What's my age again?

If I buy a whole cake, I will eat a whole cake. Maybe not in one sitting and maybe not in one day. But guaranteed I will eat too much cake for too many days in a row, just to be sure that one morsel doesn't 'go bad'.

It's a problem for me; one that I've come to terms with, one I've had to accept and one I've learned to conquer.

I deal with this problem with sheer avoidance. I don't buy cake. I don't buy ice cream. I don't buy cookies. At least, not very often... I mean, a girl's gotta eat, right? If I don't keep it in the house, I won't eat it. Works every time... Except...

Every so often, I get a hankering for something sweet, really sweet; fruit, PB&J, cinnamon toast, or any of my usual go-to's don't do the job. This is a thirst for sweetness can't be quenched by anything except far too much really bad food.

Since I don't like buying that kind of food, I don't keep it in the house. And I don't want to break one of my rules, so I'm left to satisfy my needs by eating food that I already have. It's a vicious cycle that has resulted in me making ramdon concoctions.

I have two favorites; they're basically the same treat, just different variations. If I have plain yogurt in the house, I like to add a bit of sugar and vanilla and put fruit on top. If I have frozen berries in my freezer, I like to heat them up slightly to make the topping. If I don't have any berries, I'll take an apple, cut it up, saute it and make a caramel sauce. In a pinch, I've been known to eat this without of yogurt.

Then there's caramel popcorn, which is what I do when I don't have any apples.

Last night, out of sheer desperation, I whipped up a rice krispie square - melted marshmallows, vanilla and Fibre1 cereal. Because Fibre1 cereal was the closest thing to a treat in my cupboards. That and marshmallows, apparently.

Tonight, I got home, made dinner and ate it. Despite making a good meal, I felt the all too familiar sense that it wasn't quite enough. I knew I was going to want more sweet things. I did a quick mental inventory and realized that I had used all the Fibre1 cereal. Dammit.

I had to think of something fast. I had to get something sweet. I racked my brain on figuring out the easiest way of getting candy on a night like this.

I trick or treated at George's house. He got a kick out of it.

I got 3 cookies and 3 bite size chocolate bars.

All Hallow's Eve

This post is about my favorite Halloween. This was not a Halloween that took place when I was a small child, knocking on people's doors, looking for candy. No, no. This Halloween took place 2 years ago.

I was invited to a house party by a colleague; I often went to his house for his Halloween parties. I am often at a loss as to what to dress up as; this year was no different. One day I was walking through WalMart to purchase motor oil, as I was passing by the women's plus size clothing department, something caught my eye. It was a bright red cloak. My first thought: Little Red Riding Hood!!

I scooped up the cloak and tried to find something else to wear with it. I came across a nightgown that would do the trick. I quickly came to the realization that I'd need more than a red cloak and a nightie to pull off the costume. I needed a basket. Luckily, I had just bought a wicker basket; I put on a fake lid, fed a purse strap through and voila - picnic basket!!

The picnic basket ended up being quite convenient, I used it to carry my keys, wallet and alcohol as well as used it as something to prop my drink on when my hand grew heavy and/or cold. But more than that, I wanted the basket to be filled with things; funny things, interesting things. But I had no idea what those things could be; and then it dawned on me.

My friend always tells me that I have a lot of feelings. Partially because I'm a girl, but also because I'm me and he likes to point out my foibles. He says that because I have so many feelings they form a bundle. Even though I try to wrap my arms around them, I can't hold onto them all; there are just too many. I try, but there they are spilling out of my grasp and falling all over the place.

Maybe they wouldn't be spilling all over, getting dropped on the ground if I had something to put them in. Like a basket, perhaps.

I started making a list of things that I could put in my basket; things that represent feelings. I put a soft, plush stuffy in there, a rock hard piece of marble, something pokey, something smooth. I put pictures in there for nostalgia and various other things. I was pretty excited to present this joke to him.

I got ready for the party and walked out my door, just as a coyote trotted off my porch, down my driveway and into my alley. It scared the shit out of me, but I couldn't help but burst out laughing.

I arrived at my friend's house and was partaking in the party; eating some food, drinking some drinks, chatting people up etc etc. No one asked me what was in my basket. Not even my friend and he's pretty snoopy. I waited, I even made a point to take things out and put things in right in front of him.

He still didn't ask, so I said "Aren't you going to ask me what's in my basket?"; I guess he hadn't realized that it was full of stuff. "Oh sure!" he said; he was pretty excited. That made me happy.

I started extracting out my items, pointing out the feeling associated with it. "Here's my soft stuffed animal, this is my hard marble, these are nostalgic pictures from my childhood...." He looked at every item, laughed where appropriate but I could tell he wasn't getting it. So I said "Do you get it?". He said "Yeah, you have things in your basket, I get it". I said "No, do you get it ?". He could tell that I was trying to drive home a point and he was clueless; he admitted as much.

