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.

Practical jokes really aren’t that practical

There are three of us at work that share an office; one of us may or may not get picked on much more than the others. I could reminisce for hours about the shenanigans that go on on a daily basis. It’s really quite fun.

I was talking with one of my officemates the other day about practical jokes. Throughout the duration of our conversation an instance started slowly coming to my mind. It was rolling out of the fog; the fog of suppressed memories, of course.

I was just promoted to supervisor; I was still in the awkward transition stage. So much so, one of my friends said to me “Heather, you really seem out of your element. Don’t worry – you can do this!”. Which was both reassuring and also troubling since everyone could see that I was obviously struggling.

Not long after, another “friend” came to talk to me.

I got back to work and forgot about it. I ended up going into the lab to talk to someone; I was trying to tie up a loose end before I left to go to school.

I finished my tasks, got cleaned and packed up and left for school. I got to school and was waiting for the class to start.

That’s when it all came flooding back. I was so weirded out I didn’t pick up on the obvious queues: the awkward pat on the back; the people snickering in the lab.

Getting old

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Girl: Would you like to sit down?

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

Girl: Are you sure?!

TWG: Totally.

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Cashier: $8:35, please.

TWG: On debit, please.

(we’re Canadian, leave us alone)

Cashier: Does it have the tap function?

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

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

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

Cashier: It is.

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

Cashier: Oh, it comes on newer debit cards.

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

Cashier: Are you sure it doesn’t tap?

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

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

TWG: Okay – thanks!!!

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

Back to School

I had all the intentions in the world to write this post sooner than now, but I’ve been MIA from the blog world for a bit and before I knew it, it was already half way through September. For that, I’m sorry. But that didn’t stop me from writing this post! You’re welcome.

My mother has ruined every vacation I’ve ever had.

When I was a kid, summer was the most glorious, long-lasting, time of doing nothing in my whole life; my days were filled with watching bad TV, bugging my mom for money because the ice cream truck was coming and having my mom yell at me to get out of the house and do something. But, no matter how awesome my summer was, it always came crashing down because of my mother.

Like all parents she counted down the months, weeks, days to when we were going back to school and getting the hell out of her face. That’s one thing; I get that, kids are annoying when they’re hanging about all the time. It’s another thing that she reminded us every chance she got that she was actually counting down the days. Once August hit, it was her objective to remind us as often as humanly possible that school was fast approaching.

It seemed like a long way away, but then the timeline got shorter and shorter.

By the time Labour Day weekend rolled around, Mom was positively giddy about the whole situation, by the last night she could barely contain herself.

She managed to “work it into conversation” every day of that last “not long enough” long weekend. It was crushing.

Now, I’m an adult and summer has gotten shorter and shorter (you could say it's over before you know it) and it’s no longer a 2 month vacation. In fact, I have to work through the entire thing and I’m lucky if I can get two weeks off during the summer. But no matter when I take my vacation, no matter how long of a vacation I take, my mother always ruins it.

As I lay in bed on the last night of my vacation, inevitably tossing and turning because I’ve messed up my sleep schedule, I’m plagued with one thought and one thought only.

Just goes to show you that you never quite out grow the teenage “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you” stage.

Just kidding, Mom, I love you.

 

 

Just kidding, you guys, she doesn’t read this!

Curry in a hurry

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I may or may not have gone overboard.

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

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

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

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

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

When strangers leave you speechless…

Friday night, I went out for a few drinks with a friend from work. It had been a stressful week and it’s only going to get worse over the next while, so in order to let off some steam, we went out on the town. Meanwhile, another friend of mine was messaging me, bugging me to come out and meet her for drinks.

Once I wrapped up with the work folk, I taxi’d over to my local establishment to meet my friend. She was pretty loaded by the time I got there. A couple people were sitting one table over; my friend had met them at the first pub she visited; they came and sat down at our table and we all started talking.

