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 got laryngitis again

You may or may not remember a post from a few months back when I got laryngitis. Well, it happened again. And this time not entirely due to my own stupidity.

I recently went on a business trip (first one – it was terrifying!). The first day in Ontario, I developed a scratchy throat; luckily nothing materialized throughout my 3 day stay. I returned home Wednesday night and also noticed a scratchy throat; I attributed it to dry airplane air. Friday night, I went salsa dancing and once again noticed pain in my throat. I chalked it up to me being thirsty from dancing up a storm.

After leaving dance, I stopped off at my local watering hole and met up with some friends; we then went back to one of their houses and continued the festivities until far too late.

I woke up on Saturday feeling off; I wasn’t hungover (as these stories typically end), since I hadn’t had much to drink. I felt like I had the beginning of a cold; the sore throat had finally materialized. When my stepmom called, I realized that I didn’t have full use of my voice. A telltale sign of what was to come.

I went to my folks place for dinner, but had to leave fairly early because I was feeling and my voice was getting increasingly worse. I may or may not have made the mistake of singing in my car on the way home.

On Sunday, it was ten times worse; the laryngitis was in full force. When my mom called, I could barely squeak out a conversation. Later that day, I needed food, but didn’t have the energy to cook (if I had food), shop (to go get food) or anything. I decided to order some take out, but realized that I literally couldn’t. I went down to the restaurant with everything they could possibly ask me written down on a piece of paper.

Monday was fortunately a holiday and fortunately my voice started resembling normalcy once again. Unfortunately, the cold had reached mammoth proportions. Overall, a great way to spend a long weekend.

I set myself up on the couch with all the drinking implements I could need throughout the day. I was laid up the entire day, racked with coughs, body aches and fever.

I pushed myself to go to work today, partially because I have great work ethic (*cough* LIAR *cough*), but mostly because my body physically couldn’t stand another day of lying around.

I barely made it halfway through my day before I tapped out and went home. So although I haven’t spent the entire day laid up, I’ve spent the better part of the day doing absolutely nothing.

Four days and counting; hoping tomorrow is a better day. Wish me luck, folks!

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Here’s my version of a Valentine’s Day post. Enjoy!

Being chronically single, there are definitely times where I really yearn to be with someone and then there are times where I’m thankful for being alone. I’m sure the same can be said for people who are in relationships as well.

For me, both of these extremes become very apparent when I’m sick. I spent the better part of this week sick at home, so it became very clear in my mind just how much (and how quickly) I can flip flop on this particular subject.

For example, when I was at home laying on the couch wishing for death, the only thing that could make it more bearable was some juice, or soup, or something. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to have someone come and take care of me.

I was too sick to fend for myself. This actually happens more than I care to admit. There have been so many instances that I’ve developed a coping mechanism. I don’t like to drink juice full strength; I like to water it down. It’s easier on the stomach, if that’s not doing so great.

So I set up shop on the couch; I grab my tetrapak of juice out of the fridge, a glass and fill up a 1L container of water. I bring all the things to the couch and fill up my glass as I need. I do need to get up from time to time to refill my water, but much less than if I actually had to fill my cup up every time. In fact, if I invested in a larger measuring cup, I could reduce those trips down even further. Food for thought.

I’m still pretty much fucked if I need to get something to eat, but let’s just say, I got reserves.

On the other hand, when I’m disgustingly sick and things are coming out of places that no one needs to see, I’m fairly happy that I live alone.

But those instances are usually few and far between, besides realistically, the person I’m with better be okay with holding my hair back and cleaning up some puke when I miss the toilet. Or the bathroom altogether.

But nothing makes it hit home quite like it did the other night. I was very sick; in a lot of pain, had a pretty bad fever and a terrible cough. Plus I was covered in hives (an unrelated, yet agonizing, matter).

Even though I drugged myself up to “get a good nights’ sleep”, I still woke up constantly with scratching or coughing. Or alternating between kicking the blankets off and then scrambling to get them back on because I was shivering. And if that wasn’t enough, rolling over caused enough pain from my massive body aches (and probably hives) that I actually groaned audibly.

My first thought was that I hoped my upstairs people couldn’t hear me and/or weren’t being woken up by my agony. My next thought went to what it would actually be like if I was in a relationship; what if I was sharing my bed with someone. Times like these, I know one thing is certain.

Meh – small price to pay to have someone bring me soup, right?

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.

A post about dancing, because you can never have too many of those!

