Goings Ons

Where do I begin? Well, the past couple/few months have been a bit of a whirlwind. Between working too much, doing my school project and having a full social calendar, I haven’t had much time to write (well, aside from my school project, that is).

I guess that’s the best place to start. As you may or may not remember, I was having a hard time getting my school project off the ground. I finally got the okay from my professor to quit writing and re-writing my proposal and actually do the project. You could say I was pretty pleased.

In August, I carried out the sampling and then spent the next couple months analyzing the data, researching and writing the paper. I submitted the first draft just about two weeks ago.

After which, The Boy, asked me to come down to the pub for a celebratory drink. Shortly after I arrived, he said something cryptic to the bartender and before I knew it, two champagne flutes were placed in front of me; they were quickly filled with a bubbly nectar.

I was shocked and surprised and, quite frankly, tickled pink. No one has ever done anything like that for me before. I basically swooned right off my chair. When I came to and thanked him for it, he simply said “You did a big thing today; you deserve it”. I didn’t remind him that it was only a first draft and that I haven’t actually graduated yet.

Work has been super busy for the past couple months and will be insanely busy for the next couple months; it will take over my life. The only light at the end of the tunnel is solace in knowing that when it’s all over, I’m getting on a jet plane to some place and spending a week drinking way too much. Stay tuned for that one!

I’ve still managed to spend a ridiculous amount of time with The Boy; I even went to my first minor league baseball game and a couple minor league hockey games. Now, I’m, by no means, a sporty girl, but these games have proven to be a very good time. I even bought a team scarf.

My niece is growing fast; she changes every time I see her. She’s walking and starting to talk. The running joke in the family is that she’ll be graduating college before I do. Did I mention my family are assholes?

Thanksgiving was a success; The Boy came for dinner (I cooked) and met most of my family. It was nerve-wracking but we both made it out alive. Christmas is next on the list, and providing he comes for dinner, he will meet the rest of my family. We’ll see if he’s still around, or if he runs screaming from the building.

I’ll let you know how it pans out. Probably in February when my life resumes normality.

This Particular Boy–part 1

So, as you know, there’s this particular boy I’ve been spending time with lately. And because you’re all so incredibly nosey, you want to hear all about it. And because I’m so incredibly accommodating, I will tell you all about it.

I’ve technically known him for a couple years, but we only started having consistent conversations in the last 8 months or so. I met BigBoy, or BB, at my local watering hole; he was often there when I was there. I attempted to make conversation with him on a couple of occasions and was met with, what can only be described as, indifference. I chalked it up to him being the strong, silent type.

One day, I was successful in luring him into conversation; I was convinced we were going to be friends. Or at the very least, two people that would talk to each other while occupying a spot at the same bar. But the next time I saw him, I was met with the same indifference. I drew the only logical conclusion.

BB ended up getting a job as a bartender at this establishment. I was sure that I would eventually win him over since he was required to have contact with me. But it turned out he wasn’t required to have contact with me at all. He’d simply leave my drink-getting-duties up to the other bartender, which naturally further convinced me of his dislike for me.

Several months ago, BB ended up moving in with a friend of mine. I was having drinks with Mutual Friend at the pub one night and he invited me back to his place after closing; I agreed to go. He said “When BB gets off work, you’ll be there… I’m sure he’ll love that.”. I drew the only logical conclusion.

Things started slowly changing; around the time BB moved in with Mutual Friend, we started having nice conversations really consistently. One night about three months ago, I was at their place, BB and I were having an in-depth conversation about guitars (we both play); Mutual Friend fell asleep on the couch. The following conversation ensued:

BB: So, what’s the deal with you and Mutual Friend?

TWG: What do you mean?

BB: Well, sometimes I come home from work and you’re here, and Mutual Friend told me the other day that you came over and it was just the two of you.

TWG: Yup.

BB: Soooooo…?

TWG: Noooooo.

BB: No?

TWG: Nope. It’s not going to happen and I’ve told him that about a thousand times.