I went through the items again, making each feeling really, really, clear. He still didn't get it. I said "Oh come on! They're feelings!!!". The look of realization that crossed his face was worth it. He burst out laughing and said that my costume was officially the best costume he'd ever seen. He also congratulated me on being such a good sport.

Happy Halloween Everyone!!

Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don't

So I met this guy on the internet. It was about a year ago, which turns out is the exact amount of time that I needed to pass in order to be able to tell this story. Not too long that it's no longer fresh and I'm forgetting things, but at the same time not too soon that it's still embarrassing. I've alluded to this post a couple/few times in the past and low and behold, here's the post in all it's glory.

So.... I met this guy on the internet. He will forever be known as NutJob. Why? Because he was a complete and utter NutJob.

We met online and quickly (maybe too quickly) decided the phone was the best medium to converse. My first impression of him was that he was very energetic and had a lot to say. I thought he was eager. Turns out, he was, at the very least, slightly mentally unstable.

We were supposed to meet up at the local mall because he had some business there and it was close to my work. However, my job can be unpredictable and I can pull 10hr days at the drop off a hat. That day was no exception. I should have taken it as a sign.

I texted him a couple hours before we were supposed to meet to tell him I was going to be working late. I told him not to wait around at the mall and to make his way home and I'd meet him in his neighbourhood, to make up for the inconvenience.

I ended up picking him up at his place. He was a little too familiar.

I should have taken it as a sign.

He asked if we could swing by his mom's place before we went for coffee. Don't worry, it's like 5 minutes away. I said sure. We start driving and he's all "Turn left, turn right, go straight". I asked where his mother lived exactly. He responded with "Oh, she's up at the mall." The mall we were supposed to meet at a couple hours ago. The mall that was nearly half an hour away. I thought (and said out loud) "Going to the mall twice today... big day..."

Nope - he decided not to go earlier so that I could drive him. I should have turned around or dropped him off on the side of the road. To this day, I don't know why I didn't.

We met up with Mom at the restaurant that she was waiting at to get a table. Yes... we. He would not take "No, I'll wait in the car" for an answer. So we meet up with her and they take care of their business.

What business? Well, picking up his rent money, of course. Turns out that he's 35 years old and can't manage his money very well, so his mommy takes his rent money from his welfare check and holds onto it until it's due so he doesn't spend it. And so she doesn't have to pay his rent for him.

To top it off, since we're in a restaurant and all, he thought it would be a good idea if we had dinner there. I didn't think it was a good idea, mostly because I didn't want to have dinner with him... or his mom, but also because...

Are you fucking kidding me? He tried to convince his mother to buy the dinner for us. When she refused, he asked for "at least an appetizer". I jumped in and said thanks, but no thanks, nice to meet you, see you later. I was mortified.

I started driving him home and he asked me asked if I could do something for him before I took off. Okay... what is it?

Are you fucking kidding me?

I told him that I forgot my purse at home, he asked how I was planning on paying for our coffees if I didn't bring money; he scoffed and asked if I actually expected him to pay. Um, yeah, its coffee. He wanted me to go back to my house to pick up my purse so we could go. I said that wasn't necessary.

He got upset because we were supposed to go on a date and it's not a date unless we go to some sort of dining establishment. I said we met, we talked, we met Mom, we drove around for an hour, we're done. He said that he's pretty clairvoyant and he can tell I'm not having a good time. That's not being clairvoyant, that's being moderately aware of other people's feelings/body language/annoyance spewing out of them.

He got upset that I was just taking him home. He didn't understand what went wrong. He thought we agreed. On what, I asked. On having a relationship - it's what we both want. I said that I want a relationship and he wants a relationship, but that doesn't mean we're going to have a relationship with each other. He wanted to know why.

Namely, he wants a sugar-mama and I want someone with a job. I didn't realize I had such high standards. He moped for the remainder of the car ride. I pulled up to his house and wished him a good night.

Are you fucking kidding me?

The worst part is, this post isn't even the tip of the iceberg with this guy... he also told me he loved me. He also was a complete spazz that nearly punched out my window when he tried to throw a CD out of the car, when the window was closed. He told me that he's on disability because he can't hold down a job. He told me that when he goes out, he often gets in situations where the cops are called. For no reason; he wasn't even doing anything.

He told me that his mother is a lesbian and he was always lacking a male influence in his life and he's very sensitive for a guy. And clairvoyant. He told me that he was a result of a one-night stand when his mom decided to try out for the other team to see what it was like. She looked at him with such distain that I could see that she wished she'd stuck with the ladies.

I still don't think I've hit all the highlights. There are probably tonnes more things that I have simply blocked out. What I do know is, it was the longest hour of my life.

 

 

Big thanks to EliseArt for providing illustrations!

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.

