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?!

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?

Famn Damily

I love my mom. But she’s driving me crazy right now. For the most part, we have a very open relationship; she’s someone that I share the vast majority of my life with and she does the same. We talk once a week, for a couple hours each time, and discuss everything that has happened since the last time we talked.

And, for the most part, I love that. But every so often, she drives me absolutely bonkers and I want to start screening my calls Sunday morning. This has been happening consistently for the past couple of months.

Mom was going through a rough time with her business and she was quite stressed out about it. Naturally, she wanted to talk about it and vent. But I swear we had the exact same conversation, every week, for three months.

I didn’t mind that I felt as if we were just rehashing the same topic over and over; she needed to talk about it and I know I’ve kept her on the line for far too long because I was upset about something.

But after a few weeks, the topic of conversation no longer shifted anywhere else. We stopped talking about other aspects of her life and, short of “And how has your week been?”, the topic never seemed to shift to me. Sometimes the conversation would end immediately after her asking that question.

I found it a bit odd, but let it be, because, clearly, she needed to talk more than I did.

But things have changed for awhile for me. It was crazy busy at work and as a result I had been operating at an elevated stress level for quite some time. It started to wear on me.

Nothing bad – it’s not like I’ve stopped eating or sleeping or anything, I just felt a bit worn out and the time came where I need to vent to someone about it.

A couple weeks ago, my mom, after discussing her topic de jour, asked me how my week at work was. I said it had been crazy. She asked why. I took a deep, sighing breath and said “It’s just crazy. Like absolutely insane.” I took another deep, sighing breath.

I guess she thought I was done. She continued telling me about her week at work; how many hours she worked (not many), how many customers she had (even less) and when she was done:

Are you fucking kidding me?? I guess she thought I was done.

A couple weeks ago, she started asking me if I'd started on my school project. I told her I hadn’t had any time. She started questioning me on it, with judgment creeping into her voice. I told her it has been crazy busy at work and I just didn’t have time. She said “Really?!?!” as if it’s the first she’s heard about it.

I told her that I had been working 10-12 hour a day, going in for a “half day” (a mere 6 hours) on the weekend. That I’d been doing that for the past three weeks. That I barely eat dinner anymore because I don’t get home until 9pm and then I have to start thinking about going to bed so I can do it all over again. That I hoped it would slow down soon, because I don’t know how much more I can take. 

The good news is that my mom doesn’t read my blog. The really good news is the chaos at work has reduced itself to a much more manageable level and I feel a lot more balanced. I might even have time to start working on my project!

Inadvertently Racist - part 2

You might recall I have a tendency to be inadvertently racist. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, go here.

Anyway, I’ve had a couple more of these moments lately and I thought I’d share them with you.

A few months ago, I was out with some friends and we met a couple Italian lads. As we struck up conversation, the topic of “what are you and where are you from” came up. Going around the table, everyone had their own little story, consisting of growing up in another province or country that was filled with culture and all the things that I lack in my upbringing.

Everyone laughed more than they should have, considering most of them didn’t even know my last name.

Most recently, I met a friend of a friend. Somehow, his last name came up. He told me what it was (I couldn’t even attempt to spell it out or repeat it) and then said “My last name is like 20 letters long and most people can’t pronounce it because it’s Finnish”. I said “My last name is five letters long and everyone can pronounce it.  It’s White”.

He gave me a strange look and asked, incredulously, becoming obviously offended, if I realized that Finnish people (himself included) are also white. I was confused; I had no idea why he was so upset. I started saying “Of course I know that…” but didn’t even finish my sentence before he cut me off, burst out laughing and said “OH!!! White is your last name!!”. I laughed and said yes.

Pop quiz, hot shot!

There are a couple pubs near my house. I’ve been known to walk into them once or twice. I may or may not know some of the bartenders/waitresses. They may or may not know me by name and/or drink of choice.

I like to think it’s because I’m memorable not because of my rate of attendance. It might be both.

Friday night, I left the salsa club and decided to stop in for a drink at one of the pubs. I was cutting it close, I knew they wouldn’t serve me past 1am and it was 12:55. I convinced myself that it was okay. The last time I was this close, I knew the bartender and he served me, albeit reluctantly, because “Oh. It’s you…”. If it was anyone else, he probably would have told them to screw off. But he didn’t; he served me. The other patrons found it amusing.

So anyway, I walked in the place Friday night and didn’t see a familiar face behind the bar. Shit. I thought for sure that I wasn’t going to get served. Once I got her attention, I politely asked if I’d missed last call; she checked the clock and said “You got two minutes!”.  Success!

Two days later, I walked into place and once again didn’t see a familiar face behind the bar.

He was a new guy… apparently this was his second shift. I guess that happens. Shortly after my arrival, my favourite bartender, Mikey, came in.

This bartender is the best. First of all, he’s cute as a button.  Seriously, I could just put him in my pocket and carry him around all day. But also, he’s just a really nice guy. A real genuine sweetheart.

One night, I started asking him questions to get to know him a bit. I don’t know why. I don’t normally do this; I’m usually perfectly satisfied with not knowing much about my bartenders, even though they know me. For some reason, that wasn’t good enough with this one. I asked him how long he’d worked there and if he had any other bartending jobs before this place. He told me that he worked at this other bar a-ways-out in CloverHole.

It’s the same bar that The Beanstalk worked at. Small world. I asked him if he knew Jack and explained how I knew him. Since I know Jack from Thailand’s bar, I haven’t seen him for awhile (and probably won’t for even longer), so I asked Mikey to say hi for me.

The next time I came in, I asked him if he’d seen Jack. He hadn’t. I wanted to make sure that he had the story straight (it’s not like Jack and I are such good friends that he would know exactly who Mikey was talking about if he gave my name). In order to make sure he had the story straight, I asked him three questions.

1. What’s my name?
2. Where do I know Jack from?
3. What kind of dancing do I do?

If he had those pieces of information, Jack should know who I am.

Mikey got some of the questions wrong. Not acceptable. The next time I went in, I asked him another three questions.

1. Who do we both know?
2. What kind of dancing do I do?
3. What’s my drink of choice?

Again, he got some wrong, so the next time I went in, I had to ask another three questions.

I didn’t realize what I had started. Problem is, after while, he started ace-ing the quiz; I had to get creative. Now, months after the fact, he has since stopped working with Jack, but I still keep on. 

The first time I got creative, I asked him what his favourite colour is. He was shocked.

But he played along. Even when I asked him if he was old enough to drink in the States, he just laughed and said “I see what you did there! And yes I am!!” (He’s a baby face… no wonder I’ve got a soft spot for him). I appreciated it, even though I had a nagging thought…

But I keep on keeping on. But still… I often wonder what he thinks about quiz time.

This last time I was there (yes, it was a Sunday night), I informed him it was quiz time, he said he needed “three minutes”, he was training the new guy. It took much longer than three minutes. While I sat there trying to come up with my three questions, I couldn’t help but think he was delaying it because he hates it. I became self-conscious.

He came up to me and apologized for it taking so long. Yeah, yeah, sure, sure. I asked him two questions. My third question was (taking a page from the book of JY):

TWG: On a scale of 1.5 to 7.3, how much do you hate quiz time?

M: On a scale of 1.5 to 7.3?!??!? *incredulous*

TWG: Yes. *not incredulous* 1.5 being that you love quiz time and look forward to it; 7.3 being that you hate quiz time and shudder when you see me walk in the door.

M: Oh… *laughs* Well… 1.5 of course!

I figured he was humoring me, but when I was leaving, I told him “good to see you again, see ya next time”.

I won’t. Aw shucks…

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.

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.