All Hallow's Eve

This post is about my favorite Halloween. This was not a Halloween that took place when I was a small child, knocking on people's doors, looking for candy. No, no. This Halloween took place 2 years ago.

I was invited to a house party by a colleague; I often went to his house for his Halloween parties. I am often at a loss as to what to dress up as; this year was no different. One day I was walking through WalMart to purchase motor oil, as I was passing by the women's plus size clothing department, something caught my eye. It was a bright red cloak. My first thought: Little Red Riding Hood!!

I scooped up the cloak and tried to find something else to wear with it. I came across a nightgown that would do the trick. I quickly came to the realization that I'd need more than a red cloak and a nightie to pull off the costume. I needed a basket. Luckily, I had just bought a wicker basket; I put on a fake lid, fed a purse strap through and voila - picnic basket!!

The picnic basket ended up being quite convenient, I used it to carry my keys, wallet and alcohol as well as used it as something to prop my drink on when my hand grew heavy and/or cold. But more than that, I wanted the basket to be filled with things; funny things, interesting things. But I had no idea what those things could be; and then it dawned on me.

My friend always tells me that I have a lot of feelings. Partially because I'm a girl, but also because I'm me and he likes to point out my foibles. He says that because I have so many feelings they form a bundle. Even though I try to wrap my arms around them, I can't hold onto them all; there are just too many. I try, but there they are spilling out of my grasp and falling all over the place.

Maybe they wouldn't be spilling all over, getting dropped on the ground if I had something to put them in. Like a basket, perhaps.

I started making a list of things that I could put in my basket; things that represent feelings. I put a soft, plush stuffy in there, a rock hard piece of marble, something pokey, something smooth. I put pictures in there for nostalgia and various other things. I was pretty excited to present this joke to him.

I got ready for the party and walked out my door, just as a coyote trotted off my porch, down my driveway and into my alley. It scared the shit out of me, but I couldn't help but burst out laughing.

I arrived at my friend's house and was partaking in the party; eating some food, drinking some drinks, chatting people up etc etc. No one asked me what was in my basket. Not even my friend and he's pretty snoopy. I waited, I even made a point to take things out and put things in right in front of him.

He still didn't ask, so I said "Aren't you going to ask me what's in my basket?"; I guess he hadn't realized that it was full of stuff. "Oh sure!" he said; he was pretty excited. That made me happy.

I started extracting out my items, pointing out the feeling associated with it. "Here's my soft stuffed animal, this is my hard marble, these are nostalgic pictures from my childhood...." He looked at every item, laughed where appropriate but I could tell he wasn't getting it. So I said "Do you get it?". He said "Yeah, you have things in your basket, I get it". I said "No, do you get it ?". He could tell that I was trying to drive home a point and he was clueless; he admitted as much.

I went through the items again, making each feeling really, really, clear. He still didn't get it. I said "Oh come on! They're feelings!!!". The look of realization that crossed his face was worth it. He burst out laughing and said that my costume was officially the best costume he'd ever seen. He also congratulated me on being such a good sport.

Happy Halloween Everyone!!

Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don't

So I met this guy on the internet. It was about a year ago, which turns out is the exact amount of time that I needed to pass in order to be able to tell this story. Not too long that it's no longer fresh and I'm forgetting things, but at the same time not too soon that it's still embarrassing. I've alluded to this post a couple/few times in the past and low and behold, here's the post in all it's glory.

So.... I met this guy on the internet. He will forever be known as NutJob. Why? Because he was a complete and utter NutJob.

We met online and quickly (maybe too quickly) decided the phone was the best medium to converse. My first impression of him was that he was very energetic and had a lot to say. I thought he was eager. Turns out, he was, at the very least, slightly mentally unstable.

We were supposed to meet up at the local mall because he had some business there and it was close to my work. However, my job can be unpredictable and I can pull 10hr days at the drop off a hat. That day was no exception. I should have taken it as a sign.

I texted him a couple hours before we were supposed to meet to tell him I was going to be working late. I told him not to wait around at the mall and to make his way home and I'd meet him in his neighbourhood, to make up for the inconvenience.

I ended up picking him up at his place. He was a little too familiar.

I should have taken it as a sign.

