The Battle of the Ants

I live in a basement suite, so I get my fair share of creepy-crawlies creeping and crawling through my place. Naturally, I have patience for some more than others.

Every year in April or May, the ants come out looking for food. Every year in April or May, I make sure to remove anything resembling food from the area around my front door (that’s where they tend to come in). Every year in April or May, despite my efforts, I have a trail of ants coming through my house. Sometimes just one here or there or sometimes a mass infestation if I neglected to remove all the things resembling food in time (like my collection of empty bottles, for example).

This year, I was certain I was in good shape. I’d returned all my empties months ago, I spring-cleaned the area where my plants live, so any dirt, debris and sticky stuff was gone. So when I saw the first of the ants, I didn’t think too much of it. But one became five and then five became ten.

The battle of the ants had begun. I was thoroughly cleaning my floors, when I was bleaching them, I noticed all the ants were congregated in one area right by my front door. I vacuumed the mat in front of my door, but then minutes later saw ants crawling all over it again. I lifted up the corner was shocked at what I found.

Literally* hundreds (*not literally) of ants milling about! I began pulling out anything and everything in that area in preparation of cleaning the shit of out it all. And that’s when I found it.

Months ago (obviously), a small candy cane fell off my table unnoticed and landed amongst my reusable shopping bags; it then became the coveted food item all the ants in the neighbourhood sought. They were obviously all talking about it based on the congregation I found.

I cleaned it all up, bleached the area and it appears as though I’ve once again reigned supreme in the battle of the ants.

It’s only a matter of time until they prove me wrong once again.

How do you spell “relief”–part two

Here’s a series of posts I never knew was going to happen… and now that I think of it, I might even have a part three up my sleeve. For part one, go here.

I distinctly remember the last time I wet the bed.

I was about 6 or 7; far too old to be wetting the bed. I was ashamed. I was confused. And I never told anyone about the events leading up to “the incident”.

I was sleeping soundly, oblivious to the fact that my tiny 6 year old bladder was progressively filling with that last glass of juice I had before bedtime.

Very few dreams stick with you. More often than not, they slip away from you just as you open your eyes and all that’s left is the sensation of what kind of dream you had: “Well… that was a weird dream…”.

Yet, 27 years later, I still remember the dream I was having the last time I wet the bed.

For some reason, I was dreaming about The Cosby Show. The Huxtables were in bed, Mrs. Huxtable was reading a book and Cliff was being a jackass as per usual. He may or may not have been trying to get some.

The dream was a weird combination of me watching the situation unfold (like it was on TV) and being in the bed with them; as them. It was a weird combination of being both The Huxtables at the same time. It was a fucked up out of body omniscient experience.

I remember being Cliff and feeling the sweet relief as his/my bladder emptied, then as Clair, feeling the disgusting warmth spread from his side of the bed to hers/mine. She was shocked and appalled; he was relieved and not as embarrassed as he should have been. As she was screaming at him for wetting the bed, I started gaining consciousness.

My bed felt warm, yet cold, and wet; I woke up and found myself lying in my own puddle of shame. I remember getting up and going to tell my mom what happened (less The Cosby Show dream, of course) and how mad she got as she stripped the wet sheets off my bed. I stood sheepishly in the corner, my head hung downward, avoiding eye contact at all costs. It had been a couple years since my last nighttime accident; she thought I’d outgrown it as much as I had.

After that, every so often, I would have a similar dream (although not featuring The Cosby’s). Basically, I would dream that I needed to go to the bathroom and when I finally found one, that familiar relief would wash over me. I would wake up in a full-blown panic; hoping beyond hope that my bed was dry and my bladder was full. They always were, but I was always afraid that one time, they wouldn’t be.

Over time, that dream has occurred less and less, but, oddly enough, I had that dream last week. It hadn’t happened in such a long time that I had blocked out the memory completely; it’s like it never happened. But as I woke up with a slight feeling of dread, all I could think about was the time that Bill Cosby wet the bed. Never again, will I be able to look at Bill the same.

And now, neither will you.

Foosball and Beyond

This is a story that is well over two years in the making. You may recall my posts about Foosball. If not, that’s okay. The gist of it is that my place of work has a foosball table and there have been a number of foosball related activities over the years (tournaments, olympics, fundraising etc). As a result, a couple years ago, I started learning how to play foosball with never having stepped foot in front of a table before.

Gorm is ridiculously good at foosball; he took me under his wing, showed me the ropes and kicked my ass in the process.

As my skill increased, so did my expectations of the game. As I began to be able to coordinate my men and learned to defend my net, I started expecting better results from myself than I had reason to expect.

This led to, what has been described as, devastating lows of foosball. Which basically means that when I lost, I made a scene.

