Saturday, October 2, 2010

Hobo Love.

So, I haven't written in a really long time. Lots of things have happened since my last post: I went to St. Lucia, got engaged, started looking for a home like a Responsible Adult. All sorts of fun things. But that's not what my blog is about.

Today I am pretty sure I caught hobo AIDS. Although I'm no scientician, I'm going to go out on a limb and say that's the worst kind.

Fuck! FAAAAACK!!!

On a positive note, I'm super happy I have a venue where I can freely drop the "Fuck" bomb, and make jokes about horrific diseases without fear of being reprimanded. OK, I'm a little afraid of being reprimanded, especially by that new No Face follower over there. The name says "CL", so I'm a little worried that maybe it's me and I created a profile in some late night stupor to follow myself in some scandalous attempt to boost my numbers. Don't judge me, Me.

I generally don't consider myself a very squeamish person. Back when I did the whole Volunteer In A Destitute Country So I Can Pretend I'm Better Than You But Really I Got Paid A Bit And All I Did Was Party Like A Rockstar And Travel On The Cheap, a little boy aged six gave me peanut butter jar filled with three tarantulas. For my birthday. Two of them were half-eaten corpses, and the giant one hovered around the top of the jar, hissing mad. I bit my lip and sighed. Thanks, Jorgito. I bought a terrarium and fed the angry spider live cockroaches for months. We became friends.

Today, though, I reached my limit of squeamishness.

I was standing at the parking meter, 15 minutes before my spa appointment (just so you know how classy I am, guys). While I was waiting for the meter to give me my parking ticket, a hobo bikes by, turns his head to cough in my direction, and coughs in my face. Not like... a dry cough, which I already would have been totally grossed out by, but gross, sickly, hacking cough, where a globule of spit lands ON MY MOUTH. My smiling, excited for my much needed spa day, mouth.

I basically kissed a hobo.

I know what you're thinking. Was he at least cute?

NO.

Think less along the lines of post-goatee Brad Pitt, and more along the lines of exactly what you imagine in your Joaquin Phoenix-kissing nightmares.


After we're done making out, I scream and yell, "What the Hell?? What's wrong with you!?" I rarely lose my cool in public (LIE.), but obviously this turning point in my life warrants an appropriate freak out. The worst part is (well the worst part is the spit on my mouth), the SECOND worst part is, he turns around on his bike and says something like, "Ah fuck you, bitch!", like I'M the one who wronged him!!

Hobo is long gone before I can actually do anything, although there wasn't all that much I could do. Throw my parking change at him? That goodfernnothin' Spit Bum isn't eating on my dime!!

So now I'm curled over on a busy street, carefully trying to release my own saliva through unopened lips to use the forces of gravity and wash my lips without touching them with my bare hands.

I'm wearing no makeup, old baggy jeans, and a hoodie (that I can take off easily. Stop trying to waste my hour with "clothes-removing time", RMT.) so I look kind of disgusting already, and trust me when I say that slowly spitting up on the sidewalk does not help.

I eventually get into the spa, where they do not have my appointment, and I have to cause a(nother) scene.

I should probably change the name of this blog to something more accurate, like MyLifeIsStupid.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Airport Adventures

Upon returning to Toronto from Boca Chica, I opted to stop over in Miami for a day. I love that city.

I thought I would be really smart and only pack a carry on, get there at 9 and South Beach it up til my flight at 5. I booked my flight to be there for Independence Day by accident. I left Toronto on Marty's birthday. Which I forgot about. I'm not the best at remembering things.

First of all, on my flight to Miami, I got sat with a tween who smelled like a cheese foot (don't they all? Grow up, Tweens. So disgusting!) and a girl about my age who would not stop sobbing. Where is the SUICIDE BUTTON, American Airlines??!? Like seriously, I did not purchase my copy of Savor The Moment (trade paperback, thank you very much) only to have my book-reading time disturbed by Smelly Tears over there. I had the window seat, so it was next to impossible to ascertain who was doing all the stinking.