He asked if we could swing by his mom's place before we went for coffee. Don't worry, it's like 5 minutes away. I said sure. We start driving and he's all "Turn left, turn right, go straight". I asked where his mother lived exactly. He responded with "Oh, she's up at the mall." The mall we were supposed to meet at a couple hours ago. The mall that was nearly half an hour away. I thought (and said out loud) "Going to the mall twice today... big day..."

Nope - he decided not to go earlier so that I could drive him. I should have turned around or dropped him off on the side of the road. To this day, I don't know why I didn't.

We met up with Mom at the restaurant that she was waiting at to get a table. Yes... we. He would not take "No, I'll wait in the car" for an answer. So we meet up with her and they take care of their business.

What business? Well, picking up his rent money, of course. Turns out that he's 35 years old and can't manage his money very well, so his mommy takes his rent money from his welfare check and holds onto it until it's due so he doesn't spend it. And so she doesn't have to pay his rent for him.

To top it off, since we're in a restaurant and all, he thought it would be a good idea if we had dinner there. I didn't think it was a good idea, mostly because I didn't want to have dinner with him... or his mom, but also because...

Are you fucking kidding me? He tried to convince his mother to buy the dinner for us. When she refused, he asked for "at least an appetizer". I jumped in and said thanks, but no thanks, nice to meet you, see you later. I was mortified.

I started driving him home and he asked me asked if I could do something for him before I took off. Okay... what is it?

Are you fucking kidding me?

I told him that I forgot my purse at home, he asked how I was planning on paying for our coffees if I didn't bring money; he scoffed and asked if I actually expected him to pay. Um, yeah, its coffee. He wanted me to go back to my house to pick up my purse so we could go. I said that wasn't necessary.

He got upset because we were supposed to go on a date and it's not a date unless we go to some sort of dining establishment. I said we met, we talked, we met Mom, we drove around for an hour, we're done. He said that he's pretty clairvoyant and he can tell I'm not having a good time. That's not being clairvoyant, that's being moderately aware of other people's feelings/body language/annoyance spewing out of them.

He got upset that I was just taking him home. He didn't understand what went wrong. He thought we agreed. On what, I asked. On having a relationship - it's what we both want. I said that I want a relationship and he wants a relationship, but that doesn't mean we're going to have a relationship with each other. He wanted to know why.

Namely, he wants a sugar-mama and I want someone with a job. I didn't realize I had such high standards. He moped for the remainder of the car ride. I pulled up to his house and wished him a good night.

Are you fucking kidding me?

The worst part is, this post isn't even the tip of the iceberg with this guy... he also told me he loved me. He also was a complete spazz that nearly punched out my window when he tried to throw a CD out of the car, when the window was closed. He told me that he's on disability because he can't hold down a job. He told me that when he goes out, he often gets in situations where the cops are called. For no reason; he wasn't even doing anything.

He told me that his mother is a lesbian and he was always lacking a male influence in his life and he's very sensitive for a guy. And clairvoyant. He told me that he was a result of a one-night stand when his mom decided to try out for the other team to see what it was like. She looked at him with such distain that I could see that she wished she'd stuck with the ladies.

I still don't think I've hit all the highlights. There are probably tonnes more things that I have simply blocked out. What I do know is, it was the longest hour of my life.

 

 

Big thanks to EliseArt for providing illustrations!

A Disney Story

A few years back, the company I work for hosted it's annual staff party at a local hotel. Being gracious hosts, the hotel offered the attendees a discounted rate in order to discourage drunk driving and encourage alcohol sales. One co-worker got a hotel room for the night.

Since someone had a hotel room, everyone was encouraged to meet at the room and partake in a bit of pre-drinking before the party started. Another benefit was that we all had a place to store our booze while we were downstairs (a.k.a a bathtub full of ice). I was a rye and ginger girl at the time, so naturally, I brought a 26'er of crown and a 2L bottle of Canada Dry. Best gingerale ever.

However, I was uncertain as to the amenities offered by the hotel, so I brought some of my own drinking devices, including a shot glass and a cup. Since alcohol was going to be involved, and since I was going to be carting around the drinking paraphernalia, I was concerned about breakage. So, I brought as many unbreakable things as I could.

I arrived at the hotel room and started making myself a drink. Instantly, I was teased about my drinking devices. I defended myself by saying that I wasn't sure if the hotel would have glasses and/or shot glasses. Turns out, I wasn't being made fun of because I brought these things, I was made fun of because of the things I brought.