Granny was a peeping Tom

Growing up, Granny had a friend that lived down the road; his name was Ray, but Granny always lovingly referred to him as Old Ray.

I think this nickname came about because I always suspected that Granny and Ray were boyfriend and girlfriend and when I would confront Granny on the subject, she would always scoff and say "Me & Old Ray?! Nooo...." Looking back, I'm fairly sure they were doing it. *shudder*

There are many things that I remember about Ray. If I was riding my bike, or walking down the sidewalk, or playing in the yard and Ray drove by, he'd do the same thing every time. He'd throw his arms up in the air and drive past without touching the steering wheel.

I always got a kick out of it, which is probably why he kept doing it. In fact, I thought he was magical. I didn't really know how cars worked.

Every time I saw him and asked how he was, he'd say that he was good, because it was his birthday. The first day, I happily wished him a happy birthday. The second day, I told him that his birthday was the day before. By the third day, I became skeptical. Even at such a young age, I was convinced he was trying to put one past me.

When I confronted him on the issue, he informed me that every day was his birthday. I didn't believe him, I told him that birthday's only happen once a year, so his birthday can't be every day. Then he would ask me when my birthday was.

I couldn't answer his question. I didn't really know how birthdays worked.

This conversation occurred again and again and again, until one day I finally asked Granny when my birthday was. The next time we had the conversation, I felt triumphant - I knew the answer. When I told him, he simply said "Too bad your birthday is only on May 10th... mine is every day".

He taught be about circular logic and how sometimes you can never win an argument.

But more than anything, the thing I remember about Ray the most, and the thing I think about every time I hear his name or think of him, is this story that Granny told me as a little girl.

One day, Old Ray was over visiting; at one point, he excused himself to go to the bathroom. Granny got up and walked past the bathroom and discovered that he left the door slightly ajar. Since Granny was a nosy busybody, she couldn't let an opportunity such as this pass.

She creeped up to the bathroom door and peeked inside. She would always laugh when she told this story because she saw things that she would never forget. Not that way, you sick fucks. In order to make an impression on a small child, first you must explain how things normally work and then tell them how this story is different than normal, and thus, how this story is funny.

She explained to me that when boys go piddle, they just shake the pee off their junk and go on their merry way. Not Ray. When he finished peeing, Granny was expecting the standard shake off and for him to turn around and wash his hands. Not Ray.

After he finished going pee, he tore off one square of toilet paper, gently folded it in half and then wiped any residual urine off his wiener. Granny said she'd never seen anything like it before, and I'm willing to bet she peeked in on anyone dumb enough to leave a door open in her presence.

That is what I think about when I think of Ray. And that's what I think about when I see one square of toilet paper lying around somewhere.

Hoisted by my own petard

Yet another post about Foosball. God, I love that game. There are a few people that I play with at work: Gorm, of course; EliseArt, naturally; The Genius and The Kicker. Whenever I play with these folks (usually two against two; or me & The Kicker vs Gorm), we play a game or two (or sometimes three) and call it quits.

However, when Gorm & I play one-on-one, we have our own little game. We call it The Game. It's very exciting. It also has a very original name. The rules are like every other game of foosball we play, but there are a few exceptions.

The regular rules:

1) No spinning of the rods

2) The middlemen on both teams have to touch the ball before the game starts

3) No scoring from the middlemen

4) The team that gets to 10 first, wins

The rules for The Game:

1) No spinning of the rods

2) The middlemen on both teams have to touch the ball before the game starts

3) Gorm is not allowed to score from the middlemen; any shot Heather gets past Gorm counts

4) The game ends when Heather gets to 10

5) The game score is the number of goals that Gorm gets before Heather gets to 10

6) Heather wins when she gets to 10

7) Gorm wins if Heather does not see The Game through and doesn't get to 10

Even though the rules are catered to me and allow me a greater chance of winning, Gorm still wins. A lot. Despite my temper tantrums, we diligently play The Game at least once week. In the few months that we've been doing this, I've made serious strides. I've also made a graph. I wouldn't be a scientist if I didn't have evidence.

The first time we played The Game, we played for an hour and a half before I got to 10; Gorm had 134pts. Even though "I won", it was a low point in my life. Since then, Gorm has given me lessons and pure practice and sheer determination has helped me achieve lower game scores.

*disclaimer* When I told Gorm that I was going to make a spreadsheet to tabulate the results, I told him that I was going to put only the high scores in, he said that was fine, it's my spreadsheet after all. Yesterday, I reminded him of this and he called me a bad name. I can't recall what it was, but the impression I got was that I should be plotting all the scores. I'm not going to.

The second entry had a game score of 73, which is nearly half of the original score. I believe this was actually the second game we played, since I don't remember ever going above 134. And I don't remember having a tantrum and walking away (that started happening as I got better at the game. Go figure).