At one point, I went to the bathroom; the lady came with me. Once I was finished peeing, I attempted to vacate the bathroom. I didn’t think we were “there” yet (as far as needing to wait for the other to finish), so I started walking towards the door, calling “I’ll see you out there!” over my shoulder as I went.

She called me back in; I didn’t know what she needed me for, or what she needed to say. I also didn’t realize that what she was going to say would break my heart into a million little pieces.

She told me that she’s “with the wrong man”. Knowing absolutely nothing about her situation, I replied with something generic, along the lines of “You should be with someone that makes you happy”. But she told me that she was afraid of being alone. Since I’m chronically single I told her that I know being alone sucks, but I think it’s better than being unhappy.  She said that she was confused and didn’t know what she wanted.

TWG: You know what? I just met you and you’re telling me (while crying in the bathroom of a bar, I might add) that you’re with the wrong man. That tells me you know you’re not happy.

C: But I’m afraid of being alone!

TWG: But does your fear of being alone outweigh the fact that you’re unhappy?

C: Yes!

She said it so adamantly. And since I don’t know her, I figured I couldn’t really give advice, or tell her what I think without knowing the situation. I politely asked what was wrong with the guy that makes him the wrong guy.

She got a thoughtful look on her face. She really seemed to be weighing her answer; like what was the main problem with her man. Maybe he works too much. Maybe he’s emotionally unavailable. There are all sorts of reasons why someone could be the wrong person.

I wasn’t prepared for her answer. Her eyes welled up with tears again and she looked at me with the saddest look I think I’ve ever seen on a person’s face.

C: Probably the beatings. (she said it so matter-of-factly)

TWG: He hits you??!

C: Yeah, but I can be a real B-I-T-C-H. (yes, she spelled it out) If I was him, I’d hit me too.

TWG: That isn’t good… That’s not right…

C: But I don’t have anywhere to go. I don’t have any friends. I’m from Edmonton and I’m alone with him here.

I didn’t know what else to say. I just hugged her. Someone else came in the bathroom so we left and went back to the table. She kept looking at me and mouthing “Thank-you”. She was so grateful for having someone to listen to her. So grateful for having someone that cared. She kept saying that she was so glad to have met me; that she needs good people in her life.

I told her I would be her friend. I got her number and told her I would call her. I don’t know what she needs. I don’t know if I can give it to her. All I know is that she needs a friend and someone to talk to. I have ears and a shoulder to cry on; they’re hers if she wants them.

Well… Shit.

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

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

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

I logged onto facebook and typed up a message:

I went to Thailand!

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

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

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

I hit send.

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

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

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

All good things must come to an end

Since I’ve kept you up-to-date with the goings-ons, I thought I’d give you the last update. I ended it with Thailand.

I was out for dinner with a friend on Friday night, the waitress asked me how “my lover” was and if we were “going out” yet. She then asked me how long it had been, when I didn’t answer, she ventured a guess and asked if it had been 5 months yet. I confirmed. She said “It’s almost been half a year, what’s the hold up?”. Little did she know, we were 4 days away from our 6 month anniversary. If you can call it that.

Half a year. When you say it like that… Wow… I knew the date was coming up, and, mentally, I’d even set 6 months as a deadline: if we’re not “an item” by then, we won’t be and we shouldn’t see each other anymore; it’s a waste of time. But as the deadline drew near, I started pushing it back, giving myself more time, delaying the inevitable.

Maybe I’ll give him all of September; no need to end it right in the middle.

Maybe I’ll give him until I leave for Thailand; I’ll get an extra month out of him.

On Saturday, I went shopping for his birthday present. I drove for over an hour in order to go to a store I had no business being in. This is a specialty shop and I know nothing about this specialty. I went in to purchase one thing and one thing only. The only thing I knew he needed. When they didn’t have it in stock, I started thinking about plan B. Saturday night I surfed the internet trying to find more information on plan B. Plan B, like plan A, is something I know nothing about.