Namely, the cup. The only plastic cup I had was a collector cup from my Burger King days (when I paid for the BK equivalent of a happy meal, of course). It was a Pocahontas cup.

For most of the night, I drank out of the cup in the hotel room only. As the night wore on and I got more and more intoxicated, I became less self-conscious of the cup and 'the rules'. I started carrying it around downstairs amongst the other attendees. Luckily, it was dark and no one noticed. Not even security.

Surprisingly, the rest of the night was rather uneventful. Or maybe I just don't remember it. The friend that had the hotel room had brought her boyfriend to the party. He had never met us before, so he used this first experience as a way to decipher which work friend she was referring to in the conversations following that fateful night.

At the time, there were two Heather's at my work. On the inside, I was disappointed that there was someone else with my name and that I wasn't one of a kind anymore. On the outside, well, it was pretty much the same story, because I have a hard time bottling up my feelings. At the end of the day, the other Heather and I are/were very different people. The other Heather was taller and blonder.

One day, work friend went home and was telling boyfriend a story about me at work. She started saying "Heather this" or "Heather that" when he cut her off; he wanted to know which Heather she was talking about.

So... is that "blonde Heather" or Pocahontas?

Fuck. Me.

Granny was a peeping Tom

Growing up, Granny had a friend that lived down the road; his name was Ray, but Granny always lovingly referred to him as Old Ray.

I think this nickname came about because I always suspected that Granny and Ray were boyfriend and girlfriend and when I would confront Granny on the subject, she would always scoff and say "Me & Old Ray?! Nooo...." Looking back, I'm fairly sure they were doing it. *shudder*

There are many things that I remember about Ray. If I was riding my bike, or walking down the sidewalk, or playing in the yard and Ray drove by, he'd do the same thing every time. He'd throw his arms up in the air and drive past without touching the steering wheel.

I always got a kick out of it, which is probably why he kept doing it. In fact, I thought he was magical. I didn't really know how cars worked.

Every time I saw him and asked how he was, he'd say that he was good, because it was his birthday. The first day, I happily wished him a happy birthday. The second day, I told him that his birthday was the day before. By the third day, I became skeptical. Even at such a young age, I was convinced he was trying to put one past me.

When I confronted him on the issue, he informed me that every day was his birthday. I didn't believe him, I told him that birthday's only happen once a year, so his birthday can't be every day. Then he would ask me when my birthday was.

I couldn't answer his question. I didn't really know how birthdays worked.

This conversation occurred again and again and again, until one day I finally asked Granny when my birthday was. The next time we had the conversation, I felt triumphant - I knew the answer. When I told him, he simply said "Too bad your birthday is only on May 10th... mine is every day".

He taught be about circular logic and how sometimes you can never win an argument.

But more than anything, the thing I remember about Ray the most, and the thing I think about every time I hear his name or think of him, is this story that Granny told me as a little girl.

One day, Old Ray was over visiting; at one point, he excused himself to go to the bathroom. Granny got up and walked past the bathroom and discovered that he left the door slightly ajar. Since Granny was a nosy busybody, she couldn't let an opportunity such as this pass.

She creeped up to the bathroom door and peeked inside. She would always laugh when she told this story because she saw things that she would never forget. Not that way, you sick fucks. In order to make an impression on a small child, first you must explain how things normally work and then tell them how this story is different than normal, and thus, how this story is funny.

She explained to me that when boys go piddle, they just shake the pee off their junk and go on their merry way. Not Ray. When he finished peeing, Granny was expecting the standard shake off and for him to turn around and wash his hands. Not Ray.

After he finished going pee, he tore off one square of toilet paper, gently folded it in half and then wiped any residual urine off his wiener. Granny said she'd never seen anything like it before, and I'm willing to bet she peeked in on anyone dumb enough to leave a door open in her presence.

That is what I think about when I think of Ray. And that's what I think about when I see one square of toilet paper lying around somewhere.

Hoisted by my own petard

Yet another post about Foosball. God, I love that game. There are a few people that I play with at work: Gorm, of course; EliseArt, naturally; The Genius and The Kicker. Whenever I play with these folks (usually two against two; or me & The Kicker vs Gorm), we play a game or two (or sometimes three) and call it quits.