Next was 53, followed by a 52. I was certain that I was plateau-ing and would never break 50. This is when I started walking away from the game. If Gorm hits 54, I lose it; I Hulk out and toss every table in my wake.

Unfortunately, one poor soul has the misfortune of witnessing this escapade EVERY TIME! Every time I say "I'm done! I don't want to play this game anymore - I hate you!!!!", I turn around and see this guy standing there. The next time he catches me at the foosball table, he says "I thought you weren't playing this game anymore, Heather??" It's pretty funny, except for how much he catches me whining and throwing a tantrum.

Anyway, I broke 50 with an all-time low game score of 28. This was a big moment in my life. I was reveling in my win. I was really pleased with myself.

And then Gorm asked if I wanted to play again. I might lower my score even more. Being that I was delirious from the foosball high I was on, I accepted. Only to fail miserably. Gorm hit 54, I tossed tables and stormed off. "Oh, hello, Tom, I didn't see you there."

Yesterday, I got to 22. When I got my final goal, I yelled out (it may or may not have been really loud) "Twenty-fucking-two!!! Yeah!!!!!!". As I was turning around, the poor janitor behind me turns around with a shocked look on his face. I see the judgment, but that didn't stop me from doing a happy dance.

Gorm, again, convinced me that I should play again. I might lower my score. I'm on a roll. And then he got 54.

Mother. Fucker.

I'm so consistently inconsistent, it blows my mind. Or maybe that's the dramatic shift in blood pressure. Not sure.

The Big Bang Theory

I mentioned that I've been working like crazy. Here's how my days are shaping up lately. I wake up (usually late), I feel tired/shitty/sick, I drag myself out of bed/house and go to work. While there, I run around in a decapitated chicken like manner. After far too many hours of not eating, working too much and losing at foosball, I head home, gorge myself on whatever is accessible (pizza, vodka, whatever) and head to bed.

Of course, Murphy's Law kicks in and no matter how tired I was all day (or even moments before), as soon as I get in bed, I start thinking about all the things I need to do the next day. Inevitably, it gets later and later yet my brain keeps churning away.

Eventually, I decide I might as well be doing something and pick up my book and start reading. Even though it's an alright book and even though I'm enjoying it, switching gears from reality to fantasy is enough to make me fall asleep.

I wake up shortly after with the book on my chest and the light still on. I shut everything off and then have a hard time falling back asleep. I toss and turn and think about all the things I need to do. No wonder I'm waking up feeling tired/shitty/sick every morning.

Last night was no exception to this sequence of events. Except... instead of waking up with the book on my chest, something else woke me. It took me awhile to realize what had done it, since I was in a semi-dream state; a little disoriented. That's when I heard it. And it was loud. My neighbour having sex right above me.

It wasn't just a little loud; it was really loud. And it wasn't just a little bit of sex, it was a lot of sex. Okay, it wasn't that much because it only lasted about 7 minutes. But still. Quite the rude awakening, let's say. But like all things, there's always the silver lining.

The funny thing about all of this, is not the fact that it took me two hours to fall back asleep. No, no. You see, the people that lived above me before, were heavy walkers and bathroom talkers. I assumed those two factors were the reason I could hear them. All. The. Time.

In the nearly 5 years that they lived above me, I never once heard them have sex. I kinda thought that maybe the house was actually insulated (or at least the portion of ceiling between the bedrooms), and the only reason they drove me insane was because they're heel-walkers and like to have conversations with each other while one is in the bathroom and the other is in the kitchen.

Granted, my old neighbours were a good, Christian, couple. So naturally, they don't enjoy sex at all. But still. To go from hearing nothing, to being woken up and hearing that, was a bit of a shock to the system. I'm really glad she's not into tantric.

It's so pointy

Okay, my last post was so unlike me and I've been told it was 'pretty sappy'.

In my brain, I replaced the word 'pretty' with 'really' and 'sappy' with 'shitty'. Fear not, my faithful readers, posts about syphilis are not far behind; I'll be back in the saddle soon enough. (There's a joke in there somewhere).

I've been working like crazy and it's been tough to devote the time necessary to write posts when my pile of dirty laundry is sky-high (on the floor of my room, not in the common laundry room, like some jerks) and my kitchen is a mess. But, due to a migraine, I left work after a mere 9 hours today and got home in time to tackle the sty I call my house. Go me.

Anyway, back to the point of the post... I've mentioned my pursuit of the opposite sex on here a few times before. I've also mentioned my experiences with online dating. Not surprisingly, I don't want to go there ever again. So... I'm trying something new. Cross your fingers for me. PLEASE!!

I've just joined a singles club. An event club. An adventure club. (Not of the $3K/yr variety - I'm too cheap for that). Basically, a club where you join, sign up for events and then go to them; all the people there are single. And since I'm fairly convinced I'm better in person, I think this is more up my alley.