I’ve been out of the salsa game for awhile now. I stopped lessons back in April because of my course load at school, and I got out of the routine of going to the clubs when I put my back out in summer. My presence at the clubs has been sporadic at best for the past 4 months.

Two weeks ago, I went to my first lesson since April; I was embarrassingly rusty. My teacher, the one who taught me back in April, is doing a “teach at the level of my students” kind of lesson plan instead of just beginner, intermediate or advanced kind of structure. Of the four people in my class, I’m definitely the noob and he was teaching above my skillset. So it’s not all my fault. Regardless, it has prompted me to get back in the game and have an outlet for practicing.

As a result, I went dancing Friday night for the first time in quite some time. When I got there, the lesson was still going on even though it should have been finished. I grabbed a drink and waited for it to wrap up. When it did, I wandered down to the dance floor to look for a partner, but there wasn’t many people there and all of the guys were dancing with the girls they had the lesson with. I stood there for three or four songs before I ended up ‘circle dancing’ with a bunch of girls.

I was convinced that it was going to be an early night at the club and that I’d end up stopping in at my neighbourhood pub for a couple drinks before heading home. Then one of the guys asked me to dance, and then another, and then another. Before I knew it, I was getting pulled back onto the dance floor before I even had a chance to leave it.

Being a Latin dance, quite a few of the patrons are of Latin descent, naturally. Latinos are not usually particularly tall. I am fairly tall for a girl, so I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that I am usually taller than my dance partner, especially when you consider that I also dance in heels. I don’t mind, they don’t mind, so it’s all good. Except that there are certain styles of dance that require you to be at the same level as your partner. Since they can’t get up to mine, I have to get down to theirs.

It’s basically like doing squats for 5 minutes straight, without the relief of being able to stand upright in between squats.

One of my partners the other night was particularly short. I mean, he is probably 5’3” at best. I’m 5’8” and I was wearing 2” heels. I towered over him. Doing the squat dance was particularly painful. Between the pain in my knees and my thirst, I decided to go to the bar to grab a drink and have a sit down. The bartender saw me and asked “The same?”; I said “No – could I have a glass of water, please?”. As he’s pouring my glass of water, the other bartender starts measuring out a shot of vodka; there isn’t anyone else at the bar.

I was confused, so I started slowly walking away; as I am, the bartender started saying “Wait, wait, don’t walk away!”. I was thinking “But I didn’t order a drink…”. She finished mixing the drink and said “This one is on-the-house; it’s from one of the clients”. Oh. Okay. Weird. That hasn’t happened here before. I had no idea who it was from.

I was sitting there, drinking my free drink and who walked up? Slick. Except he cut his hair off, so now he’s more like Spike. I barely recognized him. We chatted for a bit before he walked off to grab another beer. Then I was approached by two guys. One was young, kind of shy, and was basically hovering in the background while the other one talked to me. Chatty asked if I’d be willing to teach his nephew to dance. I did and he was super keen to learn.

When we made our way back to my table, Chatty asked how Nephew did; he thanked me for teaching him and said, as a thank-you, next time, he’ll dance with me all night. He made me shake on it. I’m not sure who will benefit the most from this arrangement. I guess I’ll find out next time when I discover how good of a dancer he is.

Today, I go back for lessons. Wish me luck!!

Being drunk and the damage it can do

I went dancing again! And although my back is tip-top, other parts… aren’t. Allow me to explain.

In the salsa clubs, as the weather outside has gotten nicer and nicer, I couldn’t help but realize that more and more ladies were wearing skirts and dresses instead of pants. I wanted to be one of those girls. But I didn’t have the right shoes.

So, naturally, I went shoe shopping for skirt shoes and boy, did I find them! They’re pretty and comfy, which, in my experience, is an rare combination when looking for heeled shoes. Needless to say, I was rather excited about testing out the bad boys and getting them on the dance floor.

I had my opportunity a couple weeks ago. I was all gussied up for a wedding, skirt and all, and decided to hit the salsa club. It was getting late and I was pretty tired, but thought all that would change (except for the late part, I guess) once I got my blood pumping.

I walked into the club and it was dead. There were about seven guys and I was one of two girls. The bonus of being one of two girls is that you will dance the entire time. The downside of being one of two girls is that the seven guys have resorted to drinking heavily because there was nothing else to do. Can you blame them?

Within minutes of walking in the door I got asked to dance. Within minutes of dancing, Drunkie stepped on my toes (literally). Open toed shoes + drunk guy shoes = pain. I sucked it up and continued dancing, but my toe was very sore. A quick trip to the bathroom revealed a small crack in my toe nail and a fair amount of blood. I cleaned it up, put on my brave face and went back in.

