list and hoped he wasn’t working his way down.

Let’s just say that list of posts has some… …  unsavory links. Links that my readers and friends enjoy, but maybe don’t portray me in the best light. That maybe aren’t super becoming of me. Or worse yet, are exactly as becoming of me.

He must have found them because he stopped replying to my emails. I should’ve known he was judging me. Better sooner rather than later, though, right?

Right??

Getting old

I woke up the other day and suddenly realized that I’ll be 34 in a few months. Thirty-fricken-four. I don’t feel that grown up. I have a blog, for fuck sakes!

 

So I may have started having a “holy crap, I’m in my mid-30’s” crisis. I quickly decided that being where I am in life is an okay place to be. It was okay last week, what’s the difference now?

 

But then, strange things started happening. Things that can only mean that I am in fact getting old.

 

First, I got onto a pretty full bus the other day; since I was only going a few stops, I pulled up the nearest piece of pole and got comfy. Well, as comfy as you can be standing on a bus full of people. Then, it happened…

Girl: Would you like to sit down?

ThatWhiteGirl: Um, no thanks, I’m good.

Girl: Are you sure?!

TWG: Totally.

Only old people get offered seats on the bus. And sometimes not even.

 

Next, I took a friend to get a facial on her birthday; she mentioned to the esthetician that it was the first facial for both of us. She eyed my crow’s feet suspiciously and said “really?”. As we were leaving, I said that it was so nice and that I should have started getting them sooner. Her raised eyebrows indicated that she was thinking the same thing but for very different reasons.

 

Then, I was chatting with a couple work folk and we were discussing a particular intersection; I mentioned that a gas station was on the corner. I was shot down pretty quickly; the other two were convinced there was no gas station. I was adamant that it was there and a Circle K store was attached to it. They didn’t even know what Circle K was.

 

This invoked a comment from one of my co-workers. “Were you buying your slurpees from there back in 1972?” Um. Thanks. Do I look old enough to be buying slurpees in 1972? My other co-worker informed him that I wasn’t even born yet. Thanks for having my back, Term.

 

Lastly, I was going through the drive-thru the other day and had this gem of a conversation with the cashier.

Cashier: $8:35, please.

TWG: On debit, please.

(we’re Canadian, leave us alone)

Cashier: Does it have the tap function?

TWG: Nooooo.(in a “I’m totally sure” kind of way)

Cashier: Just thought I’d check, it makes it easier.

TWG: I know! I saw it once and it was so fast. It’s pretty cool!

Cashier: It is.

TWG: I don’t even know how you get one…

Cashier: Oh, it comes on newer debit cards.

TWG: Really?? Cuz I just got this thing a little while ago.

Cashier: Are you sure it doesn’t tap?

TWG: Ummmm… I. Don’t. Know. (I spot an vaguely familiar icon on the card) Hey look, the thingy!!

Cashier: Yeah, that’s probably where you tap it… Try it next time…

TWG: Okay – thanks!!!

I stopped understanding technology and I was never very good at it in the first place. This is the beginning to the end, folks, beginning to the end.

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.

Adventures in Internet Dating–part 4

Just because I know you guys love these so much… here’s another installment of That White Girl’s adventures in internet dating.

Even though my POF account is currently hidden so I don’t show up in the general populations’ searches, I will go on and browse profiles.

There was one guy I found that had far too many muscles for his own good. On his profile it said: ******* NO CEREAL DATERS!!!! *******

The number of asterisk's may or may not be exaggerated. It took every willpower bone in my body (I have like six) not to send him this asking what exactly was wrong with being a cereal dater.

I do believe Cap’n Crunch is a good man; better than most, even.

Then there’s this other guy; his profile picture was him hugging an acoustic guitar, his profile said he sang/played rock and he had a link to SoundCloud that contained only metal songs without any lyrics.

I found him to be contradicting and I thought that was a good icebreaker so I basically sent that to him in an email, giving him a bit of a hard time because he said he sang but all his pieces were instrumental. Here’s how our conversation went down.