No matter. I'll just put my trusty headphones on to drown out the crying and watch the in-flight film. They played that Tooth Fairy movie, starring "The Rock" on my way there, so whatever they throw at me can't be worse than that. WRONG!! Old Dogs. That one with John Travolta and Robin Williams. It's a long 3 hours.

Once we arrive on land, everyone with a connecting flight is directed to pick up their luggage and go through customs with it. Haha, SUCKERS! This was the whole reason I just brought a carry-on.

I have to take a moment to pause and punch myself for not bringing a camera with me.

ok.

As I smugly wave goodbye to all the assholes having to go wait for their luggage and go through additional security, I get stopped by a miniature security officer. I'm 5'3, so any man I have to look down to is hardly a man at all. He's like a G.I Joe toy!! But I know better than to treat him like one. The "Talk Back" areas in international airports is the last place I ever want to be in. Again.

The problem here is that Officer Cookie Elf speaks in whisper decibels, or maybe I'm still deaf from the flight. I don't want to lean down to listen because I feel like that would be patronizing, but I also don't want to not do what he says. What a pickle! I sort of cross my legs and hunch, pretending like I have to pee so I can hear his instructions.

He tells me I have to pick up my bags and go through customs prior to leaving the airport. Triumphantly, I tell him I don't have any bags, just my backpack, and prepare to stroll on merrily past. He stops me and tries to convince me that it's my only chance to pick up my bags, because they aren't going straight through to Toronto without me clearing them through customs first. He literally asks me to be absolutely sure I have no bags coming through. Yes sir, I am absolutely positive I didn't pack an entire suitcase, check it in at the last airport I was in, and forget about it in the last 3 hours.

On the way out the door I am pretty sure I walked through 5 meter radius fart.

Not the best airport experience.

Monday, July 5, 2010

Back from Hiatus

Hi all!

I'm back due to an overwhelming load of fanmail and requests. Well, really my friend Tamara just asked what I was doing with my blog and that's 17% of my followers. Hey, I'm a crowd pleaser.

I just got back from Dominican Republic on a short visit to Boca Chica. It's a far cry from the other times I've been to DR, which have been at high starred resorts in Punta Cana or Puerta Plata, places that have made me grimace when people mention Dominican Republic. It is low season, so Boca Chica was relatively quiet. It is riddled with more prostitution than I've ever seen, desperate beach vendors, and polluting mopeds. The few tourists there are generally European men, wearing bathing gear that immediately draws your eyes to their balls. "Come hither," the balls beckon, seductively, "look how I dance when Fernando walks."

I loved it. I love the nitty grittiness of Boca Chica, the being forced to use Spanish, and the wooden cabin-like place we stayed in.

We went on a couple of scuba diving expeditions: a wreck dive that we penetrated and it was easy to pretend you were a ghost pirate, a night dive where we saw plankton light up the black waters like a million fireflies, and finally, two cave dives.

On cave diving. I'd never done it before. I've done some swimthroughs underwater but nothing in complete darkness and nothing lasting more than 10 seconds. I'm not an overly experienced diver, maybe 20 dives or so, but have generally thought myself to be completely comfortable underwater. I've come face to face with sharks, gone 170 feet under, and completely lost my mask at 80 feet, always remaining calm.

We head out to Las Tainas caves with our French Divemaster and a guy from Denmark. I'm not very good with accents and can lose attention quickly if I don't understand. When the DM was talking about what now seems obvious as virginal beaches, I stroked my chin pensively. "Vagina bitches, you say? Sounds interesting. I'll have to look it up." (n.b., Do NOT look it up.)