I was a bit gun shy after that. Dancing somewhat awkwardly just to keep my damaged foot out of the line of fire.

As in most cases, when things are going well, you forget why you’re being paranoid, you grow complacent and let your guard down. Which is exactly what I did. Drunkie stepped on my toes again. The same toe. It hurt like a bitch. My reaction was to stop dancing and immediately take the weight off my foot.

I may have stood in the middle of the dance floor looking like a flamingo. Drunkie apologized, and then tried to keep dancing with me. I don’t think he understood that when one foot is in the air, the dance is over. I hobbled over to my table and sat down. He left me alone for about two minutes before coming back and trying to get me to dance with him again. I pointed at my toe and shook my head.

Once I could bear weight on my foot again, I gathered up my jackets and moved it to the exits. I guess it was closing time. The walk to my car was an interesting combination of trying to maintain a normal gait without crying or passing out.

When I got to my car, I inspected my toe. The small crack in the nail had grown. The entire top half of my nail was broken and holding on by a thread. When I got home, I soaked my foot to clean away most of the blood before going to work on removing the remnants of my nail.

Also, I’d just had a pedicure done 3 weeks earlier, so that was pretty much ruined.

Right: before; left: after

I’m not sure if open-toed dancing shoes are my friends.

Back in the saddle? No…

I’ve had to take some time off of dancing. And that makes me very sad. I was in a very minor car accident about six weeks ago; three weeks ago, I had my car repaired and got a courtesy car for five days. The courtesy car wrecked my back.

I guess that’s a bit harsh, my back has had it’s fair share of issues, but it had been doing well for several years. Five days into courtesy car driving, I found myself back in physiotherapy for the first time in nearly 2 years.

I thought I needed a maintenance appointment and I’d be back to my normal self in no time. Turns out, my pelvis is out of alignment (<--- insert Thailand joke here) and I need multiple appointments to fix it. I also have to start doing my physio exercises again to strengthen my core so that my pelvis isn’t just floating around causing my back pain. Something I should have been doing the whole time; physiotherapy is a lifestyle after all.

I took two or three weeks off of dancing while I got my back back up to snuff, but when I returned, so did my back pain. And with a vengeance. So I’ve been forced to take even more time off.

I’m not quite sure what to do with myself now. What did I do before dancing? Besides drinking? I really don’t know.

Peter the Rabbit

When I was a little girl, my favourite time was when Granny would tell me a story. She was quite the storyteller! Granny didn't read her stories from a book and, as a result, her stories never came out the same way twice. She was just making shit up, after all.

My favourite story was about Peter the Rabbit. Peter was a rambunctious little rabbit who hopped around town and got into trouble with the local farmer... Farmer Mac? I can't remember his name. Anyway, Peter would go into the farmer's field and eat all the carrots and then get chased away by the farmer. He had all sorts of adventures. I loved hearing about Peter the Rabbit.

Note: I realize that Granny didn't invent Peter the Rabbit. She used the basic story and made it her own. Why? 1) We didn't have the book for her to read it from. 2) She drank too much whiskey to remember all of the nuances of the original story. Case and point: one time she told me the story before bed; immediately after finishing the story, I asked to hear it again. I got a different version all of five minutes later.

Being raised in a city, you'd think that I would have had limited access to farmer's fields. But I was raised in Vancouver, BC, which seems to have a high per capita rate of backyard gardens.

I clearly remember this neighbour that lived down the alley from us. I guess the yard was elevated from alley-level because there was a steep concrete incline leading up to his fence. Most of his yard was a garden and the house was far enough away that gave me the illusion that it was actually a farm. I liked playing by his fence; pretending that Peter the Rabbit was in his garden stealing carrots.

When I grew weary of Peter the Rabbit games, the tiny little ledge also provided hours of gymnast training. I'd pretend it was a balance beam and prance around on it as if I was training for the Olympics.

Danny used the alley for different forms of entertainment, namely, burning rubber. (That's what we called it when you rode your bike really, really fast. Like, so fast, that the rubber on your tires burned off!*)

*dramatization - may not have happened

Basically, he rode his bike up and down the alley repeatedly. He'd ride by and ask if I saw how fast he went that time, or if I saw the pop-a-wheelie that he pulled. I'd ask him if he saw my balance beam routine. We both agreed enough to satiate the other, in hopes that next time, they might actually be watching the trick.