BB: Yeah, I know.

TWG: You know?

BB: Yeah, I’ve been around for a dozen of those thousand times.

TWG: Right.

BB: But you can understand why I’m asking…

TWG: I… guess… (I didn’t)

Since then, we started spending more and more time together and have had a nice conversation of the “What are we doing, where is this going” variety. And as of recently, we even put the nice little “Boyfriend/Girlfriend” label on this relationship.

Boyfriend. Girlfriend. Relationship. These are things that haven’t happened in over a decade for me.

You could say I’m a little out of my element. You could say that, at times, this whole thing completely freaks me out because being in a relationship has become such a foreign concept for me.

You could also say I am enjoying myself immensely.

Independence Day

Several years ago my mother told me that the reason I’m single is because I’m too independent; she said that I don’t need a man, that there isn’t anything I need or want in my life that I can’t get myself. Naturally, I disputed it, but she had a retort for everything I threw out there.

Naturally, I dismissed it, but since then I’ve wondered if she’s right. Maybe independence isn’t a desirable trait; maybe I need to be more dependent. But then I started thinking about the alternative.

Take my stepmother, for instance; my dad does everything for her. Her responsibilities in life consist solely of cooking dinner and cleaning the house; dad works, pays the bills and even takes her shopping.

It’s to the point where if anything were to happen and my dad wasn’t around anymore, I’m pretty sure she would not be able to function in the world.

This. Happened. I could not make eye contact with the cashier while she handed back one of the twenties as change.

All things considered, I don’t think my problem is a bad thing. Besides, I’ve also realized that I can’t do everything myself; I do need help. Take that, Mom. 

In September 2012, I bought a new TV. When I got it home, I took my old one off the TV stand, plopped it down on the floor and set up my new one.

Fast forward to September 2013:

It was still sitting there for a few reasons. First, I’m lazy. Second, I’m weak. Third, I have a bad back. All these reasons made it so that I literally couldn’t pick it up, get it into my car and bring it to the recycling depot.

Fast forward to last month:

I did, however, make some progress; I asked a neighbour friend of mine if he’d be willing to help me get it out of my house. Fortunately, he said yes; unfortunately, it took him 3 weeks to make it happen. He was apologetic but I told him that it was a drop in the bucket compared to how long it took me to even ask for help.

Fast forward to yesterday: he came over and took it to the recycling depot with me.

21 months later, I finally have two square feet of floor space back.

I wouldn’t survive in the wild

I live in a basement suite. It’s bitterly cold in winter. It’s blissfully cold in summer, but that’s a-ways away, so I’m going to focus on what I’m going through now instead.

I’ve lived here for several years and since I don’t have control over the heat, I purchased a shitty heater a few years ago. Since I purchased a shitty heater, it didn’t heat very well and I was really afraid of it burning my house down. Even when in the presence of a responsible adult. Or, at the very least, me.

Back in December, I bought an un-shitty heater. I reveled in the warmth. I looked forward to returning to my house because I knew it would warm up soon after turning my new heater on. Or it would already be warm, if I inadvertently left it on that morning. I became so used to the magic of heat, that I forgot what it was like to be cold.

The other night, after having a few (dozen) wobbly pops, I was sleeping (it off) but was over-heating so much that I opened my window a crack so I didn’t sweat through my bed.

A few days later, I came home from work, turned the knob on my heater and it didn’t turn on. I’ve been devastated ever since. I didn’t realize I’d become so spoiled, but it turns out that I’ve become the biggest pussy on the face of the planet because it’s not even that cold now (a balmy 8`C; 46F).

The first night I went to bed, in my cold house, and tried to sleep, in my cold bed, my feet were so frozen it took almost an hour of breathing into my blanket to warm up enough to fall asleep. I was convinced I left my window open from my drunken slumber several night’s prior. Alas, no. I was just that cold.

