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.

I have a blog?

Holy crap – I think this is hands-down the longest dry spell I’ve ever had with my blog.

A lot has been going on around here. I’ll try to give a brief rundown on what’s been going on… I’m sure most of these will require their own post. We’ll see if that happens.

First off, I’ve been working away at my school project – it’s been a struggle for the past year and it’s only gotten worse in the last 3 months. The good news is, I’ve finally gotten the green light to go ahead with it, so I’ll be starting that next week. And it will overtake my life for the next however-many-months.

For too long, I’ve been working too much; I recently decided I need more balance in my life and, as a result, have made huge efforts to maintain a social life with friends and family. Good, in theory, but it makes me stay up too late and have no time for writing.

But I have a feeling that minimal overtime will soon come to an end – it’s a big year at work and the to-do list will eventually catch up to me and I’ll be living there again. Such is life, I guess.

There’s also the summer factor, which also contributes to the social life factor. With the long days of sunshine, it’s much easier to not even think about going home until well after dark. And with the long days come short nights, so I’ve found its much easier for me not to get home until sunrise. It’s happening more and more. Which makes the next day rough and unproductive.

Yet worth every minute of it.

Now that I’ve put that in writing, it doesn’t seem as though it’s enough to warrant such a stretch of non-writing. I guess there’s no real excuse.

 

Except there might also be a boy involved.

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.

Sleeping on the Couch

Couch sleeping happens from time to time. Sometimes, I fall asleep watching a movie or TV, wake up and go to bed. Sometimes, when I want to have a nap, but don’t want to “really sleep”, I cozy up on the couch. Sometimes, when I can’t fall asleep at night, I get out of bed and go to the couch for a change of scenery. Regardless of how it happens the outcome is almost always the same: not a very good sleep and a good chance of a kink in the neck.

But for some reason, when Danny & I were growing up, it was a big, damn deal for us to sleep on the couch. I remember us hassling Mom for permission on a pretty regular basis.

Reluctantly, she would let us, knowing full well that would we stay up well past our bedtime watching Love Connection (don’t ask me why, but we loved that show). The only problem was, at that time, we only had one couch and Danny was older, taller and stronger than me.

I always got the chair.

Still, I always wanted to sleep on the couch, even with knowing that I would never actually sleep on the couch.

Maybe I was a light sleeper (or maybe I was a light sleeper because I was sleeping in a chair), but I can remember being woken up a few times while sleeping in the living room.

As you may or may not remember from this post, I’m somewhat of an active sleeper; I talk, I walk, I … do who knows what else, really. I guess this is a hereditary trait because I distinctly remember getting woken up by my brother talking in his sleep one night on the couch.

I remember Danny talking so loudly and clearly, that I thought I’d slept late and he was up and about already. I opened my eyes, it was pitch black and Danny was sleeping soundly beside me. I can’t remember all of what was said, but I got the impression that Danny was dreaming about playing football. He never played football.

I was confused as to what had woken me; I started considering that perhaps I’d dreamt the commotion. I was about to snuggle back into my blanket, when…

He practically yelled it and he was dead asleep.

It wasn’t always my brother making noises that woke me up. Once I remember being woken up by the sounds of non-so-distant, but very quiet, whimpering. Non-human whimpering.  When I woke up enough for thought processes to be formed, I quickly caught on to what was happening.

On the foot of the couch; on my brother’s sleeping bag.

I think that may have been the last time we slept on the couch.

 

Merry Christmas!! And fear not, my friends, a post about my trip to Cuba will happen!

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!

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.

You can make a sandwich out of anything!

As I mentioned in a previous post, I haven’t been so good on the whole cooking front lately. As I was driving home this evening I was trying to formulate some sort of meal plan so I could avoid the drive-thru, restaurant or the singles-section at Safeway.

As I mentally combed through my edibles, the best thing I could come up with was a meatloaf and cheese sandwich. Which should have got me pondering about my lack of will to live, but mostly it made me think about a conversation that happened the other day.

We were out for Father’s Day dinner, the topic of sandwiches came up. My brother declared that you can make a sandwich out of anything. My, very pregnant, sister-in-law asked if a sandwich could be made out of spaghetti (that was my dish of the evening and apparently the most far-fetched idea she could come up with).

I said yes, having witnessed it at work, by Gorm, on a number of occasions. My brother, incredulously, added that of course you could, in fact, who hasn’t had a spaghetti sandwich. She silently gave him a look that either said “I haven’t and I can’t believe you have” or “I’ll kill you in your sleep tonight”.