Douchebag: Singing isn’t easy and my voice isn’t there yet. You do know that was entirely me playing guitar bass and drums, right? I wrote the song too. I have over 50 songs, of all genres. Check out my SoundCloud now – I put other songs up!

I went back to his SoundCloud and there were a bunch of new songs posted. Genre of all songs: metal (without lyrics) or metal hiphop (rap over heavy metal). Very diverse.

TWG: Singing isn’t easy but makes playing that much more fun (for me at least). I like the song “Acoustic”; nice guitar piece.

DB: So you like classical guitar? Yuck. I made that song to mock my old music teacher. Playing chords and singing some oldie is easy. Try playing something off beat, that has many changes in sound and beat and singing something.

TWG: Not necessarily classical guitar, but I’ll play an acoustic over an electric any day. I prefer the organic sound and not having to fiddle with dials and knobs.

DB: You do know the vast majority of acoustic guitars made today are acoustic electric, right?

TWG: Putting a transducer into an acoustic guitar doesn’t make it an electric guitar. Even when you plug it in, it’s still an acoustic, it’s just amplified. You do realize you’d get the same effect from a microphone, right??

He totally got under my skin for some reason but I never heard from him again so it all worked out.

Onwards and upwards, right, folks?

Games are fun!!

I went to a games event the other day. It’s exactly what it sounds like, a bunch of people get together and play a bunch of games. I’ve been to a few of these now, the type of games vary; this time it was mostly trivia because there were so many people playing.

Since there were so many people, that may or may not know each other, the hosts started us off with “Mingle Bingo”. Basically you have a bingo card and you have to make a pattern. The squares have questions, like “Who drives a 2-door vehicle” and “Name a single child”. In order to try and be one of the winners, you have to go around and ask people questions. It was surprisingly fun.

One of the questions was “Who rents property”. It started out that I was volunteering this information; I’d be talking with someone, looking at what they needed on their card and see that square empty. I’d say “I rent” and they’d fill it in. Soon enough, people are seeking me out to ask me if I rent. I didn’t think much of it until this guy, that I’ve met a few times, came up to me:

C: Hey, Heather, do you rent?

TWG: Yeah, I do.

C: I thought so…

TWG: What?!

C: You seem like someone that would rent…

TWG: What the fuck is that supposed to mean??!

C: I dunno… *looks around and then lowers his voice* It’s just that, you know, white people get kicked out of home when they're adults.

I was pleased he was going by stereotypes, for a minute there, I thought I wore my “inappropriate” t-shirt.

I guess I should mention that the friend hosting this party is Asian. There were 50 people there by the end of the event, I was one of three white people. The other two whiteys were a couple, with kids in tow. No wonder everyone was going up to the single white chick to fill this square.

My hosts had a number of snacks available for guests, one of these snacks was a cup of instant noodles. I walked into the kitchen to grab a drink when the other white girl stopped me and asked if I knew how to operate, what I can only describe as, the hot water maker.

No, it’s not a kettle. It’s a contraption I’ve never seen before. I uselessly mashed buttons and when I realized that I (still) had no idea, I said the first thing that came to mind.

I turned around and found an Asian girl standing nearby. I asked her if she knew how to operate the hot water maker. She did it without blinking an eye and made it look like second nature. I turned to the other white girl and said “See? You just asked the wrong person”.

She politely smiled and went about making her cup of noodle, all the while avoiding eye contact. Fuck. I made an ass of myself. Again. When I turned around, this guy I never met before was looking at me with a funny look on his face.

I was afraid I was going to be reprimanded.

I was really glad he was amused.

Like I said, most of the games were trivia and, for some reason, I tend to do fairly well at these. We had a “battle of the sexes” round, where all the girls go in a room and are asked questions that most guys would know the answers to and vice versa.

The girls had no idea. The last two questions were being asked, we hadn’t gotten one right and the pressure was mounting. We had to get at least one!

Q1: What does RAM stand for? I didn’t hesitate: “Random Access Memory!”. One point for the girls. We learned that the guys also had one point. Tie game. We had to get the next one.

