Sleeping on the Couch

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

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

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

I always got the chair.

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

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

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

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

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

He practically yelled it and he was dead asleep.

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

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

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

 

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

Going’s ons

Hey Folks! It’s been awhile since I’ve consistently posted, I’ve been struggling a bit with writer’s block, I guess. Or else just a lack of motivation to come up with a topic. Whatever you call it, I hope that will change, but I usually hit all time lows with posting come winter and it’s starting to get mighty cold out.

I’ve been busy with work; we had our big audit last week and it was a doozy. Leading up to audit week I was working 6 days a week, as many as 12 hours a day. Then during audit week, I was so drained that by the end of the day, I’d eat and then collapse. Somehow I did muster up the energy to make a carrot cake for the bake sale on Friday, which got rave reviews so it was worth it! I also got a piece, which is probably the real reason it was worth it.

I’ve been slowly plugging away at my project proposal, which has become increasingly frustrating. I’ve submitted the proposal three times so far (plus two incomplete drafts), and have received feedback from the person at school that is looking for the results of the project. That’s great, but I haven’t received one word of feedback from the person who needs to grade and approve the proposal. Considering I need to complete the entire project (not just the proposal) by year’s end, I’m pretty much hooped and will need to ask for an extension. Again.

All in all, I’ve been quite busy and operating with a higher than normal stress level. It’s only a matter of time before that catches up with you and bad things happen, so I’m doing what I always do when it gets to be that time; I booked a trip to some place warm with unlimited alcohol. I’m going to Cuba! This time next week, I’ll be packing.

As usual, I’ll keep you up-to-date with the train wreck that I like to call my all-inclusive vacation.

Sometimes… fun hurts.

As you know, Gorm and I (and sometimes others) get together for music day every now and then. What you might not know is that music day has become an integral part of my life; something I look forward to. It has come to be so that I depend on it. Unfortunately, this day can only be organized and executed on so much of a regular basis. Often enough, but at the same time the length between sessions leaves me longing for more and my fingers callous-less.

As a result, I’ve been known to be… somewhat reckless in my music day commitments.

About a year ago, I was battling a bit of a cold and music day was fast approaching. I was convinced the worst that could happen was that I wouldn’t get the rest I needed that night and I might be over-tired the next day.

I hadn’t had strep throat in about 18 years, so I dismissed my assumption almost as fast as I made it. The next day, I could no longer deny that I needed medical attention.

I went to the walk-in clinic on my way home from work. The doctor asked what was wrong; I said that I was pretty sure I had strep throat. All doctors seems to react the same way when you self-diagnose yourself. They tell you why it probably isn’t what you think it is. This doctor was no exception.

And then she looked in my mouth. She said she’d normally take a swab before prescribing antibiotics, but…

I left the office a little smug, having known what the problem was, but also a little scared because I really didn’t want scarlet fever. Again.

You’d think I would have learned from this experience. But like I said, I behave a little recklessly when music day approaches and I’m not feeling well.

I’d been fighting a cold and Friday night I noticed my voice was cracking. In an attempt to practice before music day, I tried playing, but found that I couldn’t sing very well (mostly that I couldn’t project my voice. At. All.). But I was convinced that the show must go on.

The following day, I woke up feeling pretty good. I went to music day and when I started singing, I found again that I couldn’t project my voice. But I soldiered on.

By the end of the session, I was croaking like a frog and sounded reminiscent of the pimply kid on The Simpsons.

Thanks Gorm.

I completely lost my voice for two days. I went to work on Monday and quickly realized just how much I talk at work on a day to day basis. I was told just how fucked up my voice sounded. I received pats on the back in sympathy when I squeaked out a response to their question. I may or may not have had laryngitis.

Despite the pain, ridicule and pity I received:

Back to School

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just kidding, Mom, I love you.

 

 

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

ThatWhiteGirl’s a Spitey Bitch (c’mon… act shocked)

This is a story that got brought up in conversation with some work folk the other day. I thought it was a good idea to also share it on this platform. So that everyone* can know the story.

*By “everyone”, I mean, all 8 of you.

In my defense, this story took place when I was very young. So young that I don’t even remember it; it’s just a story that my family likes to remind me of. Every. Chance. They get. As such, this story is told according to how it has been told to me.

When I was very young, I lived with Mom (my mother), Granny (my maternal grandmother) and Danny (my older brother). I loved Granny more than life itself. She basically couldn’t have a waking moment alone without me following her around and being a general pest. Anywhere Granny went, I went too; anything Granny did, I wanted to do too. Naturally, she nicknamed me her shadow.

Despite the fact that Granny loved me almost as much as I loved her, there were times when I just couldn’t tag along. I hated these times probably as much as Granny longed for them.

One day, there was something Granny had to do that I couldn’t be a part of. She walked out the door with a grin on her face and I stood there scowling with my hands on my hips. You could say I was unhappy with being left at home while Granny frolicked. Or went to the doctor, but whatever, I was 3.

Shortly after Granny returned home, her and Mom noticed something.

Upon closer inspection…

Upon even closer inspection…

Eventually the “where did the shit come from” game ended and Granny made her way upstairs to her bedroom.

That’s right. I shit on my grandmother’s bed to get back at her.

Moral of the story: Don’t piss me off and leave me alone with your things.

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.

Adventures in Internet Dating–part 4

Just because I know you guys love these so much… here’s another installment of That White Girl’s adventures in internet dating.

Even though my POF account is currently hidden so I don’t show up in the general populations’ searches, I will go on and browse profiles.

There was one guy I found that had far too many muscles for his own good. On his profile it said: ******* NO CEREAL DATERS!!!! *******

The number of asterisk's may or may not be exaggerated. It took every willpower bone in my body (I have like six) not to send him this asking what exactly was wrong with being a cereal dater.

I do believe Cap’n Crunch is a good man; better than most, even.

Then there’s this other guy; his profile picture was him hugging an acoustic guitar, his profile said he sang/played rock and he had a link to SoundCloud that contained only metal songs without any lyrics.

I found him to be contradicting and I thought that was a good icebreaker so I basically sent that to him in an email, giving him a bit of a hard time because he said he sang but all his pieces were instrumental. Here’s how our conversation went down.

Douchebag: Singing isn’t easy and my voice isn’t there yet. You do know that was entirely me playing guitar bass and drums, right? I wrote the song too. I have over 50 songs, of all genres. Check out my SoundCloud now – I put other songs up!

I went back to his SoundCloud and there were a bunch of new songs posted. Genre of all songs: metal (without lyrics) or metal hiphop (rap over heavy metal). Very diverse.

TWG: Singing isn’t easy but makes playing that much more fun (for me at least). I like the song “Acoustic”; nice guitar piece.

DB: So you like classical guitar? Yuck. I made that song to mock my old music teacher. Playing chords and singing some oldie is easy. Try playing something off beat, that has many changes in sound and beat and singing something.

TWG: Not necessarily classical guitar, but I’ll play an acoustic over an electric any day. I prefer the organic sound and not having to fiddle with dials and knobs.

DB: You do know the vast majority of acoustic guitars made today are acoustic electric, right?

TWG: Putting a transducer into an acoustic guitar doesn’t make it an electric guitar. Even when you plug it in, it’s still an acoustic, it’s just amplified. You do realize you’d get the same effect from a microphone, right??

He totally got under my skin for some reason but I never heard from him again so it all worked out.

Onwards and upwards, right, folks?