And then it hit me. What’s the point of all this? This is a guy that doesn’t want to be my boyfriend. This is a guy that goes on, what I call, cold cycles where I don’t hear from him or see him for days (sometimes upwards of a week or two) at a time. Which has happened often enough that I’ve coined a term for it. And here I am, doing research and going on special trips trying to find a good birthday gift for him. A gift that I’m going to give to him days or, at most, weeks before I end it with him. Depending on how weak I am, of course.

I thought the best thing to do is end it with him next time I saw him. But he’s currently on a cold cycle and hasn’t had much contact with me for nearly a week as it is. I saw a Facebook update of his. I clicked on his page and scanned through some pictures. Even with all these feelings, I felt myself caving. I thought to myself “God damn, you’re sexy”… I felt myself caving.

Maybe I’ll see what happens when I come back from Thailand… Maybe he’ll miss me when I’m gone…

I told myself to snap out of it. I typed up a break-up text. 95% of our correspondence is in text, so it seemed appropriate, even though it’s 100% cowardly. I stared at it. I saved it in my drafts. I opened it again. I added a line or two. I stared at it some more. I cried. Despite the emotional wall I put up when I knew it was going nowhere, I think he got in.

I went for a drive. I drove. I cried. I opened the text. I read it again. I went out for lunch. I opened the text. I read it again. I opened the text. My finger hovered over the send button. My heart pounded. I felt sick. My heart returned to a normal rate and my stomach settled down. I was convinced I had come to terms with it. I hit send.

I found myself in a store that I’ve never set foot in before, looking for a birthday gift for you. I can’t help but wonder: what’s the point?

I would rather do this in person, but who knows when I’ll see you next.

It’s been fun. Thank-you. But I think we’re done.

Take care of yourself. Good luck with school.

XO

My heart pounded. I felt sick. I cried.

That was over 4 hours ago. I’ve heard nothing. I guess I didn’t leave much room for a response. I guess it’s kind of final. Regardless, I expected something. Even if it was just “Okay. You take care too.”

I was hoping for more than that.

I’ve flip-flopped between “maybe I made a mistake” and “this is for the best” a hundred times. I’ve cried.

I’ve come to realize, my wall (like my filter) is a chain link fence and he’s an ant. I thought the barbed wire could protect me. I didn’t realize he was so wily. Despite my best efforts, it’s obvious he got in. I kicked him out. But now I’m sad. I guess I was hoping he’d try to sneak back in.

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.”

Back to school! Well… maybe…

As you probably know, I’ve been a student for the past… too long. My spring/summer semester ended in June and it marked the last of the classes I needed to get my degree. The only thing standing in my way is a project I have to complete. A very large research project.

I was supposed to use this summer to make headway on said project; work hard, get it done and finish with school for good. I did nothing. My projects class that I have to register for and get approval before I can do so, started on Sept 1. I emailed the powers-that-be on Aug 31. And the great project idea that I came up with is not a great project idea in their mind.

I’m pretty much screwed to finish my report by the end of the year, as was my goal. I’m not terribly upset – it’s my own doing after all. But I am somewhat annoyed with myself. I guess I got caught up in the “I’m done!!!” mindset and forgot that I have to finish before I’m actually done.

So… now I’m trying to register for a class that has already started and come up with another project idea and hope that I can do this in the next week or two. I really should have worked harder this summer. But, quite frankly, I didn’t wanna.

I’ll pay for this later. And by “later”, I mean “now”. FML.

Oh no! Not another one!?!?!?

Alright, it’s official. I have another stalker. I know this because they left a creepy message on my car. I found it when I left work on Friday. This is it in all it’s glory:

Naturally, I spent the majority of my car ride home laughing, things like “Oh, Gorm, that’s a good one!” running through my head.

But then, my mind started wandering… have I said what kind of car I drive on my blog? I know I’ve said that I work near my school but I never said which school… And then for the briefest of seconds:

Because I wouldn’t be surprised if I got another stalker under my belt… And he’s probably hoping for the very same thing.