Since then, every morning, I lie in bed as long as possible just so I don’t have to expose my body to the cold air. I immediately jump in the shower and as soon as I get out, I jump back into bed. I dress in record time and sometimes, pre-heat my clothes in my bed with me so that they’re warm when I put them on. Sometimes I dress under my blankets so that my skin never feels anything but warm air and warm clothes.

And as I type this, I have blankets on my lap (and up to my chest) and have decided that a Snuggie isn’t such a bad thing. Because my arms are fricken freezing!

I don’t have the creative juice (a.k.a. blood flow to the brain) to come up with picture ideas, let alone draw them.

But, I do have 90 days to return the heater AND I still have the receipt, so I’ll be taking that bad boy back for an exchange.

Surprise!! (here’s something you already know…)

As you might remember, my dad once taught me to stick up for myself. I wouldn’t call it self defense, as I was a 10 year old girl, but he taught me to slap like nobody’s business.

He has since told me that I should take self defense classes because I’m not “inherently tough”. Big words for someone that didn’t make it to grade 9. Nonetheless, he’s right.

I’ve always known him to speak the truth, but this statement didn’t really hit home until last night. Last night I realized that I really need to work on some things so that I’m not murdered by a toothpick wielding maniac.

Yesterday, that statement would have made me laugh because of the mental picture it created.

But today, I think it’s quite possible that that feeb could overpower me. I’m scared for more than just my well being; I’m scared for my life.

Here’s what happened. The boy, a.k.a Thailand, told me he was going to come over to get some to get some; I decided to get in a quick girl-talk convo, with Dave. As I saw headlights in my front window, I knew I had to go. I quickly got off the phone and decided to change over my laundry before I forgot.

I dashed into my laundry room, switched over my laundry and started making my way to the front of the house to meet my guest. As I stepped into the bathroom, a figure was lurking to my right; as I cleared the doorway, the figure said “Hi!”.

I nearly crapped my pants. I leapt backwards, simultaneously emitting a high pitched “eeeep!” while clutching my chest and taking a quick inhalation of air. After which, I started laughing so hard that I had to double over just to catch my breath. Meanwhile, my heart was pounding at such a furious rate, that if I was much older, I would have grabbed a few aspirin to start chewing on the way to the hospital.

That’s right. Even with someone that I KNEW WAS THERE (!!!) I was completely caught off guard. And, apparently, my only defense mechanism is making a complete ass of myself.

After I regained a normal heart rate (and maybe some composure), I decided to tell him exactly how much he scared me. I accused him of lurking in the bathroom just to scare me. He claims he just went in there “to wash his hands”. Likely story.

He told me that I jumped so much that he thought I was going to slip on the tile floor in an attempt to actually run backwards. Jokingly, I said “Man, I should really take some self defense classes”. To which Thailand replied, without a hint of humour in his voice: “Yes, yes you should.”

Turns out there *is* a psycho bitch inside me

We’ve all heard it before… Women are crazy. And although I’ve met my fair share, I’ve also met my fair share of crazy men. Case. And point. Naturally, I thought the statement was an unfair stereotype. Until recently. I’ve since discovered that women are crazy. And I can be one of them.

It all started about 18 years ago when I was a hormonal teenager. I was crazy; flying off the handle for little to no reason, crying at the drop of a hat and in general, just being difficult to be around. A few years later, I went on birth control and stayed on it for nearly 10 years. Despite horror stories I’d heard about birth control, I never really experienced any side effects. During that period of being on the pill and the period of being off of it, I maintained a fairly even demeanor.

Fast forward to a month ago. I decided it would be best to go back on the pill, just in case. I went to my doctor and we discussed it. He gave me a script for the last pill I was on and said “Let’s see how it works for you this time… even though it worked for you in the past, doesn’t mean it’ll work for you now.” I had no idea what he was talking about.

It took me a week and a half to finally get it; I started losing it.

Something that would normally make me go “Oh that sucks” and bum me out a bit, now made me become a blubbering mass on my couch. The train of thought escalated to such a degree in my mind, that looking back, I have a hard time processing how I actually got there. But boy, oh, boy, did I get there.