Types of events include artsy stuff, like learning to draw and doing pot (pottery); sporty stuff, like volleyball, curling and canoeing; social things, like pub nights, dinners out, movie nights and comedy clubs; plus many others (or so I've been told by the propaganda department).

Now you may be asking yourself (probably not, but give a dog a bone, m'kay?!) "Now, Heather, you already do all of those things, why join a club to do them?" Because.

That's all I got.

I'm kidding. Because, when I go out for dinner, or to shows, pubs and the like, I'm around a bunch of people that I don't know. Yes, I realize the same will happen when I'm at a club related event, but, at least I won't be surrounded by a bunch of happy couples (fuckers).

At least I'll know that the people at the event are single and they'll know that I'm single. They'll also know that I will likely be going to other events. Therefore, it will (hopefully!) be easier to approach the hottie in the corner (that's me, in case you didn't catch on) and say "What's up?", instead of assuming that they have a girlfriend and find me repulsive. (okay, okay, it wasn't me in the corner... but it could be!!).

Scratch that. I won't be in the corner. I'll be in the middle of the room, making a scene.

So anyway, since I've just signed up, (as in yesterday), thus I haven't been to any events yet, and there are few on the horizon, being the end of the month and November's schedule hasn't been published yet. But don't you worry, I'll keep you all updated on all the goings-on as soon as I start going to events. Because I know you care.

On an unrelated note, my friend Dave is always on the lookout for things that "make Heather happy". He mentioned he wants to purchase an electronic drum kit; I mentioned that I've entertained the idea as well, but don't want to put out $1200 on something that I will only use to make my recordings sound even worse a few times a year for recording. Thus, he found an electronic kit that was used as a rental unit for the low, low price of $499. Now I just have to convince myself that spending $600 on a drum kit will be worth it.

Devils advocate, anyone??

A First for Everything

I have an announcement. I've been twittering up a storm lately and have been in contact with several other bloggers (we have a nice little community, online, oddly enough). One in particular, @theTsaritsa (on Twitter), or The Tsaritsa Sez (her blog), asked whether or not someone would be willing to do a guest post on her blog, or have her do a guest post on theirs.

Now, I've never done a guest post and I've never had anyone do a guest post for me, so I thought that it would be an interesting experience. Our writing styles and post topics are quite different, but I was totally willing to have her do a guest post for me. I expressed my interest and she asked me if I was willing to do a swap and write on a similar topic. I also accepted that invitation.

So, just so you guys know, there will be a guest post by The Tsaritsa on this blog and That White Girl's doing a guest post on her site. Don't forget to go on over and show her some love. http://thetsaritsasez.com/

Famn Damily

I think I've officially failed miserably at the goal I set for myself. It's been a bit of a rough go for me lately, so I blame it on that. This is going to be a serious post. So unlike me I know, but I'm a bit at a loss as to what to write about otherwise.

My grandfather passed away a week ago and even though we were not close and he wasn't a part of my life, I'm overcome with feelings of loss. I never knew the man and now I never will. I'm also overcome with feelings of bitterness and resentment. My step-grandmother did not handle the situation very well and neglected to notify us (his family) until my mom showed up on his doorstep looking for him. Classic.

Now, my mom is faced with dealing with the will and the division of assets between step-grandma's family and our family. What makes the situation that much worse? Her family was always more important than his family when it came to holidays, birthdays, and life in general. Thus the "he wasn't part of my life" statement. It's questionable whether or not his assets will be divided equally or if it'll all go to her family. If that's the case, my mom will have to contest the will in order to get her fair share. Just one more thing in an already difficult situation.

And then to top it all off, my friendship with my BFF appears to have officially dissolved. She can be a hard person to love and would rather throw people out of her life than admit to being wrong. It's irrational, but that's how she operates. We've been arguing lately because I'm an asshole (she should have known this since we've been friends for 20+ years) and a sellout (yes, a sellout... why, yes, I am still in high school).

As per usual, she has every right to be rude, condescending and hurtful towards me, but if I have the nerve to express my feelings or defend myself, I'm ruining our friendship and that leaves me open to more rude, condescending and hurtful things to be directed at me.

This isn't the first time this has happened. This isn't even the first time this year. Because of that, it becomes harder and harder to take and try to work through. Her anger is irrational; it clouds her judgment and ability to be reasoned with. Once angered, which is very easy to do, she cannot see past the perceived wrong-doing, which makes explaining yourself or justifying your actions a waste of breath.

When she's in that state, the only way to make things better is to absorb all the blame and to apologize profusely. I would be willing to do this, if I felt that I had done something wrong. But in this case, I don't believe I have. And I'm not doing it.

Have I apologized? Yes, but not profusely enough. Have I admitted fault and blame? Yes, but not all of it. As a result, the argument has persisted over several weeks, and since my responses to her accusations are not what she's looking for, her accusations become more and more angry and hurtful.