Which got us talking about the best and worst non-traditional sandwiches ever made.

My Uncle John, being one of the youngest in a family of 11 brothers and sisters, with numerous nephews and nieces milling about trying to get a free meal, came up with a horrifying sandwich that would deter all those looking for a bite. After a few years of eating it, he came to like how it tasted and still enjoyed how he didn’t have to share the sandwich with anyone.

Sometimes he’d mix it up and incorporate cheese-whiz into the atrocity.

On the same side of the family, our cousin, Chris, had a strange affinity to cheese. Don’t get me wrong – cheese is great, but watching him devour his favourite sandwich was nauseating to say the least.

His stomach-turning sandwich consisted solely of the thickest slabs of cheddar cheese possible, drenched in an ungodly amount of yellow mustard, sandwiched between, well, two pieces of bread and microwaved to liquefy the cheese. Sometimes, he ditched the bread altogether and just set up shop on the couch with the Costco size brick of cheese and mustard bottle (sans microwave, because that would be gross).

Which brings us to the sandwich that my brother created that I completely erased from my memory banks. And not due to sheer disgust; it was actually a really great sandwich.

The Burrito Sandwich: take two pieces of bread, butter and salt & pepper both sides. Cut burrito in half so it fits on the bread. Put hot burrito between the bread and enjoy!

My sister-in-law was horrified, I reminisced about how good it was, while my brother tried repeatedly to convince her it was a tasty treat. The following conversation ensued:

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!

“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.

A Year in Review

One year ago today was the last time I spoke to my best friend, K. And “spoke to” is used loosely. In fact, it was the last time I received an angry email from her.

Hitting that milestone has led me to contemplate my life. What have I done? What have I accomplished?

My first thought was “Nothing! You’ve done nothing!”. But then as I stopped to think about it, I realized that’s just not true.

 

Things Heather has done in the past twelve months:

• Bought a URL for my blog
• Learned how to set up and use the thing
• Transferred my blog contents… twice
• Went to Mexico… alone … twice
• Kissed a girl
• Made out with a teenager
• Made an ass out of myself… more times than I can count
• Took dance lessons
• Learned how to dance
• Learned I love to dance
• Stopped having to be drunk in order to dance
• Got a promotion
• Started bossing people around… some people left
• Met a boy
• Started getting some
• Dumped a boy
• Stopped getting some
• Planned a trip to Thailand
• Hoping I’ll get some while I’m there
• Discovered the holy grail that is loose leaf tea
• Have an ever growing tea collection
• Lost weight
• Through dance, without even trying
• Made new friends
• Through dance, without even trying
• Became a foosball champion
• I have two silver medals to prove it
• It was a fluke…

All in all… a good year!

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.”

Circus freak

Growing up, we didn’t do too much as a family. Between Mom working all the time and us being the working poor (the two may or may not be related), we didn’t have a lot of time, money and/or a vehicle for things like family camping trips, picnics, going to museums or… whatever it is that families do together.

But there were a couple things that we did almost every year. Going to the PNE and Stanley Park being the main ones. But also, the circus.

I loved the circus. Looking back, I’m not quite sure what happened at the circus as far as exhibitions. I’m sure they had trapeze artists and tigers tricks (it was the ‘80’s after all), but what I remember most are the balloons.

I loved the balloons. I loved having the string wrapped around my wrist with the balloon bobbing around above my head. I loved how it trailed behind me as I walked. I loved how it quickly turned into the ball/paddle game, but instead of a ball, it was a balloon and instead of a paddle, it was my fist.

One day, as we were leaving the circus, I was playing with my balloon when the worst possible thing happened.

That’s right… the string securing the balloon to my wrist failed. I was horrified as I watched my balloon float higher and higher and further and further away. It was truly the worst moment of my life thus far.

#ThatWhiteGirlsProblems

My lower lip began to tremble. My eyes began to well with tears. My heart sank. And then Uncle Keith did the most amazing thing ever. He ran across the street, dodging cars and pedestrians, with the agility that only an uncle with two legs can have. He chased after my balloon with all his might and he caught it.

He strutted across the street with the smug look of success written all over his face; spectators cheered as he handed me my rescued balloon. The tears in my eyes dried up, my heart lifted and my lip stopped trembling. From that day forward, he was my favourite uncle.

Until Uncle Jim let me knock on his wooden leg, of course.