This happened four times in less than a week. I was a wreck. Even at the time, I could look in on the situation from an outsider’s perspective and think “You’re acting crazy”, but there was nothing I could do about it.

Not only would I cry at the drop of a hat, I would also get seriously pissed off about things that would normally only irritate me slightly.

I truly thought I was losing my mind.

One day, as I was sitting on my couch having a pity party complete with tears and snot, I tried to think about the situation logically between sobs. “When did I start doing this? Why is this all such a big deal?”. I couldn’t figure out why I was suddenly a train wreck.

And then it hit me. I ran into the bathroom and grabbed my pill pack. I went psycho four days into taking the pill. Four days is probably just enough time for it to get into my system and start causing mayhem. I was so happy that I wasn’t crazy, that it was just the pills, that I spent the next two hours crying “because I was just so relieved”.

Doctors orders and internet research all yielded the same advice. It can take 2-3 cycles of being on the pill before you really know how your body is going to react. If after this time, you’re still experiencing side effects, you should switch brands and see how that one works for you.

I looked at this and thought I could potentially be a crazy bitch for the next 6 months to a year depending on how long it takes me to find something that works for me. My decision:

Stop and smell the roses

The other day I was driving to work and I saw this:

(That is supposed to be the back of a car with a bouquet of flowers under the windshield wiper. It’s a poor drawing at best… I’m sorry)

My first reaction was:

I thought about what it would be like to walk out to your car in the morning, finding that little surprise from your special someone. I dreamed about what it would be like having someone in my life that would buy me flowers and leave them somewhere unsuspecting for me just to brighten my day.

Then it occurred to me that it was 6:30am. That this special someone would have had to buy the flowers the night before and drop them off at an ungodly hour of 5am just to surprise this lucky lady.

Then I wondered what it would be like to have someone that was willing to do all of those (ridiculously wonderful) things. I wondered who exactly would do those sorts of things. I mean, do boyfriends actually do things like this? Call me jaded, but it doesn’t seem like most boyfriends would… Lord knows, I haven’t had any that would do such a thing. And then it hit me:

Because we all know, that this scenario is far more likely to happen in my world.

Girl talk with my gal pals

I’ve really sucked at this writing thing lately. And I don’t really have an excuse… Sure, I’ve been busy “doing things”, but that’s not even the real reason. Fact is, even with all developments in my life, I still have time to write, I just don’t seem to actually do it.

This isn’t the first time it has happened and it certainly won’t be the last. But I will make an effort to start writing again. Or at least, I’ll think about writing again. Because having a post idea is about 1/3 of the battle anyway.

So, what have I been doing with my time? To be honest, mostly Thailand. Sure, work, school, getting out in the sun, watching movies, blah, blah, blah. But if I had to pinpoint the thing that keeps me up at night, it would have to be Thailand.

Literally.

And just because you’re all dying to know the goings-ons, allow me to elaborate. I guess we’ve been officially seeing each other for two months now. I said officially, but in all honesty, there isn’t anything official about it because I can only call him “the guy I’m seeing” and not something else with an official label, like “boyfriend” or “back off, he’s mine”.

Six months ago, when I was still friends with K, this probably would have driven me bat-shit-crazy; the relationship wouldn’t have lasted this long because I would have turned into a high-maintenance-crazy-what-does-this-all-mean girl. Who am I kidding… I never would have even met him if I was still friends with K. I guess it’s safe to say that things have changed for me since my best friend stopped being my best friend.

And even though I know we’ve been seeing each other long enough that it’s okay to have the discussion about what we’re doing and where things are going, I just don’t care. I was talking to my mom about it the other day. She asked if we were “an item” yet; I told her nothing was official. She said that if he’s sleeping over, then we must be an item; I said we were definitely something. She said that if I’m happy and enjoying myself then that’s all that really matters; I said that I am both of those things and it really doesn’t bother me… a girl’s gotta eat and I was starved for years.