However, when Gorm & I play one-on-one, we have our own little game. We call it The Game. It's very exciting. It also has a very original name. The rules are like every other game of foosball we play, but there are a few exceptions.

The regular rules:

1) No spinning of the rods

2) The middlemen on both teams have to touch the ball before the game starts

3) No scoring from the middlemen

4) The team that gets to 10 first, wins

The rules for The Game:

1) No spinning of the rods

2) The middlemen on both teams have to touch the ball before the game starts

3) Gorm is not allowed to score from the middlemen; any shot Heather gets past Gorm counts

4) The game ends when Heather gets to 10

5) The game score is the number of goals that Gorm gets before Heather gets to 10

6) Heather wins when she gets to 10

7) Gorm wins if Heather does not see The Game through and doesn't get to 10

Even though the rules are catered to me and allow me a greater chance of winning, Gorm still wins. A lot. Despite my temper tantrums, we diligently play The Game at least once week. In the few months that we've been doing this, I've made serious strides. I've also made a graph. I wouldn't be a scientist if I didn't have evidence.

The first time we played The Game, we played for an hour and a half before I got to 10; Gorm had 134pts. Even though "I won", it was a low point in my life. Since then, Gorm has given me lessons and pure practice and sheer determination has helped me achieve lower game scores.

*disclaimer* When I told Gorm that I was going to make a spreadsheet to tabulate the results, I told him that I was going to put only the high scores in, he said that was fine, it's my spreadsheet after all. Yesterday, I reminded him of this and he called me a bad name. I can't recall what it was, but the impression I got was that I should be plotting all the scores. I'm not going to.

The second entry had a game score of 73, which is nearly half of the original score. I believe this was actually the second game we played, since I don't remember ever going above 134. And I don't remember having a tantrum and walking away (that started happening as I got better at the game. Go figure).

Next was 53, followed by a 52. I was certain that I was plateau-ing and would never break 50. This is when I started walking away from the game. If Gorm hits 54, I lose it; I Hulk out and toss every table in my wake.

Unfortunately, one poor soul has the misfortune of witnessing this escapade EVERY TIME! Every time I say "I'm done! I don't want to play this game anymore - I hate you!!!!", I turn around and see this guy standing there. The next time he catches me at the foosball table, he says "I thought you weren't playing this game anymore, Heather??" It's pretty funny, except for how much he catches me whining and throwing a tantrum.

Anyway, I broke 50 with an all-time low game score of 28. This was a big moment in my life. I was reveling in my win. I was really pleased with myself.

And then Gorm asked if I wanted to play again. I might lower my score even more. Being that I was delirious from the foosball high I was on, I accepted. Only to fail miserably. Gorm hit 54, I tossed tables and stormed off. "Oh, hello, Tom, I didn't see you there."

Yesterday, I got to 22. When I got my final goal, I yelled out (it may or may not have been really loud) "Twenty-fucking-two!!! Yeah!!!!!!". As I was turning around, the poor janitor behind me turns around with a shocked look on his face. I see the judgment, but that didn't stop me from doing a happy dance.

Gorm, again, convinced me that I should play again. I might lower my score. I'm on a roll. And then he got 54.

Mother. Fucker.

I'm so consistently inconsistent, it blows my mind. Or maybe that's the dramatic shift in blood pressure. Not sure.

The Big Bang Theory

I mentioned that I've been working like crazy. Here's how my days are shaping up lately. I wake up (usually late), I feel tired/shitty/sick, I drag myself out of bed/house and go to work. While there, I run around in a decapitated chicken like manner. After far too many hours of not eating, working too much and losing at foosball, I head home, gorge myself on whatever is accessible (pizza, vodka, whatever) and head to bed.

Of course, Murphy's Law kicks in and no matter how tired I was all day (or even moments before), as soon as I get in bed, I start thinking about all the things I need to do the next day. Inevitably, it gets later and later yet my brain keeps churning away.

Eventually, I decide I might as well be doing something and pick up my book and start reading. Even though it's an alright book and even though I'm enjoying it, switching gears from reality to fantasy is enough to make me fall asleep.

I wake up shortly after with the book on my chest and the light still on. I shut everything off and then have a hard time falling back asleep. I toss and turn and think about all the things I need to do. No wonder I'm waking up feeling tired/shitty/sick every morning.