Whenever I threw my typical temper tantrum, the same person would happen to be in the lunch room, I’ll call him The Ninja because he always seemed to appear out of nowhere. This is a person with whom I never really spoke. Nods of acknowledgment and a "Good Morning" here and there, but that's about it.

It was unfortunate, to say the least, that this is the person who had to witness me at my all-time foosball low. Every. Single. Day.

The only good thing out of that situation was the fact that The Ninja made reference to me in his farewell email when he left the company. A special feat considering we had exchanged less than a dozen words in the 8 years of “working together”.

Fast forward a few months. I made supervisor at work and, as a result, ended up sharing an office with the manager.

Fast forward a year. The company that The Ninja went to, basically went belly up and he was laid off. It just so happens that he’s skilled in mysterious ways. I guess you would expect nothing less from a ninja. It also just so happens that we still needed his expertise and managed to bring him back on. He is now working closely in my department and I have conversations with him daily.

Fast forward another 6 months. We finally filled the second supervisor position and in order for the new supervisor and I to be in close proximity, the manager kicked me out of the office and placed us in an office with The Ninja.

Not only is The Ninja sneaky, but he’s also extremely observant and has an excellent memory. He also is willing to share the information that he compiles. He’s made a point at telling me about my foibles.

For one, when I talk to him and/or my staff, he gets the distinct impression that he’s talking to a school teacher. An elementary school teacher. Not so much the words coming out of my mouth as it is my demeanor. I’m not sure what’s worse.

He also pointed out that I tend to mimic people. Not in a bad I’m-going-to-make-fun-of-you kind of way, but if someone says “Hi Heather!” all sunshine-y, I’ll say something back in the same way. If someone grunts my name, I do the same. I thought that I was mostly aware of this (it’s can be a bit of a fun little game for me), but today when the person I was talking with left the office, The Ninja turned to me and asked if I’d caught myself doing it.

I’m likely to become very self conscious of my actions, despite the fact that he claims they aren’t bad things. Mere observations. Sure…

Happy (actual) 200th Blog Post!!

A Day in the Life…

Sometimes I find the thoughts that run through my mind thoroughly entertaining. Tonight was no exception. Here’s a glimpse into my everyday life.

I got off work late and drove home. As I walked in my front door, I noticed that it was particularly warm in my place. I live in a basement suite. It’s January and it just snowed. This is abnormal. I checked the heater that I recently bought (and works like a charm, I might add):

Even though this particular heater is supposed to be super safe, I’m still massively paranoid of burning my house down, so I tend to turn it off when I leave, even though that means my house is less than toasty when I get home from work.

I started preparing dinner, while my chicken cutlet was frying over medium heat, I sat down to check my email. Shortly after, I heard the tell-tale noises of a hot pan. I went to check on my dinner, flipped over the cutlet and found that side nearly completely charred.

Funny how I was more concerned about my heater being a fire hazard when left unattended, but I had no problem leaving oil in a hot pan unattended. The irony was not lost on me.

I then had to open my front door (no hood fan on my stove) so I could get all the smoke out of my place. While simultaneously removing all of the heat that had built up by my first fire hazard.

As I was cooking, I decided that I wanted a cup of tea, but since it was 8pm, I couldn’t very well have the tea I wanted. I typically drink black tea, which is caffeinated, which will keep me up all night if I drink it at 8pm. So I brewed a cup of this “fruit infusion” “tea”. It was ready around the time I was plating up my charred cutlet. I added a bit of sugar and milk (how I normally drink my tea) to this hot beverage.

A quick glance in my cup and all seemed well. I thought to myself “Well, it didn’t curdle so it should be good”, just as I watched the tea turn from milky tea to tea with milk chunks.

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.

He’s baaaaaccck!

Remember this post?

How about my follow up post?

Did you think it was over? Me too… I don’t know what we were thinking.

Well, 13 months after our one and only date, I got another text from my potential stalker. Wishing me a Happy Thanksgiving. Because that’s what you do for a girl that hasn’t responded to you in over a year.

At least I know he’s still thinking about me.

If I fall off the face of the Earth please, for the love of Dog, send out a search party!!

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.”

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.

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.

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:

Year of the Rat

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

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

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

The fucking thing had moved.

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

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

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

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

Thank God you George!!

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.

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.

It's a wonder I've lived as long as I have...

I acknowledge the fact that I haven't posted lately. Mostly because I've been spending a bunch of time trying to get this URL business straightened out. Behind the scenes stuff that means nothing to you guys, but everything to me.

It's not yet straightened out. Which may be partially because I can't do what I want to do, but it also may be that I can't do what I want to do because I'm borderline retarded.

Seriously. I think it's beginning to become a bit of a problem. The other day I was walking to my car; I was deep in thought about the convoluted directions I gave Gorm in order to get to my house and trying to figure out a strategy to beat him there.