After a while, I stop trying to reason with her and I tell her how I feel, tell her how her words are hurtful and I point out her actions and call her on them. Only to be told that I'm so rude that I'm willing to ruin our friendship in order to be "right".

But isn't that exactly what she's doing to me? The fact that she cannot accept blame for anything and the fact that she's allowed to treat people one way, and no one is allowed to treat her, even remotely, similarly, shows me that she's the one who is willing to ruin our friendship in order to be "right".

The level of double standard with her is staggering.

I'm not sure if we're going to be able to work through this one. Yes, I always think that, but this time I'm fairly convinced it's true.

As a result my invitation to the fishing derby has been revoked. I'm sure you all know how much that saddens me. I guess I will have to find another outlet for that kind of debauchery. At least EliseArt, Gorm and my other work friends won't have to hear about it for weeks on end. You're welcome.

And serendipity has reared it's head in this situation with K. I've come across several quotes that ring so true to me that I can't help but share them:

Anger is an acid that can do more harm to the vessel in which it is stored than to anything on which it is poured - Mark Twain

 

Do you not understand that anger is almost always an emotion for people who wish to control others while simultaneously failing to control themselves? - Single Dad Laughing (www.danoah.com)

She always does... unless she doesn't

I was with my step mom the other day, we were on our way to IKEA and she was chatting up a storm. The latest issue she has been dealing with is her side of the family never sending her pictures of people on her side of the family.

Her family lives on the other side of The Rockies so she doesn't get to see them very much. Since she left that province, her niece and nephew have both had children of their own, and she has yet to lay eyes on them.

She kept pestering her sisters for pictures of their grandchildren, but she never received them. This has caused Bev much annoyance, to the point where nearly every time I see her, she complains about still not having the pictures. Until now. So, I should stop hearing about it, right? Wrong.

Apparently, her niece was a beautiful child with dark hair, dark eyes and dark skin. When Bev got wind that her niece was with child and had said child, Bev automatically started picturing her niece's child to look pretty much the same. I think that's natural; I think we all do it. But when she got the pictures, she was shocked to discover that the small child was not beautiful.

I listened to her go on and on about how beautiful her niece was and how she can't believe her grand-niece looks "like that". I listened to her go on and on about how she has no idea how the child ended up "that way", that she has no idea where "it" came from. I listened to her go on and on about how Madeline, the daughter of a friend, is so much cuter than Alison, her great-niece. I listened to her go on and on about how even my dad agrees that Madeline is cuter. I listened to her go on and on about how it's okay for her to say Alison isn't cute, because it's her side of the family, so she can say what she wants. Even though more than one person has said "Bev, that's not very nice...".

So, what's wrong with the child?

No, she does not have a physical deformity, like a second head or a third eye. She does not have an unfortunate birth mark covering her face. She does not have a cone head. She does not have buck teeth, or a giant nose. She doesn't have freakishly large ears, or unruly hair. She doesn't have a lazy eye. She doesn't have anything that would take away from her cuteness or cause the general public to look at her and think "Oh, that poor thing".

So, what's wrong with the child?

She's blonde. And fair.

Son of a bitch.

I mean, Bev has seen me. I'm not really sure what she's thinking going on and on about that to me. I'm fairly convinced that I am nearly 90% likely to yield an offspring that she'll view as "Not as cute as Madeline". Madeline being of dark hair, dark eyes and dark skin, of course. I'd have to mate with someone that has some seriously dominant genes, that has not a shred of blonde or fair in his entire genealogy, just to be sure that our offspring is not of the blonde and fair variety.

Now, I'm not good at biology/DNA/genetics, but doesn't that still leave, like, a 25% chance of the child looking like me? The poor thing.

I know this, yet, there's Bev rambling on and on about this unfortunate looking child, all the while I'm biting my tongue in order not to scream out "What do you think my child will look like, Bev? Huh? You better not say Madeline is cuter, dammit".

Rather than making a scene about the cuteness of a child that may or may not exist, or Bev being uncomfortable for the rest of our relationship, I kept quiet. It was hard, because she went on and on. From Surrey to Coquitlam. But that's okay, because I will know Bev's true opinion on the issue even if my dad manages to get her to keep her mouth shut around me and my blonde/fair child (hypothetically, of course).

How? Easy. When I show Bev something that she doesn't like, she says the same thing every time. Therefore, I know how she'll react when I show her my hideous child.

"Oh... well, that's different".

That's the point where the expletives will fire.

That's the second time this week someone has laughed at my face

Thanksgiving is pretty much the same every year. Although the details do vary, the basic structure remains the same. Mom comes into town on Friday night, we dine. We go out for brunch on Saturday, Mom and I go shopping and/or do various girly things during the day; we go back to my brother's house, we dine. Sunday, Mom & Danny spend the day/afternoon together and come over to my house, we dine. Mom leaves on Monday.