I remember one day, my brother had a friend over, which meant that I got to play by the fence without having to repeatedly tell Danny that he just did the "best pop-a-wheelie EVER!". It also meant that there was someone else in the alley that day; someone that was much more judgemental of me and my form of entertainment than my brother was. I guess Danny was used to it.

I can remember this kid asking my brother "What is your sister doing?!"; my brother replied "Oh, she's just doing gymnastics...". Looking back, I'm thankful for the way he responded; he very well could have said "Playing with her imaginary rabbit friend, named Peter.".

Regardless, his friend was an asshole and wanted to ruin my fun. He started riding by and yelling things at me trying to break my concentration. I was consumed in my own little world, so I didn't pay attention to him. This just fueled his need to knock me down a peg. Or to just knock me down.

He started riding up on the incline, like some sort of motocross stuntman, in the middle of my routine. The first few times, I just kept right on going. I real gymnast wouldn't let a motocross racer interfere with the routine, right?

But he started getting more and more determined; riding farther and farther up the incline; getting closer and closer to me. He was relentless. Eventually, I started feeling the wind brush past me as he sped by. I started getting scared. I started becoming less confident in my balance beam abilities. I was succumbing to the stress of two very different sports colliding

I fell. Right down the concrete embankment. Pretty much face first. He laughed. I cried. My brother asked "Did anyone see that pop-a-wheelie?". I ran home. My brother's friend yelled at me for being a scaredy-cat; he "wasn't actually going hit me". By the time I got home, the blood was pouring out of everywhere

When she got the blood cleaned up, it turned out that my wounds were superficial and "I'd live". It didn't feel like it; I was traumatized and I wanted to feel better. She started putting band-aids on my wounds; I wanted a band-aid everywhere it hurt. I had a cut on the inside of my upper lip, it hurt. Granny told me a band-aid wouldn't stick there; I told her to put it on the outside, like a moustache. Geez!

When my mom got home later that night, Granny told her to "go on in and see Patches". Mom came into my room and saw 75% of my face covered in bandages. She rushed out and demanded to know "What the hell happened?!". Granny told her my story; Mom suggested that we go to the hospital. Granny told her that I was fine, Mom said "But her face....". Granny said "Oh, Lolo, half those band-aids weren't even necessary. I just put them on to shut her the hell up!". Love ya, Granny!

Turning something serious into something seriously funny?

I was once told that I have the ability to make pretty much any story funny. I'm not so sure about that. But let's give it a whirl... let me know how I do.

Four years ago today, my life changed. It was a Friday and I had the day off from work, which is pretty much a recipe for having an amazing day. Unfortunately, I spent the day holed up in my place doing schoolwork. Around 1pm, I decided I was going to go run some errands. Namely, I wanted to see about joining a gym (I had put on a few pounds and wanted to get rid of them... I had no idea how much worse it could get).

I walked out to my car and saw that I had a flat tire. I called BCAA; the nice mechanic came, switched over my spare tire and informed me that the tire was not repairable. I was devastated. I bought the car exactly two weeks earlier and had sunk literally all my money and then some into the purchase.

I ran a few errands on the pizza-cutter and went home to do some tire research. When I was leaving my house for the second time, I noticed that my car had been keyed while I was running errands. Fuck. Me. I went to my local reputable tire shop and had new tires put on (in record time, I might add).

I drove home, called my best friend and complained to her about the shit day I had so far. She suggested I drink. I told her I didn't have any booze and I'd spent all my extra money on tires so I couldn't even afford to buy any. She told me she had a few bottles and that I should come over and help drink them. I'll be right there! I hopped into my car and started driving over. She lived about 20 minutes away by freeway. I'd be drunk in no time.

It was about 6pm on a Friday night, so the freeway was busy, but not slow-to-a-crawl busy. I was in the right lane behind someone that was going unnecessarily slow (~75km/h). The centre lane was going about 35 km/h faster than I was; I wanted to pass the guy in front of me.

Again, the car was new to me, so I didn't know it's capabilities; I wanted to be sure that I would have enough time to get out from behind the slow poke and get up to speed without slowing down the cars in the centre lane. I didn't want to cause an accident, after all. As a result, I had to wait until the centre lane was clear before I was willing to make the lane change.

I got my opportunity; I switched lanes and started accelerating, watching my rearview for the car that was inevitably catching up to me. I got up to speed and passed the slow dude. That's about the time I noticed the noise. It wasn't anything in particular, just kind of a loud, humming that wasn't there moments before. I decided I needed to get back into the right lane. As I was making my second lane change, I noticed my steering wheel was shaking back and forth, fairly violently. Shit. Something is wrong and I need to get off the freeway NOW.