Q2: Which movie involves a diamond heist where the men involved use nicknames based on colours? Again, I didn’t hesitate “Reservoir Dogs!!”. Because, ironically enough, having not seen that movie for years, I started watching it the night before. I didn’t make it through the entire movie, but I watched enough to learn the characters “nicknames” (Mr. White!) and that diamonds were involved.

So… we won! Suddenly I had a reputation; I carried my team.

The winning team got to pick an envelope; inside the envelope was “money”; the money could be used for purchasing something in an auction at the end. I raked in $222.

During the auction, people were out-bidding each other over $100-$150. I didn’t seem to care; I wasn’t even participating. Then the 5th prize came out – all the prizes were in gift bags so you didn’t know what you were going to get. I had a feeling about Bag E, so I bid $50; someone upped it to $60; I said $75; they said $80. Enough of this… $222!!

I got the prize. When I opened the gift bag I nearly peed myself from containing my laughter.

Most appropriate prize ever.

Adventures in Real Life Dating–part 3 (?)

I’ve brought you installments on real life dating stories in the past. Like NutJob & Cruper (who, incidentally, texted me on Boxing Day wishing me a Merry Christmas. Nearly 16 months since our one and only date. Nearly 16 months since I stopped responding to his texts. Nearly 16 months since I told him to leave me alone. Not that I’m keeping track or anything).

Well, I have a few more for you. (Just when you thought that I wouldn’t have any new stories because I quit POF).

First up:

This one isn’t really a dating story, but it could have been, so I’m going with it. I met him at a skytrain station well over a year ago (you meet all the “good ones” on public transit). He approached me and said “I just want to say that I think you’re cute and you have a really nice smile.”. I thanked him and we chatted a bit. I wasn’t sure if he was kind of drunk, or mildly retarded. He asked for my phone number. I didn’t have the heart to say no, so I gave him a fake number (not entirely fake, just the last few digits mixed around). Not one of my finer moments, but that’s what I did.

Two weeks later, I have a voicemail on my phone. It was from a guy that sounded either kind of drunk, or mildly retarded. I kid you not.

I shared this story with a friend at work, and he coined a nickname for the guy: my Autistic Stalker.

Fast forward a year. I was at the Salsa club a few months back when this guy approached me with a big old grin on his face. I didn’t think much of it; he looked familiar, so I figured he was going to ask me to dance. I just didn’t realize how I knew him. As soon as he opened his mouth I knew. He didn’t even have to finish his sentence. “I just want to say that I think you’re cute and you have a really nice smile.”. So it was his line…

Next up:

I met him at dance several months ago. I “affectionately” call him El Retardo. But don’t let the name fool you; he’s not Latino.

I met him, we danced, he hit on me and asked for my number. I gave it to him.  We ended up agreeing to meet the Sunday before I went to Thailand. It was the most annoying build up to a date ever.

We were supposed to meet at a coffee shop in the mall. The mall closed at 6pm, we were meeting at 8pm; when I told him and suggested another location, he dismissed it and said we would “figure it out”. I was a few minutes late and rolled into the parking lot he said he was in around 8:05; he was nowhere to be seen. He rolled in at least 20 minutes after I did. I was annoyed. Then we started driving around the mall parking lot trying to find some place to go. They were all closed. Didn’t see that one coming.

I decided to let it go and continued trying to find time to connect. I say “trying” because it would take weeks for us to be able to make plans. He was a flake at best. We would make plans for “tomorrow” and then he’d ask what day we were getting together. When I told him tomorrow, he’d ask for another day because he was confused and busy tomorrow.

Other times, he’d ask if I was available to meet on a Wednesday around 10am, even though I repeatedly told him I work Mon-Fri dayshift. Then there were the times he’d ask me to meet him that night; I wouldn’t respond right away because I was at work and hadn’t gotten the text. When I would respond saying “Sure, when and where?”, I would get a response saying that I took too long to respond so he made other plans, accepted a shift at work, or went swimming and is tired now.

I had put him into the friend zone weeks earlier because I was tired of dealing with that bullshit, yet, he kept trying to make plans with me so that we could “figure us out”.