No matter how I feel before entering the Thanksgiving Day weekend...

I always come out on the other side feeling somewhat different.

But since this kind of eating only happens a couple/few times a year (I just wish they were a bit more spread out), overall, it's not that bad. It's worth the temporary feeling to spend time with my mom.

This year, when Mom & Danny arrived at my house, my mom told me a story about the trip over. Apparently, they had left the electronics store and were heading over to my house, when my mother's bladder filled up and she had to beg my brother to stop at a gas station.

As she was leaving the gas station she glimpsed some flowers out of the corner of her eye. She went back to the vehicle and asked Danny if he thought I'd want a bouquet of flowers. His response was that it's Thanksgiving (not exactly a flower-giving holiday) and that I won't want gas station flowers.

Mom informed me of all of this and said "Well the thought was there!". I agreed. I also agreed that this would be a good time to give her the present I had for her. I got up, walked to my freezer and pulled out a package.

Mom was skeptical, but still started the process of unwrapping. The first item she took out was a couple packs of garbage bags. Mom gets oddly excited about these garbage bags - they're the ones that come on a roll and are for a special kind of under-the-sink garbage bin. They don't have these rolls of garbage bags in Osoyoos. I pick up a couple dollars worth per year and she's ridiculously happy.

Last year for Christmas I got her a coffee grinder - she's a coffee addict so I thought she might enjoy freshly ground coffee. I shipped up some plain old coffee beans with the grinder so she could use her present right off the bat.

She was ecstatic over the coffee grinder, says the coffee tastes so much better. She was drinking Folgers before then, so of course it tastes better. (my apologies to Folgers Fans everywhere). I told her that when I was shopping for the coffee that they had a bunch of flavoured coffees and I asked if she would have liked those instead. She said no, because she doesn't want to drink Irish Cream coffee all the time because then it wouldn't be special anymore.

I asked her why she doesn't have flavoured beans in her freezer for a Sunday treat. She said that she never thought of it, but it was a great idea. I knew she would never go out and do it. So I did.

Over the past few months, every time I do my big grocery shop, I pick up half a pound or so of flavoured coffee beans. My freezer was starting to get pretty full of them. Four packages of flavoured beans were the remaining item in the care package for my mom. She reacted pretty much how I was expecting.

"Now I'll have coffee to drink at home", she said, after explaining that her last bag of beans was getting low. My response was "Only on Sundays!!". She agreed, but I'm also fairly convinced that she went home and made up a pot out of the beans I gave her. I guess that's okay... for this week.

My neck is spasming

Gorm and I have a long lasting tradition that we like to call music day. Okay, it's not all that long lasting and we don't do it nearly often enough to call it a tradition, but we do call it music day. Music day makes me happy.

Gorm plays the piano, I play the guitar and we will switch off singing, depending on "whose song it is". When we first started this tradition, we were terrible. I'm sorry, but it's true. When you're jamming with someone, you have to have a pretty good idea of what that person's style is like. We had no idea. To top it off, we didn't know half of the songs that the other person was making us play. I'd sing high and he'd sing higher and it just didn't make any sense. It really, truly was a train wreck. It was absolutely horrible.

Since then, we've gotten together more often; enough so that I know what his style is and he knows mine. This has helped immensely when having to navigate through a song that we have never played together. It's not always good, but it's definitely always much better than the first time. I think it's safe to say that our worst song nowadays is better than our best song back in the day.

We try to keep a certain number of songs in our repertoire just to make sure we always have a song that we can go to when we do train wreck. See, we're not that bad, we played that song well! But each of us will learn at least a song or two during our time apart and will bring the new music to the session. Sometimes it works well, other times, not so much.

We've had music day twice in the last month or so (which is a new record for us) and have brought a number of new songs to the table. Even with our innate ability to butcher good songs, we've managed to pull through and at least do "not terrible" renditions of said songs.

A few weeks ago, Gorm informed me that he had a new song that he learned. He also told me that it's a song that has Heather written all over it. He said it's totally my style and he can totally see me singing it. I wasn't convinced, but I youtube'd the song anyway. The first time I listened, I thought, yeah, okay, I could play and sing it, but I don't know why he thinks this is my song.

Once I started actually singing and playing it, I rapidly changed my mind. It's like I had an epiphany and totally got where he was coming from. When we met up the next time, I'd been rocking that song for quite some time. It was almost an instant hit for us (which doesn't happen too, too often).

Since it's been almost three weeks since we last played, we've been discussing getting together again for another music day. Again, he informed me that he has added another song to his play list. I asked which song and he told me. Before I even had a chance to say whether or not I even knew the song, he said "You're singing it!". How's that fair? He can't learn new songs and then expect me to sing them, can he? He told me that I have no choice, because it's a "chick song".