I had already passed a sign indicating that I was 600m away from the next exit (the first exit I had encountered on this trip) - I was so close that I could see it. I started slowing down and tried to reach the exit.

Next thing I know.... BAM!

Loudest fucking noise ever!! My car pulled to the left. Left... where cars were driving 110km/h. Left... where two lanes of cars were driving 110km/h and then the giant cement meridian. I didn't want to go left. I steered right. With purpose.

Next thing I know, there are headlights in my face.

I'd done about a 160 degree turn and was travelling backwards down the freeway. I remember thinking "Please don't hit anything, please don't hit anything". I turned around in my seat to see if I was going to hit one of those speed limit signs. My trajectory was clear; I turned forward and waited.

BAM!

Second loudest noise ever!! I was flung into the driver's side door. Simultaneously, my backpack, which was in the passenger seat, was also flung about. It knocked me in the head, which knocked my head into the driver's side window. I was slowing down, all the while thinking "Please don't roll, please don't roll".

I came to a stop. I needed to get out of the car, like right fucking now. I got out of the car and was hit with the scent of moist dirt. I was on a grassy patch just off the freeway. Just off the freeway exit, actually.

I walked away from the car. I started taking in my surroundings. I noticed this trench dug through the grass. The trench was leading up to my car. This is what I saw:



My tire wasn't originally in this location. Don't get my wrong. It used to be attached to the car, I just mean that it was found about 50m down the freeway. A nice gentleman retrieved it for me and brought it closer to the scene. So when I turned around, all I saw was my braking system. Where the fuck is my tire!??! So, I was driving down the freeway, backwards, going 90km/h on three wheels and my braking system. Not desirable.

In the top left hand corner of the picture, you can see another car's tire. And a curb. That is what I hit. That is what ripped off my front bumper. Guess what I hit the curb with?



That's right. My rear driver's side tire. The same gentleman that retrieved my tire also informed me that I had snapped my rear axle. When I said "Really?!?!", he kinda looked at me funny and said "Look at your back tire... does that look right to you?". He said that he didn't want to be the bearer of bad news, but "it looks like you wrote your car off, darling". I was upset.

I told him I bought the car two weeks ago and I just had new tires put on. He questioned if the tires were put on at the dealership when I bought it. I told him I had them put on not even two hours earlier. It was his turn to say "Really?!?!". And then he asked where I went... not sure if I should divulge that information on here or not, so let's just say it's a major tire company.

A major tire company.

Eventually, the firemen showed up. When I was talking with one of them, another one came up and said he had to show me something. As we were walking over to the car, he kept stressing how important this information was. He knew that I was in shock, but he really wanted me to retain the conversation.

Fireman: See those bolts?

Me: Yeah.

Fireman: Do you see how those bolts are threaded?

Me: Yeah... (...I've seen bolts before...)

Fireman: If you were driving crazy and did something to cause your tire to fall off, those bolts would be mangled. The force needed for the tire to come off would have caused the lug nuts to sheer off the bolts, or at least, the threading of the bolts. Understand?

Me: Yeah.

Fireman: Your bolts are not damaged. If your tire wasn't blown and if we could find your lug nuts, theoretically, we could put this tire back on and have you on your way. Do you know what this means?

Me: No....

Fireman: Your lug nuts weren't tightened.

So, I wrecked my car, I wrecked my back, my neck and my knee. My knee hit the window roller; my doctor said that if I hit it an inch higher or an inch lower I would have had no issues. The spot I hit was the sweet spot - the IT band; it's a muscle that runs from your hip to your ankle.

I entered physio and a rehab program that took years to complete. Due to pain and limited mobility, I stopped cooking and moving. Not a good combination. I gained 40lbs in a 4 month period, which everyone was shocked to learn, because "I didn't look like I'd gained weight". Are you kidding me?!

When I told my brother, he said that he was told the same thing (he was in an accident two months earlier and had also put on weight). His take on it was "Great... so I was so fucking fat before that you don't notice when I put on 40lbs?!?!" And I thought I needed the gym before.

Recently, I woke up to go to work and came out to a flat tire; I cursed and walked to the bus stop. Everyone at work asked why I came in so late, most were satisfied with "flat tire this morning". One person was a bit more nosy.

Her: So... you were late because you were changing your tire?

Me: Fuck, no! I was late because I took the bus. I'll call BCAA on my way home and they can change the tire for me.