A woman was crossing the street and walking towards me; I started crossing the street and as I stepped out in front of a parked car the horn honked. I gasped audibly and may or may not have brought my hand up to my chest with a scared look on my face.

The woman burst out laughing and asked if she'd "scared the shit" out of me. I sheepishly replied with a shaky "Yeah..." followed by nervous laughter. She apologized for being so intimidating and we went our separate ways.

Down the road, as I was getting into my car, I pictured what it must have looked like to spectators. I also considered that I obviously don't have ninja-like reflexes.

Maybe I'll look into self defense classes. And hide-your-feelings-classes. And stop-being-a-retard-classes. I've got a lot of learning ahead of me. First up, I gotta figure out where these classes are offered. I might need help on this one, guys.

Mexico Part 1

I've been trying to come up with the best way of telling my Mexico story and I think I should just start at the beginning. Odd concept, I know.

My brother came and picked me up at 8am last Saturday morning. As we're driving to the airport, his wife suggested getting breakfast since we had lots of time before I had to be at the airport. I said that my stomach was too full of butterflies to cram any food into it. I was a bit nervous and really excited to start my trip.

At the airport, I took some pictures:

And then I started waiting for my flight. I bought a notebook so that I could write a journal and have all the blog fodder ready for publishing. Not quite. I filled up a page of my notebook and then started chatting up a couple a few seats down.

After awhile, I had to go to the bathroom, and being alone meant that I had to take all my stuff with me. When I came back, I'd lost my seat. I found one down at the end, still close to the window so I could watch my plane. You know, to make sure it didn't take off without me.

A couple sat down next to me; at some point not too long after, the lady turned and asked if I was flying alone, where I was going etc. Turns out, we were going to the same resort. She was blown away when I said that I was going there alone and said that we should have dinner or something when we get there. Yeah, I'm sure we will.

We boarded the plane, I found my seat. My seat mates found theirs and we started chatting. They asked if I was flying alone, where I was going etc. Turns out, we were going to the same resort. They were blown away when I said that I was going there alone and said that we should have dinner or something when we get there. Yeah, I'm sure we will.

The plane ride was uneventful, until we hit turbulence. For a rookie flyer, it's not very reassuring when the flight attendants have to stop service in order to strap themselves in. I was very aware of the fact that I was 10,000m in the air.

I was scared. I was sweating, I felt nauseous and I was pretty sure I was going to die. My seat mates were calmly watching their movie. I had to put mine on pause because I just couldn't handle it. For some odd reason, seeing everybody in the cabin looking calm did not reassure me either. Not only was I convinced that I was going to die, but I also felt terribly alone in the ordeal. We're going to die and I'm the only one that knows.

That's when I saw her. She was in the next isle, one row up. And she looked terrified. Her husband was in the seat behind her and his knee was getting crushed by her death grip. I felt better knowing that someone else was as scared as I was. It didn't take her long to notice me. Every time we got scared we would look at each other for support. And every time the turbulence subsided, we'd look at each other as if to say "We made it!".

Eventually, I made it to Puerto Vallarta airport. I was surprised at how we got off the plane.

We walked down some stairs straight onto the tarmac. It was nice to walk out into the open air. I was hoping to exit on a big yellow slide, but stairs worked too. A bus was nearby to shuttle us from the plane to the airport.

Eventually, I made it through customs and the airport and found my shuttle to the resort. At check-in, I was given a map, a key and a wristband. I had to try and find my room. Despite the fact that I had asked more than one person where my block was and despite the fact that I had a map, I found myself at the ocean instead of my hotel block. And not because I was "just drawn to it"; I was lost.

I asked another employee where my block was, once there, I found a staircase up to the second floor and quickly realized that I was far away from my room number. I figured the second floor would wind it's way around and I would eventually come to my room. I figured wrong. I went back down to the first floor. All the while dragging two, now very heavy, bags.

I found another employee and asked where my specific room was. He grabbed my bags and told me to follow him. I did.

Room found, bags put away, I left in search of food. I promptly came across a restaurant. I went "inside" and started looking at what the buffet had to offer. I was quickly approached and told that this was an a la carte restaurant and I needed reservations. I just wanted some food. He pointed me in the vague direction of another restaurant.

There I was: stumbling around this resort, in the dark, in a whole other country, feeling hungry and feeling lost. I had a brief moment of panic. How on Earth did I manage to convince myself this is something I can do... I don't know what I'm doing; I don't know where I'm going; I don't even know anybody.

Just at that moment, Christle & Bill came around the corner. They're the pair that sat down next to me at the airport. Christle had been to this resort before and knew exactly where to find the buffet - but we had to hurry because they were closing in 15 minutes. If it wasn't for them, I wouldn't have eaten that night.

