Practical jokes really aren’t that practical

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Stole Someone’s Childhood

A couple weeks ago, a friend called me up and said “Let’s go out!”. Even though I had an event the very next morning (well, noon) that required drinking, I said okay, sure that I would nurse all my drinks and be home at a decent hour.

We met up at our usual place; she proceeded to nurse her drinks and I did not. We then moved onto our next destination and ran into a bunch of people we knew. At one point, it was getting late and she had a dentist appointment the next day, so she called it and went home.

At least that’s what should have happened; I stayed behind without a second thought. It was someone’s birthday party and one of my friends had won a door prize. He gave it to me.

I’m not sure he knew just how happy it made me. I do love door prizes after all. I was getting ready to leave when one of my friends was all “Come on, Heather, we’re going to my place”. I think I put up a little bit of a fight, but then, sure enough, found myself in his apartment chatting it up with his girlfriend and getting another drink dropped in my hand.

He announced that we were going someplace else. I said I had to go home, but he convinced me to go. It may or may not have been very easy seeing as I was pretty intoxicated by this point.

I found myself at this party, where I knew no one and everyone knew everyone. Ordinarily, I might find that situation awkward, but not that night.

I made my rounds meeting people, a few of whom I remember the names of, a few of whom I do not. At one point, the host said “It’s late, everyone has to leave”. All his friends we were like “No – not yet… blah, blah, blah”. I gathered my door prize, my coat and purse and tried to make my way out of the confusing apartment building and onto the street so I could get a cab. I managed to do that and found myself hitting my pillow at 4:30am, completely hammered. So much for my plan.

Morning came all too fast and I found myself completely hungover; since I paid $60 for a ticket to the wine festival, I dragged myself out of bed, hit the showers and staggered around waiting for death, while trying desperately to get ready, make myself presentable and put my game face on.

I succeeded, or at least, I thought I did.

I was on the bus waiting for my friends to board at their respective stops and I felt like complete shit. My first friend boarded and then a couple stops later, the next one. They were positively chipper and chatting away. I was concentrating on not throwing up.

After a few questions regarding what I got up to the night before, the cat was out of the bag.

Apparently my game face is transparent because she said “I knew something was off with you but I didn’t know what!”. We went for lunch where I pushed a salad around my plate and drank about a litre of liquids.

We made it to the event and the moment of truth came; I got the first taste of wine in me and thankfully knew I would be okay. We spent two hours at the event, then met up with friends for more drinks, then went out for more drinks. By 11, the girls were tapped out, so we went on home.

The next morning, I unloaded my door prize winnings and found something in the basket that I didn’t recall being in there when I got the thing.

It’s a picture. Of a little boy, just getting off a school bus. There’s a date handwritten in mom-writing on the back “1988”.

The boy looks vaguely familiar; I think I might have met him at that party. But 26 years later and the amount of alcohol I consumed that night, I don’t know who he is.

All I know is, I’m pretty sure I managed to steal a picture of someone’s first day of school.

That White Girl’s Comeback

As I’ve said on here before, all my life I’ve heard about just how pale I am. Between my last name and my colouration, I’m the butt of many “why aren’t you tan” jokes.

I’ve grown accustomed to it; so much so that after a tropical vacation I already know my response to the above question.

A couple weekends ago, I was able to off-load some of the ammo. I was able to reciprocate just enough to feel powerful. Let me replay the situation.

I ended up at my local watering hole. I found myself a seat at the bar with a bunch of rowdies surrounding me. I may or may not have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

A heated discussion ensued. A heated discussion that would have driven many-a-people insane for the rest of the night. A heated discussion for which I happened to know the answer. This may or may not have garnered me a seat with them.

As I was conversing with a girl within the group, the guy that invited me over was having a discussion with the waitress. I’m not sure of her heritage (Italian? Greek?), but in the dead of winter she has colouration. Not a lick of sun has been about and she’s positively olive.

The guy beside me proclaimed something.

Not even knowing the basis of the conversation, I leapt on the opportunity.

Me: I’m sorry – you’re going to be as tanned as Maia?

Whitey2 – Yep!

TWG – Got some Irish in ya?? I call your bullshit!

W2 – What?

TWG – Look at you – you will NEVER be as tanned as Maia!

W2 – Sure I will!!

TWG – Where are you going?

W2 – Maui.

TWG – And how long will you be there?

W2 – A week.

TWG – Yeah. You’ll be red if anything.

W2 – What??

TWG – How much Irish you got in you exactly?

W2 – I’m full Irish…

TWG – Yeah, you’re not coming back tanned.

He questioned how I knew such a thing. I told him he had no idea just how White I am.

It was surprisingly fulfilling.

 

P.S. Dear Anonymous – I find it unfair that you seem to know who I am and I have no idea who you are. Reveal your identity. Please?!

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?

Adventures in online dating: Part - Oh… I get it…

I found this in my drafts – I wrote it several months back, but since I’m chronically single, it still applies.

Hooray for being timeless.

I think I’ve finally figured out a reason, if not the reason, why I’m still single. Meh – who am I kidding there’s clearly a laundry list of reasons…

You know the dating technique where you trick someone into liking you by being not yourself and then dole out your true self in single-bite-size-servings so that, given enough time, you eventually become yourself, but it was done so gradually that the person you’re with didn’t realize just how weird/crazy/needy/sarcastic/(insert undesirable trait here) you really are until it was too late and they already like you and have already come to accept your character flaws?

Turns out that may be a problem, if not the problem, with … … well... me. I think that honesty is the best policy.

Allow me to explain my most recent epic fail. *Update – since this is not so recent anymore, I’m sure there’s more to come… Who am I kidding, I have some in reserves.