Her: Ha ha. That's what I would do too... If I had to change my own tire it would probably come off when I was driving down the freeway! Ha ha ha ha ha ha...

I just kinda looked at her. When I didn't say anything (what do you say?!), she looked over at me.

Her: What?!

Me: I'm just trying to figure out if you are trying to be funny or not...

Her: No... why?!!?

And then it hit her "Oh my god... that's exactly what happened to you, isn't it?!?! I didn't mean it... I wasn't even thinking... I'm sorry!! Oh, god, I'm such an asshole!!". Yes, you are, Linds; yes, you are.

Happy New Year!

I know I haven't posted all year; I just wanted to let you know that I am in fact aware of it. Since my last post Christmas and New Year's have come and gone. It's now 2012 and the start of another year.

I'm not really into New Year's resolutions; I think that they are mostly a recipe for failure. But I do have things I would like to do; it's just that they're not much different than the things I wanted to do last month. But, sometimes a fresh start is enough to give you the kick in the pants you need to actually start doing things.

One of the things I wanted to do was to get more active again. I feel like I've become a bit of a slug over the past few months and want to get back into the routine of going out and doing things again.

And I have. Over the past couple months, I've started going out for walks; I go out for live music nights; I even went ice skating for the first time in months. Like I said, I've starting picking it up over the past month or two, so where does the talk of New Year's resolutions come in?

Well, there's this little pub/restaurant that I go to on a semi-regular basis. And by semi-regular, I mean, pretty much once a week, every week for the past 3 years. You could say I'm a good customer.

Across the street from this place is a dance studio. On my way in and out of my favorite hole in the wall, I see this place. Every time. Being that I lack much to be desired in the body-movement-coordination arena of life, I've always looked longingly towards this studio with a mixture of curiousity and apprehension.

This longing has only grown stronger and over the past year or so I began to seriously consider doing something about my desire to be able to dance without looking like a spastic spider. Then I went to Mexico, where I learned that dancing can be very sexy, when done properly, that is. So over the past two months, my curiousity has nearly overcome my apprehension.

Last week, on January 1st, I was on one of my walks when I walked past the studio. It was closed, but I stopped to peek inside. I noticed that they had a pamphlet on the outside of their door. I grabbed one. Being the new year, they have a New Year's special. I gave it some thought and the next day, I went in and signed up for a salsa class.

The two days later, I was discussing it with someone at work; she said that she was going salsa dancing on Friday and I was welcome to come. That same day, I got an invitation for a 2 hour salsa lesson for Saturday night.

I signed up for the two hour lesson immediately, but I was hesitant to accept the invitation for Friday night; I knew absolutely nothing and wasn't sure if a club was the best place to start. A quick glance at the website showed that they provide an hour long lesson before opening the club for dancing.

It seemed that everything was falling into place. I went out to the club on Friday night and followed it up the next night with another lesson. With two night's of lessons under my belt, I feel much more confident going into my class. I think I'll get much more out of my 8 week class, then if I was a complete newbie.

Now, I'm not the most coordinated person on the planet on a good day. In fact, I can be such a klutz that sometimes walking without falling down takes more of an effort than I'd like to admit.

So, it's safe to say that my dancing skills are somewhat lacking. And that my moves, as of right now, are awkward at best. All things considered, I feel like this is something I can do. I think I can get it. It'll take practice and determination, but those are two things that I am not lacking in my life. Pure determination has gotten me many things.

Coincidently, this falls in line with being more active and going out and doing more things. In fact, after two night's of dancing, I am sore. My feet hurt. My legs, from hip to ankle, hurt. My hips and back hurt. My neck and shoulders hurt. And I feel great.

Happy New Year, Everyone!

Too hot to handle

I like to cook, but cooking for one day in and day out becomes rather mundane. Every so often, I need to break out of my routine and cook for someone else. Sometimes this desire is so strong that I'll force my way into cooking for a friend, even if it requires me bringing all the ingredients and cooking it at their house. I get oddly excited about it. I'm pretty sure it's quirk that most of my friends are willing to deal with (...unlike all those other quirks...)

A few years ago, I was at the BFF's house, cooking some dinner for her. I can't remember the entire menu, but I do know that we had pork tenderloin with broccoli and carrots.

I seared the tenderloin in her frying pan and finished it off in the oven. Right about the time the tenderloin was finished and I was going to start 'nuking the veggies, she remembered that she had a lone lamb chop in her fridge that she wanted to use up. It was already cooked, so it would only take a few minutes in the hot oven.