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:

My weekend in a nutshell…

I had Gorm over for Music Day the other day. For those of you who don’t know what Music Day is, it’s when Gorm and I get together and play music (aptly named, I know). He plays piano, I play guitar, we sing and bicker like an old married couple in between fits of laughter. It’s great.

During our two hour break for dinner and chatting, he asked me how it was going with Thailand, I said “Good… …. of course there’s drama, but it’s good”. He said “So if it’s ‘good’, I assume it’s normal drama"?”. I confirmed. He got a weird look on his face and said “It’s you… so I have to wonder if this drama actually falls anywhere close to ‘normal’”. Slightly offended, I said “What the hell is that supposed to mean?!” His response?

Touché, Gorm.

At the end of the night, we were discussing his upcoming wedding; in an attempt to be uncharacteristically supportive, he said “Just think… in a couple years, it might be you and Bangkok…I mean, Thailand getting married.”

I’d like to officially unofficially change his name to Bangkok, but I think Thailand sounds better, even though Bangkok is much more descriptive.

I had my brother over for dinner the following night, he too asked how it was going with my beau (he doesn’t know his name is Thailand, and he also forgets his actual name). I told him it was going good and that I was still seeing him. He asked when he gets to meet him. I laughed and said “I dunno… I don’t think we’re “there” yet.” He asked “What’s with all the secrets?”. I was like “What secrets? You know about him, so he’s not a secret!”.

His wife pipes up; six weeks into dating my brother, she told her mom that she had started seeing this guy. When her mom found out it had been going on for six weeks and she didn’t know about it, she got mad, asked “Why are you being so secretive?!?” and stormed out of the room. Jacqui looked me straight in the eye and said “SIX WEEKS, Heather!”… I get the feeling that they don’t approve, given that we’re nearly four months in.

That, and Danny said “After all this time, you really should be “there” by now.”

Today I’m supposed to drive Thailand to the airport, which is weird in and of itself. You might be wondering why it’s weird, after all, he drove me to the airport a mere two weeks into our situationship. It’s weird because Thailand doesn’t ask me for anything, let alone driving him to an airport in a whole other country (he’s flying out of Bellingham). He suggested making a day of it and going down so we can have lunch before he has to catch his flight. And then he left his toothbrush at my place. What’s next? He’s going to want to put his things in my drawers?? (… … oh wait, he already does that…)

Chemistry: Either there's a reaction or there isn't.

During grades 5 through 7, going to school dances was my big thing. I guess dancing has been a part of my life for longer than I realized. I'm not sure why I liked them so much, I guess it was my first taste of freedom and it made me feel like a big girl. This was also around the time I started liking boys. Coincidence? I think not...

I can remember dancing with boys from my class; it usually went one of two ways...

or else....

A few times, I had a boyfriend when the dance was scheduled, so naturally, we went together. If at any point during the night, I felt like that first picture, I would end the 'relationship' shortly thereafter. If only because I didn't want to date someone where it was awkward being that close to them. I mean, how awkward would it be when we kiss?

High school was a haze fueled by drugs and alcohol, so I can't recall if we even had school dances. I'm sure we did, but I certainly didn't go to them. Eventually, graduation and prom rolled around and I went with my boyfriend of one year. We'd never really danced together before, except for that one time when he dipped me and then dropped me, head first, on concrete. Nice.

Anyway, it was nearing the end of prom night and we still hadn't danced. At one point, he turned to me and said "I suppose you want to dance now, don't you?". He seemed really excited about it, so I said "Yeah... kinda..." even though I'd been waiting the whole night for him to ask me to dance. The main reason you go to prom is to dance, am I right?

As we were walking to the dance floor, I can clearly remember thinking "Oh good, this shouldn't be awkward at all . We've had sex... dancing should be a piece of cake!" And then...

It was the longest 4 minutes in the history of the planet! I decided that I couldn't very well end a year long relationship based on criteria that I made up in grade 5, so I dated him for another 6 years and then wished that I hadn't wasted so much time. I guess I was wise beyond my years...