Anyways, we had to lug our equipment down this treacherous stair path. I don't have any good pictures because I didn't bring my camera to DR, but this is what the entrance looked like:


It was moderately terrifying and I'm quite sure I won't be doing it again. It was extremely beautiful and crystalline, and there were interesting formations that can't be found elsewhere, but it was freezing and for the most part, I couldn't stop thinking about how we were 70 feet deep in a lake 40 feet below earth. There's no air on top of me! Some stalagtites/mites had broken, due to earthquakes, the DM said. Earthquakes. Well thanks for that reminder!! We also passed through some haloclines, which are when freshwater meets saltwater. It was like crossing through a mirror, and that is the only way I can explain it. The saltwater has a different density than the freshwater, and from one side, looks like the surface of a lake. The person in front of me disappears onto the other side, like something from a Sci-Fi movie. I can make out his flashlight but forget about any other detail. When disturbed, the effect is like mixing water with vinegar.

Okay that is all i'm going to write about today because I am going to try to make my posts shorter.

:)

Friday, May 28, 2010

In May

Taiko is sick because Boyfriend has been in Prague for the last two weeks and this dog is ultra dramatic about being left out. He's trying to get his revenge, and this involves getting ME up at all hours of the night to let him out, not eating his dinner, and groaning when I walk in the door after work. "You? Again?" He sighs loudly and walks away, shaking his enormous bobble head.

His piece de resistance this time is hidden vomit. Thrice has this love-scorned, bulimic, little ingrate surprised me with little pockets of dog barf: in a shoe, under a shopping bag, beside the toilet. What have I done to you, Taiko?? But I know that this has nothing to do with me. He knows once his best friend walks through the door I'm going to go on and on about the trials and tribulations of single parenting, and Boyfriend's chances of leaving for such an extended period of time will be slim to none in the future. Checkmate.

Last night I had to take him about once an hour, every hour. By around 1 am, after having been woken up 3 times already, I've stopped getting dressed to go outside. I leave the house in a nightgown, glasses, and dragon-breath.

Three houses down and I hear a gaggle of young women in their early twenties shriek, "OH MY GOD!! LOOK AT THAT DOG!!" They run over, in a flurry of high heels, miniskirts, and Bump-Its. I fold my arms over my chest and uncomfortably try to hide my lack of bra. I can't let go of the leash or Taiko will run like the Dickens and I can't unfold my arms or it's Nipple Town. The result is a very awkward scene where even my dog is embarrassed to be near me. He wants to go off with the cool girls. And their boyfriends. Who have just left the house and are trying to talk to me about Taiko.

Now I have to cover my boobs, handle the leash of a very excited dog, and breathe into my arm because what was once an average bout of bad breath has solidified and taken a life of its own. "A social life?" It scoffs. "Not a chance. MWAHAHAHAHAAHAH!!!!"

When I express my concerns that I am in no way prepared to be out of my house for than 2 minutes, one of the girls whispers conspiratorially, "Seriously, don't even worry about it. Your nightgown is cute!" She says this in a way that a mental ward worker would say to lure a patient back to their room. In a way that makes me want to exhale a thank you right into her face so she has to go back home to wash it. Their cabs arrive and I'm finally free.

This morning, drunk on his power of not allowing me to sleep all night, Taiko sleeps in peacefully, thinking there is no chance I will make him exercise. Well, wake the fuck up, Homeslice, we're going for eggs!

I find a cafe with a great shaded patio. Taiko secured on the sidewalk within view, breakfast ordered, I settle in with my book and coffee. In about 15 minutes, he vomits everywhere. I clean as much of it as I can and give him some water. While I go back to pay my bill and get my stuff, a couple walks by and gasps in horror at this disgusting dog, lying next to a pool of vomit. "Ewww! That's so gross!" They exclaim. They look at me and I have to decide whether or not to rush to his defense or deny any relationship to him. It's early and no one else is around.

"Oh that's disgusting!! He's basically lying in his own barf!"

Boom! JUDAS'ED!!! How ya like me now, Dawg?

*******

The time came around for me to pick Boyfriend and his buddy from the airport. It's fairly straightforward, only about 4 turns from my house and 25 minutes away. I may as well have been driving to California.

I'm horrible at driving and all that goes with it, including directions. I couldn't find the GPS, and I don't have a printer, so was therefore forced to write the Google directions down by hand. I wrote every single detail down, not leaving out the km amount (even though I have no idea how to judge a kilometre), and the time allocated to each directive.