Last night was no exception to this sequence of events. Except... instead of waking up with the book on my chest, something else woke me. It took me awhile to realize what had done it, since I was in a semi-dream state; a little disoriented. That's when I heard it. And it was loud. My neighbour having sex right above me.

It wasn't just a little loud; it was really loud. And it wasn't just a little bit of sex, it was a lot of sex. Okay, it wasn't that much because it only lasted about 7 minutes. But still. Quite the rude awakening, let's say. But like all things, there's always the silver lining.

The funny thing about all of this, is not the fact that it took me two hours to fall back asleep. No, no. You see, the people that lived above me before, were heavy walkers and bathroom talkers. I assumed those two factors were the reason I could hear them. All. The. Time.

In the nearly 5 years that they lived above me, I never once heard them have sex. I kinda thought that maybe the house was actually insulated (or at least the portion of ceiling between the bedrooms), and the only reason they drove me insane was because they're heel-walkers and like to have conversations with each other while one is in the bathroom and the other is in the kitchen.

Granted, my old neighbours were a good, Christian, couple. So naturally, they don't enjoy sex at all. But still. To go from hearing nothing, to being woken up and hearing that, was a bit of a shock to the system. I'm really glad she's not into tantric.

It's so pointy

Okay, my last post was so unlike me and I've been told it was 'pretty sappy'.

In my brain, I replaced the word 'pretty' with 'really' and 'sappy' with 'shitty'. Fear not, my faithful readers, posts about syphilis are not far behind; I'll be back in the saddle soon enough. (There's a joke in there somewhere).

I've been working like crazy and it's been tough to devote the time necessary to write posts when my pile of dirty laundry is sky-high (on the floor of my room, not in the common laundry room, like some jerks) and my kitchen is a mess. But, due to a migraine, I left work after a mere 9 hours today and got home in time to tackle the sty I call my house. Go me.

Anyway, back to the point of the post... I've mentioned my pursuit of the opposite sex on here a few times before. I've also mentioned my experiences with online dating. Not surprisingly, I don't want to go there ever again. So... I'm trying something new. Cross your fingers for me. PLEASE!!

I've just joined a singles club. An event club. An adventure club. (Not of the $3K/yr variety - I'm too cheap for that). Basically, a club where you join, sign up for events and then go to them; all the people there are single. And since I'm fairly convinced I'm better in person, I think this is more up my alley.

Types of events include artsy stuff, like learning to draw and doing pot (pottery); sporty stuff, like volleyball, curling and canoeing; social things, like pub nights, dinners out, movie nights and comedy clubs; plus many others (or so I've been told by the propaganda department).

Now you may be asking yourself (probably not, but give a dog a bone, m'kay?!) "Now, Heather, you already do all of those things, why join a club to do them?" Because.

That's all I got.

I'm kidding. Because, when I go out for dinner, or to shows, pubs and the like, I'm around a bunch of people that I don't know. Yes, I realize the same will happen when I'm at a club related event, but, at least I won't be surrounded by a bunch of happy couples (fuckers).

At least I'll know that the people at the event are single and they'll know that I'm single. They'll also know that I will likely be going to other events. Therefore, it will (hopefully!) be easier to approach the hottie in the corner (that's me, in case you didn't catch on) and say "What's up?", instead of assuming that they have a girlfriend and find me repulsive. (okay, okay, it wasn't me in the corner... but it could be!!).

Scratch that. I won't be in the corner. I'll be in the middle of the room, making a scene.

So anyway, since I've just signed up, (as in yesterday), thus I haven't been to any events yet, and there are few on the horizon, being the end of the month and November's schedule hasn't been published yet. But don't you worry, I'll keep you all updated on all the goings-on as soon as I start going to events. Because I know you care.

On an unrelated note, my friend Dave is always on the lookout for things that "make Heather happy". He mentioned he wants to purchase an electronic drum kit; I mentioned that I've entertained the idea as well, but don't want to put out $1200 on something that I will only use to make my recordings sound even worse a few times a year for recording. Thus, he found an electronic kit that was used as a rental unit for the low, low price of $499. Now I just have to convince myself that spending $600 on a drum kit will be worth it.

Devils advocate, anyone??