Recently, I was talking with a friend about salsa dancing; I was telling her how there are some guys that I dance with and we do it well right off the bat. And then there are others where I'm constantly struggling to keep up and have no idea what they want me to do. A mischievous grin spread across her face and she said "Oh yeah? So... when you're dancing with the good ones, does it make you think that'd you'd be good in bed together?". I said "No it doesn't... but it will from now on!".

Let's recap, shall we?

Some time ago, I told you all about this dude that I thought was going to be my stalker. I cut off ties, told him it's not going to work out and stopped responding to any/all attempts at contact he made.

Right after our one and only date (in SEPTEMBER), the contact was often and consistent, however it soon tapered off to a mere once every two weeks, which soon tapered off to a montly text. I haven't responded to anything since mid-September. I got Merry Christmas and Happy New Year messages. I didn't respond to any of them.

I was recently congratulating myself at shaking my stalker for good. It's been about 6 weeks since NYE and I haven't heard from him. I figured he finally got it. I figured he finally gave up. I figured he finally got me out of his head.

And then I get a text from him at 6am this morning: Happy Valentine's Day!

Fuck. Me. I guess I should quit patting myself on the back now.

A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Down Syndrome

I always have a hard time hitting publish for posts like these. But it's something I've been thinking about lately and I drew pictures and everything, so here it goes...

Depression is a bitch. It seems like it affects everyone at one point or another. Some people are clinically depressed and others just get a bout of it every so often.

I consider myself a pretty upbeat person, despite that, I struggled with depression a couple of months ago. Interestingly enough, I didn't realize what I was struggling with until I got out of it. That's probably often the case with rookies, such as myself.

A few months ago, I was super busy with school, spending time with family and friends and just generally maintaining a social life; I had no time for myself whatsoever. When school ended, I crashed.

At first, I thought I was just being lazy. I would spend entire weekends in bed; not because I was sick, I just had no drive to do anything. I wasn't seeing my friends, I wasn't calling anybody, I would leave the house only if someone dragged me kicking and screaming out of my comfy little rut.

This laziness quickly took over the work week and I found myself doing nothing 7 days a week. I thought I was burnt out, I thought I needed some time to regroup. After a month, I started questioning what was wrong with me.

I started forcing myself to go out and do things, to not go to bed as soon as I got home at night and to leave my house (and my bed) on weekends.

At first, I went through this schizophrenic battle every weekend, but eventually, I looked forward to going out and doing things. I kept up with it and soon enough I was back to my regular self. It was at that point that I realized I had been depressed.

Which has got me thinking about depression in general; a few people in my life, including my brother, struggle with it on a daily basis. My bout of depression was measured in weeks; my brother's depression is measured in years. I got out of my funk by giving myself a pep talk and making myself go out and do things. Danny is on medication and sees a psychologist; something tells me his depression is a bit more complex.

I could have used someone to give me a kick in the pants in order to get me out of my rut. But I think I'll get kicked to the curb if I become that person for my brother. He'll likely think I'm harping on him and no one wants to be around that. Can you blame them?

Where's the happy medium? How much is too much and how much is not enough? How do you know if you're making a difference, or making them distance themselves from you?

Let there be light

This is likely my last post until I get back. I'm struggling to come up with a topic other than Mexico. It's really difficult. How about a ramdon post about things that have happened lately? You love those, right? This one shall be about light bulbs. Yep, light bulbs. You're welcome.

I had a friend over at my place the other day to fix all the things I've broken as of late (Thanks Dave!). As we were nearing the end of the long list, I started adding little extras. He was thrilled. One of the extras being the light in my living room.

This fixture has three sconces; one of the sconces was broken - I could not for the life of me take out the light bulb. And it was burnt out. Turn and turn as you might, the thing just rotated. When I first discovered it, I decided that two out of three aint bad and I didn't need to fix it. But when one of the remaining two light bulbs burnt out (again) I decided it might be a good idea to have someone look at it.