I'm very frustrating to drive with, because I'm always second guessing where we are. On my way to the airport, if there is not a sign with a little flying airplane every 1 minute, I'm sure I'm lost. If Google says it takes 4 minutes to get from A to B, and I've been driving for 5, I turn around and try again. I'm the kind of person that gets excited when the next checkpoint actually exists, even though the world wide web indisputably said it was going to be there.

So when I reach the airport on time, without getting lost, I get misty-eyed. I feel a sense of pride, like the mothers on those movies about small-town football stars.

*************

Due to a work issue, I'm currently swamped with zero spare time. Unfortunately, this blog will have to take second stance and I'm going on hiatus til this ish gets sorted.

BYEEEEE!

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

On The 6

I just got back from a mini girlfriend getaway to NYC. I'm not going to write about that, because I haven't fully been able to wrap my brain around it yet. Suffice to say, it was pretty different from the last time I went to NYC. I would say it was equally fun, but I was much younger, more of a risk-taker, and the words "concierge" and "edible gold" were not yet in my vocabulary. Try "hostel" and "leftover cheapest-thing-on-the-menu Chinese food".

My buddy Nat and I went over Spring Break, to escape the suburban mundane. We got a ride from his parents to Montreal and took the train from there, that's how much money we had. We stayed at a hostel in Columbus Circle managed by a Vietnamese man named Lee. He was about 30 years old and 5'0. I want to say he was missing an arm, but I may be making that part up.

One day, after a full day of walking, we were chilling in the common room in the basement. Lee was half-baked and sucking back on a water bong. He glances up lazily in half-hearted acknowledgement.

"I don't have any more weed or I'd offer you some." He says.

"All good, man. We're cool."

He doesn't turn out to be one of those stoners that sits and slowly eats 4 pizzas one after another. He's actually pretty talkative. He reveals that he was born in Vietnam, but travelled to Cambodia on his own when he was about 10 and moved to NY from there.

In my bright-eyed innocence, I squeal with delight. Adventure! "You went to Cambodia by yourself when you were 10?! Man, I want to go to Vietnam and Cambodia; they look amazing. My parents won't even let me leave the city by myself. What fun things are there to do there? How long was the flight in between?"

Lee looks at me with an incredulous look on his face, like he's not sure if I'm kidding. "The fuck you talkin' 'bout, plane? I walked that shit, motherfucker!"

He goes on about refugee life and I feel pretty stupid at this point so I stop talking (Nat probably told me to stop talking. It doesn't sound like something I would do voluntarily). At some time around midnight, he looks over at his empty bag of pot and announces he has to get more. "I'm heading out to the Bronx. China, WhiteBoy, you wanna come?"

I'm so excited about my new gang name I can't even contain myself. The Bronx?!?

I'm not even slightly concerned that a permanently grinning Chinese girl, a 6'5 blond/blue-eyed white boy, and a Vietnamese midget with one arm won't fit in in The Bronx. I've watched enough J-Lo "vids" to feel confident in my abilities to co-mingle with the locals. Look at me! I'm on The 6, too, giiiirrrrlfriend!


YAY ME AND NAT! (That's not Lee.) (But it could be.)

Once we get off the 6, The Bronx doesn't turn out to be like the movies where the girls play double dutch and I throw my head back in a hearty laugh while ruffling the hair of innocent young hoodlums beatboxing on the corner. You lied to me, J-Lo!

It's like a movie, all right, but more like a movie where a high school drop out sells the crack rock and then does hard time for murder in the first and then bounces back to become a functioning and respectable member of society. The beginning part of that movie. A guy tries to sell me one shoe and a 5-month-old issue of YM. No thank you, sir, I already read that one. I become very conscious of my own Nikes.

"Alright, you guys are going to have to stay like 10 steps behind me," Lee says. "I'm going to go into that building for a minute. Don't move." And then, more directly to me, "Stop talking to people."