(I’m really thankful that I can have that kind of conversation with my mother and it’s not awkward.)

Anyway, there was a period of time where I was convinced that we were just fuck buddies and that it wasn’t going anywhere. Surprisingly, I was okay with that revelation. Turns out it only lasted about 2 days, because things started changing after that.

For one, he started telling me things. Personal things. Things that aren’t part and parcel with pillow talk. Things you don’t tell the girl you’re just fucking. Second, he bought me a birthday gift. A really thoughtful birthday gift. A birthday gift that indicated that he was listening to what I say. Third, we started spending time together, and not just between the sheets. Sometimes he comes over and we watch a movie. Sometimes he sleeps over and we don’t have sex. Sometimes I see him and we just talk. And fourth, he has told me repeatedly that’s he’s not seeing anyone else and he’s not sleeping around.

These are very good things and I have to say, I’m pretty fricken pleased with how things are going, even though I have no idea where things are going. Eventually, I’ll have to have the discussion with him, but until the day comes where I need to know (you know, when you develop real feelings and junk), I’m happy doing what I’m doing.

Okay, now onto the funny part (a.k.a. the real reason I’m telling you all of this.. I’m not bragging, I swear!). And I apologize in advance if this falls into the TMI category.

I’m allergic to latex. I have to buy very specific condoms, specifically, non-latex condoms. They can be quite difficult to find and if you ever look around, you’ll notice that there are only two kinds of non-latex condoms. So, one day after purchasing a new supply, I was turning the box over in my hands, looking for the “open here” part when something caught my eye.

I nearly peed myself laughing.

Year of the Rat

I went and checked my mail the other day. Big news, I know. On my way back from the front of the house, I discovered a dead rat on my walkway. I hadn’t checked my mail in well over a week; I had no idea how long that thing was lying there.

I skirted around it and went back inside. Normally, my plan of attack is to ignore my problems until they go away. Unfortunately, this time, I had to do something because my brother and his dog were coming over and would walk down that path. I knew Butters would try to eat the thing, and then there would be no way that dog was coming anywhere near me ever again.

I didn’t want that to happen to us, so I knew I had to take action. It took several hours for me to muster up the courage and come up with an actual plan of attack. I grabbed my (disposable) implements, took a deep breath and went out to take care of the job. Only when I rounded the side of the house, I noticed something was different.

The fucking thing had moved.

I know, logically, that it’s dead and that it didn’t move on it’s own, but at that moment I was freaked out. I felt my courage drain out of me. I stood there with my implements hanging limply at my sides staring down at the rat wondering if it just “looked dead”.

Suddenly my implements weren’t good enough to dispose of a zombie rat, so I retreated back to my place and accepted defeat.  Only I couldn’t just leave it there and I didn’t have enough time to get tanked up in order to restore my courage. Also, that would be awkward when my brother showed up to have a normal dinner with me and realized that I was completely shitfaced on a Sunday afternoon.

So I did what most girls would do in that situation; I called a guy for help.

I texted my neighbour and asked if he was at home. He responded and said no but then immediately called to see if I was okay. I told him about my problem and he told me not to worry about it and that he’d take care of it. 20 minutes later, he got home and I got a text saying “It’s gone”.

Thank God you George!!

Dancing Queen

Like all children, I lived life with reckless abandon when I was growing up. Sure, I hurtled myself down entire flights of stairs and jumped off patios. But also, I would dance and sing with no regard for anyone around me and what they might be thinking of me. And I gave them a lot of ammunition.

Then I reached a stage of my life where awkwardness and fear of judgment clouded my ability to have fun without worrying about whether or not I was making a fool of myself. I led a sad life where I censored myself so that people didn't think I was a weirdo. Then came alcohol, which pushed my fear of judgment into a haze where I knew it was there more than I could see that it was there. Unfortunately, it did nothing for my awkwardness.