One small thing, but it threw me off my game. The chop was finished before I was ready for it, so everything got dished up and we were just sitting around waiting for the veggies to come out of the microwave.

I was certain that I could be using those 3 minutes better than just standing there.

I decided that I was going to be all efficient and get everything soaking in the sink so that it would be ready to wash once we were finished eating.

I grabbed the 375F pan off the stove and carried it over to the sink.

Without an oven mitt. It took a minute for it all to sink in...

It was hot. Like, really fucking, hot. I turned back to the stove and literally threw the frying pan at it. I immediately turned back to the sink and turned the cold water on full blast. It also took K a minute to realize what had happened. She tentatively asked me if I was okay. All I could do was shake my head and say, "It's bad".

It was bad.

I spent the night there, even though it was a Tuesday night and I had to work in the morning. After 3 hours of soaking my blistered hand in ice water, I realized that I was not going to be able to work. I could not have unscrewed a test tube if my life depended on it.

I spent the rest of the night trying to sleep with my hand in ice water. Once I used up all the ice in the house, I switched over to ice packs, once I used up all the ice packs, I went back to running it under cold water. It was a restless night.

In the morning I drove home and was fairly convinced I would be okay. Until I realized that I iced my burns for about 8 hours and they were still hurting. I decided seeing a doctor might not be a bad idea.

I went to the first walk in clinic I could find. They asked me to fill out a bunch of paperwork. They handed me a clipboard and a pen and moved onto the next patient. I stared at the paperwork. Rather than asking for help, I filled out the paperwork, with my left hand. (have I mentioned that I'm right-handed and I burned my right hand to shit? No? Well, I am and I did!)

I left any fields that I deemed unnecessary blank. Even still, by the end, my writing was so bad that the receptionist had to ask for clarification on a number of the necessary fields. I felt kinda bad, but my hand felt worse, so the guilt was fleeting.

I got in to see the doctor and she had one hell of a time bandaging me up. She tried to make it so that I had some use of the fingers that weren't burnt to shit. I had to go back every 2-3 days to have the dressing changed and to check for signs of infection. I went back to work on the Friday and got assigned some computer work.

The following Monday I decided that I could do my regular job. I was wrong. I went back to the make-work-project on the computer for the rest of the week.

And that is the story of how I burned my hand. Ever since, whenever I take a frying pan out of the oven and let it sit on the stove, I always cover the handle with an oven mitt. Extra insurance against stupidity. So far it has worked. *knock on wood*

Let's recap, shall we?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your filter is like a chain-link fence and your thoughts are ants.

I recently did something that I hadn't done in years and years. I went ice skating! It was the most exhilarating experience ever.

K stumbled upon ice skating information on the internet one day and remembered that I said I wanted to go awhile before. We normally meet up for a walk on Thursdays at 7pm and a loonie skate was happening at exactly that time, in a place that is exactly halfway between our houses. It was meant to be.

She got excited and wrote a message on my Facebook wall; another friend of ours saw this message and not-so-subtly mentioned that he would love to go too. He made a big production about it being 20 years since he skated and he was concerned about whether or not he could still do it. I was concerned too. That's pretty much exactly how I was feeling and for that very reason.

We eagerly waited for the rink to open up and then for all the crazy kids (who we knew would be better than us) to go first. Brandon was the first one of us on the ice. He shot off like a rocket: spinning and twirling and speeding away. It was K's turn next, and then mine. I was much less successful than Brandon; apparently he skated a lot more than me as a child.

I was pretty much confined to the boards within 3 feet of the opening. I was going nowhere. Fast.

The young first-aid skater girl recognized my plight immediately. "First time skating?", she asked. "No, it's just been a really long time!", I replied. She suggested I go to the skate shop and pick up a helmet "just in case". I was less than enthused to be sporting a helmet, plus that would require me to 'skate' the 3 feet back to the entrance. She recognized my plight immediately. "Or else I can bring you bars?", she suggested.

She brought me a set of bars. I have to admit I was a little worried about taking my hand off the boards long enough to reach out and grab the bars. But I didn't want to look like a giant pussy, so I tried to do it, while looking as confident as a 30 year old can after having asked for a set of kiddy-bars.

Once I got on the bars, skating was no issue. I started skating away, all fast-like and super-pro.

I was making pretty good progress. And then a small child skated out in front of me. All I could do was squeak and swerve around her. Good thing I drive, otherwise, one or more of us would have gotten hurt (probably me).