Apparently, my over-excitement and eagerness to fit in by telling everyone I meet they are amazing is cramping his style. Either that, or my ebonics aren't what they used to be.

Nat and I pretend to be interested in the architectural designs of the 'hood, while Lee heads into an apartment. True to his word, he returns quickly, makes sure we haven't created a spectacle, and ushers us to the nearest subway.

We head back to Columbus Circle. I feel proud, like I've conquered NYC by being in the Bronx for a whole of 7 minutes.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Deep Fried Sunday

You're reading it right; there's no typo there. I don't mean the delicious deep fried scoops of ice cream smothered in corn flakes and chocolate and caramel sauces with various toppings such as crushed pecans and wildly coloured sprinkles (although that would more than make my day complete).








Like seriously, U.S. of A., what is UP?











Equally horrific, I mean this past Sunday, pretty much all I ate was deep fried foods, and now it's Wednesday and I still can't feel my heart pump properly.

Boyfriend and I woke up early as per usual, and decided to get our chores out of the way immediately and head out for brunch afterwards. I hate the breakfast part of brunch. Who wants eggs when you can have a burger? Not me! What is this, salad on my plate?? Fries, my good man, I said FRIIIIIIES!!! (I hope you imagine me roaring this when I write it like that, because that's how I felt.) And the burgers at Brad's (the brunch place. For any Torontonians reading, look no further than 325 Roncesvalles.) are not just any burgers.

They come topped with charred eggplant, avocado, bacon and cheese. Okay. They don't just come like that, Inspector Gadget. You have to ask the server for it. *Guilty silence*



So that brings us to about 11:30 AM. Well, as it was a stunning day out on Sunday, practically the first nice weekend day of the year, we opt to go patio hunting, nice and early so we can get a spot. After shopping around in Kensington Market, we find ourselves a nice little place called Waterfalls, an indian tapas restaurant with a patio perfect for people watching.

A couple of friends show up and before you know it, it's eatin' time again!

POW! Onion bhaji'ed!

BAM! Chicken tikka!

CRUNCH! Caesar salad with tandoori chicken!! (Not so bad, just wanted to post so you can see I am capable of making one healthy decision).


Late afternoon rolls around and friends are not ready to pack it in. It is just beautiful out. Well, why not hit up The Foggy Dew on King St.? No reason, as far as I can see! We make our way over there and secure another great spot on a large patio. Boyfriend is hungry again. He did not partake in our extensive "snacking" at Waterfalls.

He goes back and forth for a little while and then decides on "Chicken Fried Chicken Sliders". I can't even find a good enough picture. They sort of look like this:



Except they don't come with vegetables, there are THREE of them, they come on biscuits instead of buns, and a side of chicken gravy for dipping. Boyfriend immediately tosses the biscuit off of one, puts the fried chicken on another piece of chicken, and makes himself a double decker chicken fried chicken slider. Dipped in chicken gravy.

Side note, Boyfriend has stomach of a 6-year-old girl. So after a couple of bites of his Frankenburger, he invites the rest of us to help ourselves. I politely decline. These are the same people that have seen me demolish the above. But then one of them agrees and takes a bite and starts gushing about how delicious it is!! I can't let this go on. I can't. Must..have..taste.. Must..eat... GAHHHHH!!!! (*eats all the rest of burger. dipped in chicken gravy*).

Mmmmmm... I'm hungry.

Friday, May 14, 2010

Wide Open Spaces

Whenever Marty and I go on long drives, he has to drive because I get bored and fall asleep at the wheel, and this is disrespectful towards other drivers trying to "get there alive".

His only other option is to let me drive after drinking 3 coffees, but since that entails singing Dixie Chicks at the top of my lungs (or rapping) for 5 hours straight, he tends to go with the former. I pretty much know all the words to every top 40 song for the last 15 years. It's a gift (...or is it a curse?) No, it's a gift.

We drove back to Ottawa recently to visit the fam, about a five hour drive.