I let him have that one, because I have made him sing a few of the songs in my set list because they're "dude songs". Okay, maybe not, just mostly it's more in his register than mine. Since he's willing to do that with songs he hasn't even heard before, I thought I'd give this new song a whirl.

Yesterday, I youtube'd this new song and found the chords online; he wrote out the chords on a scrap of paper at work, but naturally, I'd forgotten it at work. Turns out I have heard the song and I even like the song. Also it turns out that it is a total chick song and he would look and sound a bit ridiculous if I forced him to sing it. So I won't. You're welcome.

So anyway, I'm now anxiously awaiting the next music day. Hopefully it will be next week. *huh? huh?*

Also, I just went out and bought some new music related items. The most impressive items are a microphone stand as well as a tuner.

The microphone stand is a desktop model and fits my 'studio platform' remarkably well. Also it's much, much better than the mini-milk-crate I was using to prop up my microphone (kinda ghetto... kinda like my old tea cozy). The tuner is a clip-on model that senses the vibrations instead of 'listening' for the note. It's supposed to be way better for loud environments, like the fishing derby or when Gorm won't stop playing piano so I can tune my guitar. It's going to be glorious.

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*

Let's recap, shall we?

This weekend was chock full of adventure, so I thought I'd share it with you. Okay - it wasn't really chock full of adventure, I just need to write 4 posts over the next 4 days in order to meet my goal of 600 words per day, 4 days per week. Also, it seems like I have writer's block and have no idea what to write about otherwise. Enjoy!

Friday I left work late, which is extremely typical; instead of making a bee-line straight for the pub, I decided to go home first, get cleaned up and then walk down. One of my favourite waitresses was there having dinner so I got to sit with her (and her mom) while I ate.

After I left that pub (pub #1), I decided to mosey on down to this other pub. The first pub is actually more of a restaurant and the second pub is more of a bar, but whatever. I went to pub#2 for (pretty much) the first time 3 or 4 weeks ago; that night they had a live band playing. I was kinda hoping they would have another live band playing this time; pub #2 did not disappoint.

I made friends with the bartenders (Phil & Dave), the girl beside me and her brother (whose Dad is the manager of the place), as well as this other girl that showed up after last call, but managed to get a drink. I asked her how she's able to do that and she said that they know she'll be finished up before they need her to leave. I guess she's a regular.

Since pub #2 has such an early last call, drink-after-last-call-girl (that sounds bad) suggested heading to pub #3 that has a later last call. Since it was only a few blocks down the road, I agreed. We walked down the road and I learned a lot about her (enough to question her sobriety and consider that she may have had another glass of wine (or three) some place else before hitting pub #2).

We arrived at the third pub just as they were having last call. So we had to keep it short. There was a blind guy there, that had a seeing eye dog. I asked if I could pet his dog, he said yes. I was pretty pleased. In hindsight, I probably shouldn't have been crawling around on that floor. I left pub #3 when they made me and crossed the street to make my way home.

I was standing on the corner (that sounds really bad) and I was trying to decide if I should wait for a bus, or walk home. It's a pretty far walk and it was pretty late at night, so I didn't really want to, but I didn't know when the bus was coming either, so I was indecisive. As I'm standing there I see a cab approach the intersection, heading towards me, with his "I'm available" light on. I was still trying to make my decision when he started flashing his lights at me. I decided a cab ride home was probably my best choice. So I stuck my hand up in the air and he pulled over.

I got in and was instantly hit with the overwhelming scent of McDonalds. I was reminded that I should probably eat something. At that moment, the cabbie held out a pie and asked me if I wanted it. Ordinarily, I would have said "No thanks" feigning politeness. Instead I said "Yeah, kinda!". It was the best damn pie ever.

Made it home safe and sound. Saturday was uneventful, just movies and reading. Sunday I talked to my mom and then went shopping with my stepmom. We went Halloween costume shopping and I bought my first ever store-bought-costume. Pretty exciting. I sure hope I have somewhere to wear it this year!

Then today, I went to work, chewed through my workload as best I could, went upstairs and had my ass handed to me on a foosball platter and made my way home. As I'm preparing dinner, something slipped off my counter, but because I have cat-like reflexes, my hand shot out to catch it without me even thinking. Turns out, it was a knife. It was sharp. I sliced open my finger pretty good. I've since stemmed the bleeding but it hurts and I've been made painfully aware that I do not have any bandages in the house. Good thing I'm going shopping tonight. With one hand, apparently.

The full story

Recently, I was told that I skew facts and only tell one side of the story and always in a negative light. I'm referring to the search terms used by my 'readers' to find me on the interweb. Just so that I'm not misleading anyone, I decided to show the full story. Below is a complete list of terms used to find me in the last 30days. As you can see, there are also positive search terms.

It's a nice gesture. Thank-you, Gorm.

But just to be clear, I still see the situation like this:

I guess we'll have to agree to disagree! :)