After a lap or two (or three) I was confident enough to ditch the bars and skate on my own. It was exhilarating. (And I thought it was fun with the bars...) I was skating around with my shit-eating-grin on my face, laughing and having a grand-old time.

Every 37 seconds I would almost fall and then I would laugh, which would cause me to almost fall again. I'd have to spend some time with the boards to re-group before continuing again.

Eventually, 37 seconds became one minute; and one minute became half a lap. Eventually, I became cocky and over-confident in my skating abilities. Also, I was probably high from not getting enough oxygen to my brain because I was laughing so much. This cockiness lead to my demise. I bailed. Fully. Right on my ass. Out of nowhere.

It hurt. But I managed to get back up without too much difficulty and skated to the boards where I laughed some more.

My tailbone hurt for days.

I went back the following week and didn't need the bars and didn't fall down. It was still just as exhilarating. We decided that we'd skate every Thursday and we were going to buy skates and everything.

Then I was at work one Thursday and said "HEY! Guess what I'm doing tonight!?!?". After people guessed incorrectly, I started skating around and said "Ice skating!!!". A friend looked at me and said "Aren't they closed for the season?!". I said "What season?!". Turns out, they closed the Sunday before and there was no skating that night. It was the worst Thursday ever.

Big thanks to EliseArt for providing illustrations.

Watch out - your cheese has a label on it!!!

I've been given the challenge of writing: Best. Post. Ever. and even though it was stipulated in said challenge that I should feel no pressure, the overwhelming feeling of pressure is ever present. I can't even think of a story, let alone, write the best one. Shit.

Here goes... I can only hope that the lack of substance in this post is overshadowed by illustrative goodness. No pressure EliseArt.

When I was around 6 or 7, my mom had a boyfriend and he had a daughter my age. Naturally, we became best friends. One summer, Mom's beau, Bo, was going to Alberta to visit family. He thought it might be a good idea if I went along and kept his daughter company. We ended up going three times altogether, one time after him and Mom broke up.

The first time I went there, I was a bit out of my element. We stayed with his family; they had a farm with horses and chickens and a pond and everything. Although, in theory, I liked all those things, in reality, I had no idea what I was doing. I had 'city kid' written all over me.

The very first thing I learned about horses was to never approach them from behind. If they don't see you coming, they'll get spooked and kick you. I also learned to feed them with a flat hand, so they couldn't bite off your fingers. Both are very good lessons to learn.

Then I learned to ride them. I only ever rode them with an experienced rider in front of me. I'd sit behind the saddle and hold on for dear life. I was told I was a natural, which made me feel better about the city kid beacon emblazoned on my forehead.

I became very paranoid about these two lessons I learned. Every time I'd see someone feeding a horse I'd want yell and warn them about getting bit.

Anytime I saw anyone walking behind a horse, I'd want to yell out for them to keep back.

I didn't want to see anyone get hurt. But then I'd remember that they'd been around horses a lot more than I had, so they probably knew already. Afterall, these were the people that taught me these lessons.

Fearing that I would live up to the city kid stereotype even more if I vocalized my concerns, I kept them to myself. However, I confided in my friend about my internal battle. She mocked me every chance she got. She would constantly remind me that she 'goes there every year' and 'rides horses all by herself'. So I definitely would never have corrected her for fear of her mocking me until her voice was hoarse.

So one day we were playing in the field with the horses. And by 'we were playing', I mean, I was standing at a safe distance observing the horseplay. I see my friend walking across the field behind this horse. She was at a safe distance so I didn't fear for her safety.

Her path was directly behind the horse and at a diagonal, so she progressively got closer and closer to the horse.

I started getting a bit nervous.

At one point she was standing directly behind the horse.

I got really nervous, but didn't call out, out of fear of ridicule. But because I was keeping it in, really, I was just flailing my arms, looking terrified in the middle of a field with nothing at all around me. (Let alone something scary nearby).

I was fairly certain my friend was safe. The horse was completely unaware that she was behind him. And then my friend did the stupidest thing ever.

She literally gave it a pat on the ass. Naturally, the horse spooked and bucked.

 

She seriously flew through the air at least 4 feet* and smashed into a fence.

(*memory says it's more like 8ft, but that seems unrealistic, so I'm cutting it in half for conservatism)

She got up. I ran over to her and asked if she was okay. When she said yes; I burst out laughing and told her that I totally saw it coming. She was really mad (for some reason) and questioned (nearly hysterically) why-oh-why hadn't I called out to her? Why!? Because Karma's a bitch, that's why!

 

 

Big thanks to EliseArt for providing the illustrations.