And by someone. I mean Dave.

Dave climbed up on my coffee table and started turning. He said "Uh, oh... that's not good..." He suspected the socket was turning freely, possibly twisting the wires inside. He thought they could break at any time and then be a serious fire hazard. I quickly realized I'm not equipped to deal with fire. I have no fire extinguisher, my fire alarm has been removed and put... somewhere... and I have no insurance. I decided it might be a good time to talk to my landlord.

The very next day, I saw him outside and told him of my plight with the light bulb. He came in, took a look, dissected the fixture and removed the shotty light bulb. He asked for another bulb. I did not have one.

Side story:

I find light bulbs to be very expensive and not even the fancy, long-lasting, eco-friendly, power-smart variety. Just plain old light bulbs are expensive. So, when I go to buy them and realize just how expensive they are, I leave that store, go to WalMart and pick up the cheapest light bulbs I can find. Without fail, they last about a month and crap out on me. I buy tonnes of light bulbs and go through them like they're going out of style. Thus, I had no light bulbs in the house even though I had bought at least a dozen in the past year. I don't even own that many lights.

The next day, I went out and bought light bulbs and again, was astounded at how expensive they were. I decided that I wasn't going to cheap out, I was going to pay the going rate for light bulbs and deal with it. I was none too happy about spending $10 on a 4-pack. So I bought some pudding to go along with it. It was butterscotch and it was delicious. And only $1.29 for four.

Anyway, I brought home the light bulbs and put two new bulbs in my living room light. I also remembered that my kitchen light (same fixture as living room) also had two out of three bulbs burnt out. I replaced those as well.

I tested out the kitchen light and was practically blinded by the brightness. I'm not sure if it's the type of bulb I purchased, or the fact that I paid going rate for light bulbs and they actually work or the fact that there's three times the amount of light in the kitchen now. Regardless, at that very moment I realized: I have not been cleaning my kitchen properly at all. Parts of the kitchen looked absolutely filthy. Parts where one week ago, I thought were just slightly dirty. I was shocked.

I should really get on that.

Shackle your hocks

Okay. I'm pale. I get it. But with my last name and nationality, what do you expect, really? All my life I've been the butt of pale jokes and it's likely never to stop. So I might as well embrace it and inform you of the consequences of living with this complexion.

When I was a kid, we had a swing set. I loved this swing set. I would play for hours around it; going down the slide, swinging on the swings, prancing around the supports.

Eventually even the most hyper active children wind down. After a few hours of play, my once exuberant attitude would diminish radically. But I would soldier on trying to convince myself I was still having fun.

One day exhaustion and denial got the better of me.

That's right, I fell asleep on the swing. It was in the middle of a summer day with the sun beating down on me, and I was only wearing a thin sun dress. I woke up disoriented and staggered back into the house. At first, I thought the worst part was that I fell asleep while I was playing. Kind of embarrassing. But that wasn't the worst part; the worst part was the sunburn. The sun literally burned me through my dress.

My memory of that day is hazy, due to the severe case of heat stroke I had. But I do remember that eventually bedtime rolled around and Granny wanted to get me out of my dress and into my pj's. She told me to take off my dress.

But I could not lift my arms above my head. She tried helping me get the dress off; she gave it a few valiant efforts and then decided there had to be a better course of action.

I freaked out. To me, in my delusional state, the problem was that my arms weren't working, so when Granny said she was going to get the scissors, there was only one possible outcome.

She was going to cut my arms off in order to get the dress over my head. Totally logical, I know. In the time it took her to go get the scissors and come back I was in full blown panic mode. When she came back in the room, I didn't see my nice grandmother; I saw a woman that was going to butcher me.

I started screaming "No Granny!! Please don't, please don't!!!" She didn't understand (and why would she?) so she kept coming at me with the scissors. I continued screaming, but managed to elaborate (somewhat) "No Granny!! Please don't cut my arms off!!!!".