Eventually, we had plans to meet to figure us out; he indicated that he made plans before we were supposed to meet (like the quality gentleman he is) and was going to be a little late. Like at least an hour late. I’d already made plans for after and told him that being an hour late was too late. I never heard from him again. Really looking forward to that awkward moment when we’re both at the Salsa club at the same time.

Last up:

Shorty. You might remember him from my last post. He repeatedly told me that he liked dancing with me and wanted to “be my friend”. He gave me his business card because he happens to be a mechanic and told me that he’d help me if I ever had car trouble. Not a bad friend to have, so when he asked for my number, I gave it to him, even though I knew I’d be having the “friend talk” sooner rather than later.

The night after we met, he texted me and asked if I was going to go dancing. I said maybe and asked where he was going. He was going to dance at a hotel in Surrey (ironically, Thailand’s hotel). Between not wanting to give Shorty the wrong idea, being tired and also not wanting to face the awkwardness of running into Thailand (especially with a little munchkin following me around); I declined his invitation.

The next day, Shorty texted me and asked how I was doing. I asked him how dancing was on Saturday night. He said “All good. But I missed you…”

Seriously? You miss the girl that you met two days ago?? Looks like I’ve got another one on my hands. The only silver-lining to this one is the fact that he doesn’t speak much English. How is that a plus? Purely from an entertainment stand-point; getting texts like these ESL gems:

“Has dance classes is good”

“Salsa has an inquiry to please as we dance”

“You do on the job”

“And who did you do today?”

Your Mama!!! … … oh wait… that doesn’t really work as ThatWhiteGirl’s response.

“Santa” is an asshole… and so am I

A few weeks back I came across a funny ecard on facebook, so I shared it on my wall.

I believe my caption was “Glad I’ve been good”. My mom saw the post and commented saying something along the lines of “I’m sure you’ll get a CD”. I responded with “Mommmmmmm. Noooooooooooo!”.

Fast forward to yesterday. I received my Christmas package in the mail from my mom. In it, was a present from “Santa”.

And yes, I am 32 years old.

I burst out laughing because, if you can’t tell by the picture, it’s very CD-shaped. So I took a picture, posted it on facebook and tagged my mom to get a reaction out of her. I also tagged “Nickelback sucks A$$” in the same picture.

All at the same time, my mom sends me an email:

Mom: The package is at your front door.

TWG: Thanks – I got it!

Mom: You can open the one from Santa…

TWG: I’m pretty sure I already know what it is.

Mom: Really?

TWG: Yes!

Mom: How?

TWG: … … I tagged a picture of you… (keeping in mind this was all in the FB inbox)

Mom: You did! LOL

*she calls me because emailing isn’t good enough*

Mom: I saw your picture! It’s cute!

TWG: Thought you’d like it.

Mom: But how do you know what it is??

TWG: Did you see who else was tagged in the photo?

Mom: No…. … hold on, I’ll look … … …. Nickelback Sucks… Oh.

I could hear the disappointment in her voice.

Not only is “Santa” an asshole, I just ruined Christmas for my mother. Shit.

Weekend Summary

I haven’t done one of these posts in awhile. Mostly because a lot of my stories have been standalones, or if they need back stories, I can put links in to old posts. This one requires me to tell the back story(ies). Here goes…

I went dancing Friday night; I hadn’t been to this place for a couple months… Turns out people noticed because I kept getting “Hey – haven’t seen you in awhile” comments. I guess it’s better than “What do you mean, you haven’t been around?”.

One of the dudes I was dancing with told me that the same organizer was having another party down the road the following night. He even mentioned the words “live band”, which gets me going every time.

Naturally, the following night, I found myself in the same area looking for the dance party that my partner alluded to. It wasn’t there. Completely defeated, I decided to go back home; a quick search of the internet yielded unsatisfactory results. I decided to go to a pub nearby and watch the live band there.

I’ve been to this pub once or twice before and I may or may not have met a friend that likes to dance with me. As it turns out, my friend was there. There was also another dude that was willing to dance with me, so between the two of them, I spent a considerable amount of time on the dance floor. Not a total loss

The first guy, Old Dave, is someone that I’ve chatted with several times. A few months ago, he asked me if my mom has the same hair as me. I told him that she does not; he told me that he knows a lady that works at the local legion that has the exact same hair as I do. Apparently we look very, very similar.