Getting back to the point of this post, when I was a kid, Granny used to take me to some sort of centre. I don't know what or where it was, but there were a lot of old folks around and it took place in some sort of gymnasium. Not very helpful, I know. Mostly, I remember that they would play music and I loved it. All the old folks would dance slowly in the middle of the gym; swaying back and forth ever so gently, careful not to break a hip.

I, on the other hand, was four years old and super excited to be there. I would "dance" around the perimeter of the gym. It was a kind of weird version of the can-can, but with much more forward momentum. And fewer people.



Try as I might, I could never get anyone to dance with me. Not even the more chipper of the bunch. That only fueled my attempts; I wanted to make it look more fun to lure the old folks in. But that just seemed made it look that much more dangerous because no one ever joined me. More often than not, Granny would request that I "just sit down". Now that I think about it, I'm not sure why she brought me there; she probably wasn't very popular because of me. Mind you, I probably slept really well those nights and the quiet time was probably worth the hour of ridicule.

Growing up is hard to do

When I was a kid, we moved out of one neighbourhood and into another. With a new neighbourhood comes a new school, and a new school brings new friends. It isn't always easy and it doesn't always work out.

Shortly after my first day at my new school, I was befriended by a girl named Honey. Seriously - I did not change her name to protect her identity. She was a nice enough girl and we came to be pretty good friends; I had dinner and sleepovers at her place and helped her with her paper route. At one point, we had a falling out; I honestly don't remember what sparked it, but I vividly remember what maintained it.

I guess Honey was upset by the ordeal and her big brother, Dorian, decided to take it upon himself to fix it. And by fix it, I mean pick on me and make my life hell. The pair of them became my bullies.

With names like Honey & Dorian, I guess the only defense is a good offense. Dorian used to hit me, push me down and whip me with rocks tied to string. Again... not making this up. My brother would chase him off, but Danny wasn't always around. Sometimes it was up to me to fend off this older, bigger, boy. That and his tag-teaming sister. It wasn't always easy.

My parents tried everything short of my dad kicking the ass of Minor Dorian, or Elderly Max (their dad - seriously, he was so old that he was retired... did I mention I was in elementary school?)

One night my dad took us over to his friend's place; Dad & his buddies got nice and liquored up. At one point, my dad approached me and told me that this Honey & Dorian fiasco had to stop; I had to stand up for myself. I said that I try, but when I do stand up to Dorian, Honey steps in and then it's two against one... what else can I do?

Why, learn to fight, of course. Since I was a 10 year old girl, Dad didn't want to teach me how to actually fight, so he taught me to fight like... well, a 10 year old girl.

He told me to slap him in the face. I laughed and didn't do it. Dad became more and more persistent. He wouldn't take no for an answer.

That's when I made the decision that I was going to have to slap my dad. My first swing was half-hearted at best. I couldn't very well actually hit my dad in the face, after all.

But that simply wasn't good enough for him.

My slaps became harder and harder.

Dad was crouched down in front of me accepting blow after blow, never phased. After each and every slap, he'd say "That's better - but you can hit harder". Once I became accustomed to slapping my dad, I stopped being afraid and I just started giving it my all. At one point, I wound up with all my might and smashed my tiny little hand against my dad's face. He was impressed.

This continued on until his left cheek was bright red and I was beginning to enjoy the game. At that point, he thought he did his job and he left me with the following advice: Next time Dorian picks on you, you hit him like you just hit me.

Thanks Dad.

 

Big thanks to EliseArt for providing illustrations!

Here's one for the ladies

Just a quick post, I was out having dinner last night, just sitting there minding my own business. Another diner left his table to pay the server. He was one of those guys that have pects as large as my breasts and wears shirts that he obviously bought before he built himself up to gargantuan proportions.

Normally speaking, I don't find those guys attractive; too hard, too big, too veiny. But this guy, although, too large for his small frame, still looked... well, not soft, but not hard either. And he wasn't veiny at all. So I was sitting there enjoying the scenery.

He turned around to chat with his friend that had just walked up; I sneaked a peek at his ass, because a nice bum is a very good thing. I was shocked. And I laughed.