Granny was slightly confused (for some reason), but eventually, she realized that I wasn't going to stop screaming bloody murder so she tried to use reason. She explained to me that she was going to use the scissors to cut off the dress, so I could get into my pj's. But that didn't matter, I was still panicking "I'll just sleep in my dress!!!". And so I did.

The next morning I was able to lift my arms and take off the dress. But the psychological scars lasted much longer than the sunburn. I never wanted to be sunburned again. I took drastic measures to ensure my safety.

Like wearing my winter coat every time I played on the swingset. After all, I'd rather be delirious with heat exhaustion than be sunburnt and delirious with heat exhaustion. At least I was happy.

 

 

Big thanks to JArt for being the guest artist and providing illustrations.

Wow - good thing you didn't have an outburst, huh?!

I think I can confidently say this has happened to every single one of us. And if not, then it will. At some point or another you will find yourself in a situation where you have to talk to the most socially retarded person on the planet. And it won't be easy.

From my experience, these conversations always progress through at least four stages. There is a fifth, optional, stage that you must pull out if you are absolutely required to speak to this person on a regular basis. Like, if you married them, for example.

If you can, drink your way through the stages, it'll make it that much more entertaining and much less awkward. Though be warned, sometimes drinking to this extreme is seen as 'inappropriate' or 'raging alcoholism'.

For sanity, it's best if the stages are brief, but more often than not, they're not. If you're at a party or a bus-stop, the stages will progress very quickly. If you go to school with or are related to the socially inept dweeb, the stages will drag on until you would prefer to stick shards of glass in your eyes than continue talking with them.

The first stage is introduction. Often times, you don't realize how socially retarded someone is until you make your first attempt at conversation.

You say hello and they look at you; you introduce yourself and they look at you; you ask them what their name is and their friend answers you. If you make the mistake of trying to shake their hand, they'll look at your right hand extended and then back to your face. Their facial expression will not change. If at all possible, leave the situation now. If it's important that you talk with this person, try to progress through the remaining stages quickly just so you can say "I tried".

The second stage is asking questions to try and get them to talk.

Most socially awkward people will answer your questions with one or two words and will not ask you anything in return. This makes the question-answer stage painfully boring (or maybe just painfully painful); you're going to have to get creative if you want to get anything out of them. But it likely won't work. Don't worry, you'll move onto the third stage soon enough.

The third stage is volunteering information; since they won't ask you anything, you begin providing them with the information that they should be asking for, or random facts and trivia.

I like to tell stories; it's far more entertaining (for me) than telling them about what I do for work, or how I know the person we both know. Besides, that will only work for so long; plus I think that if I tell a story about the most basic life experiences, I will show them just how easy it is and they might reciprocate, even just a little bit.

Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. When it does, it's glorious; when it doesn't, I'm sure the dud is left wondering how I yammered on for 15 minutes about buying milk. Eventually, stage three runs it's course. No matter how hard you try, you can't think of anything else to say to this person. Welcome to stage four.

The fourth stage is where you simply ignore them. Stop making eye contact, stop looking in their general direction, basically stop acknowledging their presence entirely.

This is the final stage for people that you don't need to talk to ever again. It's the best stage when dealing with random people at the bar, or on the street, because if you do it right, even you forget that they're there.

However, in most social circumstances you can't stay in this stage for very long; people will start saying that you're rude, or a bitch. These people have been in the fifth stage for so long that they've forgotten what it's like going through the first four stages with this person. Don't worry, it'll happen to you too.

The final stage is acceptance. You come to realize that this person has made it through their entire life being a social tard and nothing you do will ever be able to change that. Sometimes it's easier to just lay down and take it. Luckily, you won't have to take much, because they likely are still unable to have a conversation with you. You better learn to love awkward silences. My coping mechanism is music - I play music in my head in an attempt at convincing myself I'm having a good time. Oh, denial, you've helped me so ... ... ... wait... no, you haven't; I did it all on my own.

 

 

Big thanks to EliseArt for providing illustrations.