So, we saw last call at this pub and Old Dave suggested that we go down the road to another pub that is open later. I agreed. We went to the next pub, danced to the live band that was still playing and had another drink.

Last call had come and gone and we were getting ready to leave. Out of nowhere, this young guy walked up to me and said “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I just had to come up and tell you this…”

To which, Old Dave piped up and said “Do you mean Bonnie?”. Of course he did, and the two of them got into just how much we look alike. I think he could tell I was slightly horrified. It may have been the look on my face, or it could have been the fact that I said repeatedly “I can’t believe I look like his MOM!”.

He reassured me that I look like buddy’s mom, but 30 years younger. He kept telling me that the resemblance is uncanny; he said that if I saw his friend’s mom, I’d agree. He said it was really weird because now he knows what dude’s Mom looked like when she was young. And just as I’d come to terms with it:

And that’s how I came to have my picture taken, with two young men, in a bar, like a fricken celebrity.

A celebrity that looks just like someone’s mom.

Fuck my life.

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.

Awkward conversations with my dad and beyond...

I've been single for awhile now, immediately after getting out of my long-term relationship, I moved in with my dad because I couldn't find a place that would accept my 100+lb companion (a.k.a. rottweiller). Within months of living with my dad, he started making comments about being a grandfather. He really wanted to be a grandfather (and still does).

I tried to tell him that I was in no position to bear children:

1. I was single and therefore would be a single mother (not desirable)


2. I was living with him and therefore would be a single mother living with her father (even less desirable)


3. I had a lot of emotional baggage and therefore would always be a single mother living with her father (pretty much the worst thing that could happen)

For some reason, these reasons were mere excuses to my dad; he said no man would ever be good enough for me anyway and I could stay as long as I wanted. Backfired. I continued to tell him that it wasn't going to happen anytime soon and that he should talk to my brother (who is older than me and in a long term relationship). He wasn't convinced. He continues to bug me.

Since then, Dad has become the high-pressure salesman of the family; he has even recruited Bev into the business. At least monthly I get questioned about whether or not there is someone in my life; about whether or not I'm any closer to bearing children. When I respond with my automatic "No, Dad, there is no guy", the response I get is "Well, you don't have to be married you know.... you can just get knocked up...". Thanks for that.

This has been going on for several years. I keep saying "No, I'm not seeing anyone", "No, I don't have a boyfriend", "No, there is no guy"... But then, I started thinking that maybe I was giving off the wrong vibe; maybe my dad thinks I'm a nun, maybe he thinks I'm a lesbian. Neither of which is the look I'm going for.

Bev & I went out for lunch a several months back and she questioned whether or not I was seeing anyone. I quickly responded with my standard "No" but then decided to elaborate a bit. I attract crazy fucking guys, so I told her about my (most recent) stalker, in hopes that she would drop it. She sympathized with me and agreed that I needed to do better than that. Whew.

A few months later, I was at my dad's house getting tanked with him when he decided to broach the subject with me. He asked if there were any guys in my life. I was nanoseconds away from saying "No, Dad, no guys..." when I decided to give him a bit more of a response. I said "Okay, it's not like there aren't any guys... there are guys... but the guy that I'm a whore with isn't the guy I bring home for Christmas dinner.. you know? They don't cross over for me, so until I find a guy that I'm thinking of bringing home for dinner, you're not going to hear about them." If I wasn't shit-faced, it would have been an awkward-ass conversation. Thank god for alcohol.

But then he turned around and said "Oh I'm glad... so, you're not a prude! Your sex life is good, then?". Awkward. Alcohol be damned, at that moment, I kinda wished he still thought I was a nun. Since I've opened this can of worms, I've decided to lie in the bed I made and try to keep them up to date with the goings-on in my life. I told Bev about the potential guys that have cropped up out of this Salsa dancing fiasco (Thailand*, DanceClass* and DanceClub* being the main ones). At first I thought this would help, but now I'm pretty sure it's just given them newfound hope.