We proceeded to eat, drink and get to know each other. We drank until the bar closed at 1am and then made our way back to our rooms. Turns out, we were staying in the same block, so I didn't have to worry about finding my room again. Praise Jebus.

Stay tuned for Part 2.

Like a baby club.... and you seal it?

About a month ago I took part in The Warrior Dash. I wasn't too sure what to expect and part of me was absolutely terrified, but I did it, I completed it and it was awesome.

What is The Warrior Dash? Well if you're too lazy to look it up, here's my synopsis.

It was a 5km hike/obstacle race around Whistler. There were roughly 10 obstacles throughout the 5km course. Looking at the website, it was obvious that the first kilometer or so had zero obstacles; all the obstacles were crammed into the remaining 4km. I wondered why.

The website also showed potential obstacles, which is what terrified me. Most of the obstacles looked challenging, but I did think I could complete them. However, there were two potential obstacles shown that I was pretty sure I would fall to my untimely death if I attempted them.

Needless to say, when I was gearing up for the race, my heart rate was a bit higher than it should be for someone who was just standing there.

The race started and the first kilometer was directly up a ski-hill; it was steep, it was long and I had to climb that thing with the sun beating down on me. At that moment I was pretty sure I wasn't going to finish the race. No, no, no, not because of obstacles, but because I couldn't even get to the obstacles. How embarrassing. I soldiered on. No wonder the first kilometer didn't have any obstacles.

The first obstacle was a series of hurdles and 'crawl-unders'. The hurdles were basically 4.5ft walls of plywood and the crawl-unders were about 3ft high and covered in barbed wire.

*actual sequence of obstacles gets hazy from here and I doubt I'll remember all of them*

The second obstacle was a long, dark crawl-under. Basically a wooden frame with a black tarp on it; you had to crawl through it without being able to see where you're going or the spider that was trying to bite you.

Next up, was a lame ass "slip n slide" that didn't do anything except shoot you down 2ft into a pocket of water and then you got up and walked down the dry tarp. I just walked the whole thing; I wasn't going to get my ass wet if it wasn't going to be any fun. Besides, I got wet enough in the snow-blower obstacle.

Two snow blowers aimed at you from opposite directions. The water that was blowing completely blinded you, soaked you and made you want to die. It was also freezing cold. Which was nice when you were on the outskirts of it, but absolute hell when you were in the midst of it. I'm actually not even sure if that counted as an obstacle, but it should have dammit.

Next came the army wall. 10ft wall, with a rope and you have to climb over it. This is about the time that the super-fit runners from the next wave time caught up to me. As I was approaching the wall, I heard the hard footsteps and laboured breath behind me.

I attempted to climb the wall. The super-fit-runner was catching up pretty quickly.

I needed all the strength I could muster. And yet, he somehow just flew over the top and kept running. Seriously, I don't think he even touched the rope.

I made it. Eventually.

Next came a series of balance beams. Which wouldn't have been too difficult, if I hadn't already climbed a ski-hill, jumped hurdles and climbed a wall. My legs were practically jell-o and I was pretty sure I was going to lose my balance and fall headlong into the supports. I tried not to picture my subsequent injuries and focused on the task at hand.

Next up, was a 25ft cargo-net climb. You know, like those rope ladders at playgrounds? Only instead of it being a ladder up to the slide platform it was 25ft high and had ropes on both sides. So after you climb up, you have to climb down more ropes on the other side. The first little bit was exciting (I used to love those rope ladders and now here's this giant one... weeeee!), but then I realized that I had to, not only get down the other side, but also climb over the bar at the top of the thing and not fall to my death. I was about 2/3's of the way up when I started to panic.

For a brief moment, I looked down behind me and considered going back the way I came, but people were coming up behind me and I didn't want to be the girl who was like "Excuse, I'm coming back down now...." so I took a deep breath and said "Suck it up; get it done" and I did.

Insert more obstacles here -------->

The final obstacle is a mud pit where you have to crawl through it and under barbed wire. I took one step into the pit and was up past my knees in mud (probably roughly mid thigh). I extracted my foot from the quicksand and knew immediately that something was missing. My foot easily came out of the mud. A little too easily, perhaps. Fuck. I lost my shoe in the mud pit.

I dug down deep and tried to extract my shoe. It was buried; it was hard to get out.

I finally got it out, but being so caked in mud, it didn't resemble my shoe at all and looked about 5 sizes too big.

I crawled through the mud, under the barbed wire and ran across the finish line, all the while carrying (hopefully) my shoe. My goal was to finish in less than two hours; I completed it in just over an hour (1h10m - ish). K and I were so happy. And dirty.

Big thanks to EliseArt for providing illustrations

Those shoes are illegal!

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

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

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

And then it sunk in.

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

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