For the first hour or two I'm pretty chatty, so this distracts from the unavoidable outward-bound traffic from Toronto, on a Friday evening. Then I start dozing off because Marty will only listen to old grendpa music, like Pink Floyd or Tupac. The kind of songs that no one under a 100 years old knows the words to, and when I get bored I sleep to pass the time.

Once I fall asleep, Marty will inevitably do something to wake me up: Indian sunburning (is that racist? Sorry, The Indians. I don’t know any other word for squeezing two hands on someone’s arm and rapidly moving back and forth in opposite directions in a painful manner.) or worse yet, filling his mouth up with one of those disgusting black licorice candies and breathing right in my face.

I. Hate. Black. Licorice.

Won’t let me sleep, ehhhhh? Nobody tells ME what to do! So now my new thing is whenever he pulls up beside a car, I start pretending like I’m running beside them. I’ll share this with you in case you are ever in my predicament. It’s not a happy, fun, “let’s-play-a-game run”. I mean like a balls-out race, pumping my arms as fast as I can and looking over my shoulder to see if they are gaining. Are they? Throw in a menacing look or snarl (but only for a second, keep your eyes on the prize)! Have a bottle of water or other drink handy? Chug it down like you’re dying of thirst (don’t stop pretend running with your other arm. If some rolls down your face, do not, and I repeat, DO NOT, stop and wipe it off. It adds to the intimidation.) Once in a while, make eye contact with your competitor, if you can. The key in Pretend Race is believability.

After two races, Marty will be begging me to go to sleep. But you know what? I’m PUMPED! I see you, The Girl in the Blue Hyundai. It’s on.


P.S. It has occurred to me that I should probably refer to Marty as something else, as he more than likely doesn't want any clients to know about his black licorice breath. Henceforth (don't mind me, I'm reading World Without End by Ken Follett right now, and also my friend is dating a prince, so I'm feeling very "days of yore" recently), Marty shall be known as The Boyfriend.


kthxbye.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

Weather Patterns

Of course rain would ruin one of my favorite days to party out of the whole year: Cinco De Mayo.

The entire 25-degree work day was spent emailing mi amiga about the fun things we were going to do: walk around Kensington market and eat burritos, hit up a patio and order sangria in the sunshine, watch as the latino community came out and sell their wares in droves... It was a dream come true.

Anything that allows me to escape reality and pretend I'm somewhere spanish-speaking is a dream come true. Last weekend, I went to a communal Indian birthday party at the Liberty Grand, which looks like a resorty-palace. For a couple of hours, I pretended everyone was Mexican and I was in Cabos. ¡ARRIBA!¡ARRIBA!...and Namaste.

Pure bliss.

I'm pretty sure I just offended a huge percentage of the world but since I can't decide if its the Mexican population or the Indian population, I'm going to go with both, so they can cancel each other out. I'm very diplomatic, Méxindia.

Anyways, of course my arch-nemesis, The Rain, showed up the second I set foot out of the office and kept on for the rest of the evening, effectively destroying any chance of plan follow-through. We still went out for tapas, but it wasn't the same. In my mind, and I'm sure others will agree, "Down South" means endless sunny days, without a cloud in sight.

But that's total horseshit.

I lived Down South for about a year. Sunny days exist, that's for sure, but for a pretty good portion of it, at least in Honduras, rain ruined many a plan for me, and one time, my dear friends, it caused this unlucky girl to fall into a sewer.

Sewers in Puerto Cortés aren't the beautiful works of art you see here. There's no lid to cover the grossness that lies beneath, nor do the sewer contents run deep below the streets, hidden from view. They run about 3 feet below street level, under the sidewalks. And by sidewalks, I mean giant slabs of concrete strategically placed over the sewer drains. Some of the slabs are broken, or caved into the sewer, so the grossness can be clearly visible at times. And by grossness, I mean people use these holes as garbage cans, so on top of the crap that's already swimming through the drains, there's huge mounds of mushy decomposing garbage that never gets picked up. I hope I'm painting a vivid enough picture for you.