Recently, I was over for dinner; my dad went downstairs and within seconds of him being gone Bev piped up with "I've been sitting here in suspense... Have you heard anything from Thailand yet?". Oh my god... I kinda wished she still thought I was a nun.

For the past few weeks I had no idea why everyone I knew kept asking me about Thailand. Why is everyone so hung up on Thailand? What about the other guys I've been talking about? And then I was talking with my good friend, Dave; he made some mention about me being smitten with Thailand. I tried denying it, but even to my ears it sounded transparent. Prior to this conversation we had only talked about the Salsa-itos once; it was a fairly brief conversation, yet he seemed to know things I didn't know.

So, I asked him how he knew such things. He said that my voice changed when I talked about Thailand compared to the other guys I had mentioned in the same sitting. He said that when you really know a person, you can hear the difference in their voice when they're just talking about someone they know and when they're talking about someone they like. He mentioned words like "happy" and "junior high". It was embarrassing.

But also a bit eye-opening. I said "Oh... that explains a lot..."; he asked what exactly it explained. I said that I've mentioned Thailand and the others to multiple people over the past few weeks, but anytime anyone asks me about any of it, it's always the same question "So... when does Thailand come back?".

Son of a bitch... Everybody can tell I'm smitten with Thailand.

(*names have been changed to protect their identity)

You would blog too if it happened to you

I wrote a post awhile back with tips on how to get more traffic to your blog. Most of which I wasn't doing, because I'm blog-shy. And the rest were things I made up. Maybe not entirely, but it definitely wasn't very helpful. One of the points I made was that some people make business cards with their URL on them and hand them out. I was skeptical as to who would do such a thing and then promptly received a comment from another blogger that admitted to doing it.

:O <---Insert foot here

Although I haven't looked back at that post to see if I've started doing any of those things, I can tell you for sure that I have done one thing. Okay, I didn't make up business cards, but I did hand out my blog address to someone I met in a mall*. He ended up reading it and the next time I saw him at the mall* he told me what he thought about my posts. He said he read my blog three times, but I think he probably read one post three times, because let's face it, not many people have that kind of dedication.

Also, someone from facebook recently posted something about their blog and instead of not saying anything and wondering what she wrote about, I invited her to be blog-buddies. I'm pretty sure I used those exact words. Clearly, I've made strides in overcoming my blog-shyness. And although I have a lot of room for improvement, I thought you would be proud of me that I took this one, very small, step to being a serious blogger.

Okay, fine, more of a serious blogger.

A long time ago, I was reading a blog and the author admitted in a new post that she wrote a post awhile back and then buried it in older posts in hopes that no one would read it. Ultimately, she linked the new post to the buried post, but I couldn't help but wonder who would do that. I mean, if you're going to write something, write it. And if you don't want anyone to read it, then don't post it. Seems simple enough, right.

And then I turned around and did the exact same thing. I wrote a post and then less than 12 hours later I decided I needed to bury it so that it wasn't the first thing you read when you logged on. And then less than 12 hours after that I realized that it was a dumb-shit thing to do and promptly unpublished it. Now it's sitting there in my drafts mocking me for not having the courage to post it. And now, if I decide to post it, I'll have to rewrite it so that the "yesterday's and today's" are replaced with "two weeks ago", or else, post it in chronological order, thereby burying it once again.

I guess I didn't take that many steps out of my blog-shyness as I thought.

*I said "mall" but I meant "bar"


Update - I realized that burying the post is dumb. Here it is.  Thanks for your supportive comments.

I'm not as dumb as I look, but thanks for coming out

I see what's going on here. I get it. It's really obvious, now that I think about it.

You're playing me for a fool. But I'm on to you.

You "just so happen" to notice me sitting at the bar that Saturday night. You "just so happen" to come out multiple times throughout my short stay. You "just so happen" to be in the ballroom when I change venues. You "just so happen" to tell the bartender without uttering a single word that I do not have to pay for my own drink. You "just so happen" to sit down next to me and talk to me. You "just so happen" to determine that I'm there alone and waiting for no one. You "just so happen" to have time to get to know me over the blaring Latin beats while you're supposed to be working. You "just so happen" to have a business card in your pocket with your cell phone number scribbled on the back. You "just so happen" to give it to me. You "just so happen" to tell me that you want me to use it. You "just so happen" to make an appearance in the ballroom repeatedly, seemingly staying there just until I notice you and leaving shortly thereafter.