His ass was such a contrast to the rest of his body; his large chest, his large arms. He had absolutely no ass. And it not like it was there, but looked tiny in comparison. No... his ass was concave. He had a negative ass.

Like, it actually went into his body, instead of out. His friend (girlfriend?) walked up just as I was snickering; I tried to hide it with my martini glass. She looked at me, smiled, but also kinda gave me a weird look. I thought for a moment that she had heard me giggling.

His other friend came up; a guy with a slight build that was probably 3 inches taller than Mr Built and probably weighed 50lbs less. As they're walking past my table, I couldn't help butt realize that Mr Skinny had a nice, supple, convex behind.

I was checking out the wrong dude.

Those shoes are illegal!

I was sitting at home the other night, minding my own business, surfing the internet. It was pretty late - maybe 2am; I'd just gotten home from a bar. So there I was; deep in thought, surfing with the exaggerated care of that of a drunk person. I was really into the computer and my own little world.

I tossed my head back in laughter at some anecdote that I had come across when something caught the corner of my eye.

It took a moment before my eyes adjusted and the image registered in my brain.

And then it sunk in.

A giant* fucking spider on my wall. Just hanging out. Practically right above me*. Scared the hell out of me. I ran, grabbed my vacuum cleaner and sucked him right up. I tried not to be too loud, but with my squealing and bashing around, running the vacuum cleaner and laughing, I'm pretty sure I wasn't that quiet. Also, I may have been drunk.

*Disclaimer: Spider was not that big and it was about 3ft away from me*

Elise is a jerk

*Disclaimer: This post is girly and is about make up and other girly things. I'm sorry.

I was (I am?) bit of a dummy when it comes to make up and other things really girly. No wonder I'm single. Wait a minute... real men don't like make up!

(Not a real man)

I simply didn't understand the fundamental aspects of make up: colour and technique namely. Basically, I was notoriously bad at picking it out and putting it on.

As per usual, I blamed the 'look' on external forces, like the type and colour of the make up and, don't forget the classic, "I just need to practice" factor.

A number of years ago, I decided that I was going to learn a thing or two about make up. I went to the drug store (some might argue that was my first mistake) and was bombarded by the sheer magnitude of products available.

There were different brands (of course), all with different colours (blue black, black black, brown black, midnight black, soft black) and products for different types of skin. It was all very overwhelming. I think bought one mascara and one nail polish before I ran out of the building.

A few years later, I decided, once again, that I had to learn about make up. So I built up the necessary courage and tackled the drug store once again. Again, I was bombarded by options. I decided that the best thing to do was to buy colours I liked. Complexion and colouring be damned. I picked out a set of really nice plum eye shadows. I applied it according to the package directions, and yet:

Train wreck. I didn't try again for another couple years. Just as I'm in the drug store for the third time eyeing plum eye shadow (I also have memory issues), something catches my eye. It's a set of eye shadow for blue eyes. I have blue eyes! I scooped it up and brought it home. Only:

Less than successful. A couple more years go by and my brother is about to get married. Realizing that the atrocity I call my face would be captured in hundreds of photos I decided I needed professional help. I went to a salon to have my hair and make up done. The lady did my hair and was about to start my make up when she decided to go over the colour scheme with me.

"I think black and gold would look really good on you". My first instinct was "Dear God, that will look hideous, what is she thinking?!?". I toned it down some and expressed my skepticism with a diplomatic "Don't you think black is a little dark for my skin?". She assured me that it was not and it would look good. Based on my judgment in the past, I decided to trust her.

I got compliments all night about this black and gold eye make up. After the fact, I decided to hit the drug store with black and gold in mind. I ended up finding a set of eye shadow that had copper and brown (close enough) for blue eyes. My first instinct was to ditch it based on the hooker look I got from the last blue-eyed-set; I kept looking for "more gold, less copper", but kept coming back to the damn set. I bought it and a fancy brush, applied it according to the package directions and, for the first time ever, I wasn't a train wreck. Almay did something right.