Moving on.

One day, there was so much rain that school was cancelled.



That's me in 2006!

We (being me and my friend/roommate Tamara) keep thinking it's going to stop, but it rains and rains and we are finally desperate enough to brave the waters and head to the grocery store to pick up emergency supplies.

We have to walk one block north because we live on a slope and no cab is foolish enough to drive on these roads.

We end up picking up our emergency supplies and getting in a cab back. This cab is foolish enough to drive on those flooded roads. He drops us off right beside our house, where that picture above was taken.

The car starts to fill up with water in the back and we toss him the money casually, pretending like his car is not going to need thousands of dollars worth of work.

In our haste to leave and pretend we have no idea what is going on, Tamara hops out and I start handing grocery bags to her over my head. One step out of the car and I'm in floodland, baby.

So I try to step out carefully, as close as possible to the house, because that's where the most leverage is. The cab drives away, and in trying to avoid being splashed by the cab, I lose my footing.

And fall into a sewer.

The entire ground was covered in water and it was impossible to see where the sidewalk started, ended, or had cracks. I can still feel the soft, decomposing garbage on my nightmare feet.

I shriek to high heavens, because I am literally submersed in raw sewage. Try to imagine this happening to you. Just try. Yeah.

Clambering to safety as quickly as possible, I run into the house, yanking off all sewage clothes and screaming non-stop. It's all very cartoonish, but really happening. I head for the shower.

It does not work.

It. does. not. work.

Not having water was typical in Puerto, but this was basically the most awful time possible. I use some of the drinking water, but in a flood, there was virtually no way to get any more, and I couldn't really use all our drinking water to take a bath....Or could I? (no, I couldn't).

My genius mother had packed about 1000 wetnaps in my bag for just this type of emergency. How might she know I was going to trip and fall into a sewer, you might ask? Well, I have had a pretty long history with falling into things. You wouldn't have to be that intuitive.

After being almost disinfected (or rather, almost running out of supplies) by 893 wetnaps, that antibacterial stuff you don't need water for that I can't remember the name of right now, and my tears' water, guess who decides to show up for a visit?

Why, running tap water, of course!

Not a good day, friends, not a good day.

Monday, May 3, 2010

Train of Thoughts

People always think I'm either really crazy or really mad about something. Whether alone or not, I am constantly laughing to myself over some hilarious past happening, imagining some alternative reality where life is a musical, or a combination of the two.

If I'm not thinking about these things, then I have a Normal Face, much like yours, Reader. Because my general state-of-face looks like I'm about to barf laughter all over you, when I do have Normal Face, nearly every person I know asks me what's wrong.

How can I answer them? Nothing's wrong, this is just my face!

The worst is when people I don't really know ask me what's so funny when I'm biting my hand to stop laughing to myself.

Obviously, I don't have the time to go into major detail with people I don't know about how my life is littered with so many hilarious anecdotes, I can't even concentrate on any regular task at hand. I think about the most ridiculous things!

For example, this would be a typical train-o'-thoughts:

This morning, I had to walk by a construction site. I put my head phones on so I wouldn't have to deal with the hassles of gross old guys. This hasslin' business is a catch-22, because I shake my head in disdain at them if they do (I'm very fancy), and spend an hour in front of the mirror examining why I'm so hideous if they don't. And then I'll ask Marty like infinity times, which doesn't tend to make for good dinner conversation.

Well, while I was walking, my eyes were tearing up over the beautiful song "Hello", by Lionel Richie, that was playing. Except it was being sung by the Glee Cast, which makes it even more ridiculous, so right away I'm already a gaylord and it's like 8 AM. So then the guys start whistling at me, and my musical brain is like:

"Hello? Is it me you're looking for??

I can see it in your eyes.... I can see it in your smile. You're all I've ever wanted, (and) my arms are OPEN WIIIIDE...."

And then I can't stop thinking about how absurd this entire scenario is so I start cracking up.