It "just so happens" that I decided to step foot into that bar that night; a bar I'd never been to, a bar I wasn't sure existed. It "just so happens" I noticed you when I was sipping my drink. It "just so happens" I felt butterflies in my stomach as I watched you approach my table. It "just so happens" I wished that you would pull up a chair and sit next to me while you were standing there talking to me. It "just so happens" that I felt happy when you did and disappointed when you pushed back from the table to leave. It "just so happens" that I was flattered when you gave me your phone number. It "just so happens" that I wanted to thank you for the third time. It "just so happens" that I looked around for you at the end of the night and couldn't find you. It "just so happens" that I decided to message you like you suggested.

You "just so happen" to respond. You "just so happen" to mention that you would like to see me again. You "just so happen" to be leaving for a month, exactly one week after that fateful night.

A month can be a long time. A lot can happen. In a month, I can either forget about you completely, or think about you constantly. It can go either way, really.

In a mere six days you made sure which way it was going to go. In a mere six days, you "just so happen" to infiltrate my life. In a mere six days, you "just so happen" to become a constant fixture; filling a role no one has occupied for longer than I care to mention.

I think there are way too many "just so happens" for it all to be a coincidence. Clearly this is part of your plan. You wanted to meet me. You wanted to make an impression on me. You wanted me to absorb as much of you as I could "before you left".

Congratulations, your plan worked. Your actions and your words clearly indicate your intentions. You want me to miss you. You want me to come running when you get back.

Congratulations, your plan worked. I've known you for nine days. I laid eyes on you three times in the week you were here. Despite that, it's been two days since you left and I miss you already. How did this happen? And then it hits me. It's all part of your plan.

But I'm onto you. I realize that it's all a ruse. Your "going away party" was a nice touch. Well played, sir, but I don't need the month… you can "come back from Thailand" now.

Where's Waldo?

I keep swearing to myself that I will write a post that does not involve dancing. It's hard because it's all I think about lately. That's why I haven't posted anything. So, I'm left with writing about random things that have happened to me lately. I know how much you love those.

I got a new camera. I'm really fricken pleased with it, even though I haven't had much of a chance to really test it out. I'm waiting on a case before I start taking it out of the house. With this new camera, I've been reminded about how much there is to know about photography and how I don't know about any of it. Oh well, such is life, good-a-time as any to start learning.

I recently bought a new top that looks good... until I start moving. Then the neck line starts moving up until the part that's supposed to cover my boobs is choking me. I decided that I was going to fix this problem by adding in an elastic band to try and prevent the upward migration. Three hours later, I was reminded that I'm not very good at sewing. Luckily, I'm very good at undoing sewing, so I'm left with the top as it was when I bought it... well, with a few thousand extra holes of course.

I had my brother over today; we went out for lunch and spent several hours catching up. Which was really nice; it's been awhile since we've been able to do that. The first thing he does when he walked in the door was say "I have something for you" and then he dropped three packages of 'ResoraLAX' onto my coffee table 'just in case'. Um. Thanks.

I'm not that into Christmas decorating, but decided to go all out** this year, since I was having people over for dinner. It's almost February and my decorations are still up. In my defense, I'm not turning them on anymore.

Several months ago, I gave myself a goal to write 600 word posts, four days a week. I went full-on-strong for the first six weeks or so and since then have petered out. I no longer count words and don't post nearly four times a week. So in an effort to not drop the ball, I'm changing my goal post to twice a week and however many words I want.

This will hopefully limit the amount of posts like this one that I put up. Fear not, they will still exist. I'm not changing my personality after all. It might be a good idea to post consistently on certain days, but it also might lead to giant failure on my part, again. So, let's say I'm going to post on Sundays and Wednesdays and if I don't, I'll do it some other day, I swear.

I think that's about all I got for this random post. I'm sure I could come up with something else to say, but it wouldn't be nearly as interesting as writing about cameras, clothes or constipation medication.