Although, my POF account is hidden and I’m not showing up in the general populations’ searches, I do log on, view profiles and email people. Not super frequently, but often enough.

I did this recently and started chatting with an attractive young man, who coincidentally enough, shares the same, uncommon (in the western world at least), name as Thailand. We’ll call him Thailand 2.0, or Thai2 for short.

I decided not to hold this against him, even though, more often than not, I cringe when I meet a prospect with the same name as my ex. Or my brother. Or my father. Sorry – but I got a thing with names!

So we start doing the whole email exchange thing. Back and forth for an hour or so every night. This lasted a few nights when one day Thai2 asked me what I was doing. I said I was at home, relaxing, doing some writing.

Something no one ever does is ask what exactly I’m writing. He does. I explain that I was writing some “short stories”; he asked what kind.

Something no one ever does is ask for my blog address. He does.

I wanted to discourage him, but I didn’t know what to say. My first thought was “No – I only share this with really good friends, or complete strangers and you’re too in between” which seemed like a ridiculous thing to say out loud. I settled with  “I don’t know about that…..” He sent me his website in exchange, so I sent him mine with a “don’t judge me!” disclaimer. He said he wouldn’t.

His website is themed around wine and is very professional and appropriate. And…  yeah… you’ve seen mine. A little while later, he asked who does my “artwork”.

A little while after that, he pointed out a specific post he liked. A post that was quite old. A post that happens to be in my “top posts based on nothing list”. I looked at the random list and hoped he wasn’t working his way down.

Let’s just say that list of posts has some… …  unsavory links. Links that my readers and friends enjoy, but maybe don’t portray me in the best light. That maybe aren’t super becoming of me. Or worse yet, are exactly as becoming of me.

He must have found them because he stopped replying to my emails. I should’ve known he was judging me. Better sooner rather than later, though, right?

Right??

Wet pants are the worst

As you may or may not remember, I’ve had a tendency in the past to accidentally spill drinks. And by accidentally spill drinks, I mean, accidentally dump entire pints of beer into the laps of unsuspecting friends. Check out the old post – it’s a gem!

Well… it happened again. Let me paint you a picture.

The night started off innocently enough – regular Friday night routine of going out for dinner (a.k.a soup) with some friends. A drink or two was had. Another friend had wanted to meet up for drinks; when one of my friends at dinner got wind of it she said she would also be interested in going out.

So we met up at the local pub and had a few more drinks. This pub is notorious for shutting down early (some would call it an old folk bar and they would be right), so we moseyed on down the road to the next pub to get a couple more before the last-last call. Which is part of the routine for “one of those” Friday nights.

In general, I’ve been known to attract weirdos and my friend happens to be quite the looker. Those talents combined, we always have an interesting night when we head out; this night was no exception. We weren’t sitting at the bar for very long before some dude came over from the other side to chat us up.

You could say I was feeling a little jealous of the attention, or lack thereof. You could say that maybe, just maybe, I wanted in on the conversation. You could also say I wasn’t paying enough attention to my surroundings.

It’s no surprise that things got out of hand and drinks were spilt.

I totally had this coming.

Palindromes have ruined my life.

I was at my work party a couple nights back and was having a conversation with a friend; I may have been a couple drinks deep when I told her a little known secret. She found it to be very weird and her immediate response was “you need to write a blog post about this”. So, to make my friend happy (yes, I am a people pleaser), here it is.

My friend later forwarded me a facebook post that her friend posted the following day.

“Does it bother anyone else that the word "symmetry" isn't a palindrome? What a waste of an opportunity."

I had a good chuckle. Anyway, back to the story… My brother is three years older than I am; when I was about six years old, he came home from school and told me he learned about palindromes.

Mom

Dad

Noon

Pop

The list goes on… but my all-time favourite (yes, one that I learned that day and still continues to be my favourite to this day) is racecar. I’m not sure why. Probably because my mind was completely blown. I may or may not have had to write it down to verify the fact. C’mon, I was six, give me a break!

Since that day, I’ve loved palindromes. There was even a time where I knew I loved them, but couldn’t remember what they were called.

It’s one thing for a six year old to love something like palindromes. It’s another thing to have palindromes completely take over a six year olds’ life. It another thing altogether to have that same control still be present in a 33 year old body.

Once I learned what palindromes were, I started doing something; something that can really only be classified as OCD. You see, my mom worked mornings and I was in charge of setting an alarm, answering the phone when she called and getting us ready for school (yes, I’m the younger sibling). But for some reason, this new found responsibility manifested in an obscure way.

I still do it to this day and I don’t know why. I started trying to convince myself that I needed to stop this behaviour, so when I passed the palindrome on my alarm clock, I’d stop. Yes, I used to go all the way around just to get the ‘perfect’ setting. But it always ended badly. I wouldn’t sleep well, and once I fell asleep due to pure exhaustion, I would oversleep and I’d be late. It had nothing to do with the fact that I: stayed up too late, drank too much, ate right before bed, was stressed out or the hundred other reasons why I didn’t sleep well.

No, clearly it’s because I didn’t set my alarm clock to a palindrome. I know it’s irrational, so I’ve tried to steer away from it; tried to regain control of my life. After all, two out of three of my current alarms are not set in palindromes. But I realized at my work party, that it still affects my life.

I bought a 50/50 ticket; when the draw was happening, I scanned my tickets to see if I had a palindrome.

I’m willing to look past whether or not it’s a “true palindrome”. I will accept if the last 3 or 4 digits (the ones that count) are a palindrome. Turns out, I had one and was pretty convinced I’d win the 50/50 because of it.

I didn’t win. Because I never win 50/50 tickets. But…

The winning ticket was a palindrome!!!!

Fuck! So, my irrational rationalization is now justified. I’m pretty much doomed.