Until next time... See ya folks!

 

**"All out" includes a 3ft Christmas tree, two sets of lights, a stocking and a Santa hat.

Hey - you don't believe in wearing sweat pants out of the house... some of us like to have a good time!!

I'm chronically honest. I am pretty much incapable of lying. Why? I don't really know. It makes me feel like I'm deceiving people and the guilt brings me down. I'm truely honest to a fault. Luckily, that, however, is my only fault.

When I was growing up, my mom always told me that if I lied about something I would get in more trouble than if I told the truth in the first place. Because she would find out if I lied. At the time, I thought this was complete bullshit. Ya right, Mom, you're going to ground me, regardless. As I've gotten older, I've come to realize that she was right (just don't tell her I said that!). Do something wrong and admit your mistake and the other person involved will appreciate your honesty (although will still be disappointed). Lie, and they find out, well now, that's grounds for dismissal. Or so I assume. I really haven't found myself in that situation before. Why? Because the guilt brings me down and I always fess up before anyone has any opportunity to 'find anything out'.

However, every so often, I decide that my guilt complex has held me back far too much in life and I throw caution to the wind and do dishonest things. So far, Karma, Murphy's Law and/or the Spite Gods have struck me down everytime I decide this is a good idea... thrusting me back into my "honest to a fault" default. Bastards.

A few weeks ago, I was celebrating my birthday. I went to a pub and got nice and liquored up and then decided to go to a club to dance... well, the club was one skytrain stop away. I get to the station and go towards the ticket machine with the intention of paying (because not paying would be dishonest!)... and my friend says "We don't really have to pay, do we? I mean, it's one stop!"... and I started to say "Oh, yes, yes, we do." But then I said "You know what, it's my birthday and I don't have to pay on my birthday, let's go!!!".

We start riding the escalator up to the platform, I felt pretty confident... and then the guilt started getting to me. Halfway up the escalator, I turned to my friend and whispered "...There's a cop... at the top...". Her response: "No there isn't. You're paranoid". So as the escalator reached the top, I see a lady standing there, in a uniform that can only be described as cop-like. She looked me in the eye and said "Ticket, please".

I didn't know what to do. I couldn't tell her the truth and say I didn't have one... so I start searching, in vain, through my empty pockets, even going so far as to open my coat and look inside...

...as if I'm one of those "street vendors" that carries watches inside the coat, but instead of watches it's valid train passes. There weren't any. My friend looks her straight in the eye and says "I'm drunk. I didn't think to buy one" so the nice lady says "Okay well, go and buy one". So we did. No harm, no foul. Things don't always work out like that.

I go to school. I go to school in the evenings basically next door to my work. I park at work, because it's free. But the other day, I was really running late so I decide to park at school. I mean, I was running so late, I had to eat my dinner in the car. Not too bad, everyone eats while driving right? Ya, sure. But my dinner was a pork chop. I'm serious.

Anyway, a friend of mine goes to school with me and she tells me that for the past 9 weeks she's been parking at school and she doesn't buy a ticket because she figures that the stall has been paid for for the day. And she hasn't gotten a ticket so far, so she figures her logic is sound. So when I decided to park at school, that was my thought process.

However, when I parked, I realized that would be dishonest, so I should just pay for a ticket. But I had like 50 cents in cash and parking is $4. I could put it on my VISA, but that seems like an ordeal and I'm running late, so I'll just throw caution to the wind and go to class. Afterwards, I come out and see a little something on my windshield. Dammit.

I owe $57.70 for parking illegally; $47.10 if I pay within 7 days. All that because I was running short on time (heaven forbid I'm almost late for class!) and didn't have cash. I did go there with the intent to park illegally, but then the guilt brought me down and I was going to pay, but all those other circumstances forced me to be dishonest. Bam!! Spite-God-Powers initiated.

Moral of the story, it's a bit easier (and cheaper) just to fricken pay. Why? Because there won't always be a nice skytrain cop at the top that's willing to accept "I'm drunk" as a reason for dishonesty.

Big thanks to "EliseArt" for providing illustrations