And they have no idea! They think I'm giggling and blushing because they're whistling so they're high fiving each other, and I just want to bring my headphones to the tough guy leader so he can see he's not the one that made me laugh. It wasn't you, it was the Glee Cast, fool.

Then I'll imagine Marty singing the boy parts of this duet to me and this makes me laugh even more because Marty is trés serious.

Then this face that Marty makes will pop in out of nowhere. It kind of looks like this:



Which brings me then to the most hilarious skit on snl of all time



Please watch it. I think about this skit often, and make Debbie Downer or better yet, CLIFFORD (!!!!) faces to myself in passing mirrors, windows...anything with a reflective surface, really and that makes me laugh even harder.



Like I just watched those two videos right now and I'm going to pass out from laughing so much.

By this time, I've rolled into work laughing my head off and everyone thinks this is totally normal. It's a good day.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

In April

Marty and I booked a trip to St. Lucia.

It's an all inclusive package which I'm terrified of. My favorite places to go are when I end up in hurricanes/floods, shoot guns with foreign old men, get kidnapped/shot at/chased by drug dealers, go clubbing where I absolutely under no circumstances belong, or go diving for hidden treasures in shipwrecks/pretend I'm The Little Mermaid. I'll tell you about it another time.

There will be no off-property budget for this one, because it's a luxury room at Sandals and we spent all our lifesavings and Marty is certain it's going to be La Bamba. That means The Bomb in Spanish. No, it doesn't. Why do I do that? Sorry.

One time, a couple of friends and I were at a nice restaurant called "Anclas". Being curious, Annie asked, "What does Anclas mean?" As I didn't want to look like a fool, I replied, "Anclas? Oh, that doesn't mean anything. Maybe it's a name or something." To which Tamara, and her neverending wealth of Spanish knowledge, responded, "Anclas means Anchor, idiots." Well, that is a stupid word for anchor.

*********************************************************

Went on a Segway Tour in the Distillery District where I learned that Back In The Day, Al Capone used one of the Distilleries there during The Prohibition, and killed all sorts of people buy shooting them into the wells. And also that the people used to ward off the shoreline by piling dead horses into a giant heap, so that is also something gross.

Some other stories were told too but the guys telling them were so much like Mountain Dew Dudes I couldn't concentrate on anything but their douchebaggery. They were interrupting each other, like, "DUDE! Then what happened?!" but I (and everyone else) knew that they knew what happened and they were just trying to generate excitement. You'll get nothing from me but one raised left eyebrow, Mountain Dew Dude!!

Also, Marty was racing ahead of the gang at 2 mph(like really, that's warp speed on a Segway), carving like he was on a snowboard all cool-like, so I was pretty much laughing at him the entire time.

Segway'ing (?) is SO fun!! It's really just like that movie Paul Blart: Mall Cop. I'm not saying I'm all la-dee-da now, but it was pretty Hollywood.
People thought we were in a gang. A Segway gang.

*********************************************************

Well, apparently my month was really boring. It may not have been, though. My short-term memory lasts about 2 weeks.

*********************************************************

ZOMG!! ZOMG ZOMG ZOMG!!

MAJOR UPDATE!!

I just met this dude on craigslist who sold me, omg omg omg:

Singstar
Singstar POP
Singstar 80's
Singstar 90's

...and two microphones for $30. That's like what the tax is if I paid for these instore!! I cannot WAIT to get all the singin' happening!!

One of my favorite songs of all time is on one: I Wanna Dance With Somebody by Whitney Houston, pre-crack era. This is the song I am generally listening to when you see me walking down the street with an 80's skip in my step, singing quietly to passing trees and doing chest shimmies to fences and dogs. I don't even care who's watching when this song is on.

OoooOHHH I wanna dance with somebahdeyyy
I wanna feel the HEAT with somebahDAYEEHH
OOOoooohh I wanna DANCE with somebahdeyyy
With somebodehh who loves meee!

My favorite part:

Somebody - WHOOOO?!
Somebody - WHOOOO?!

Anyways, that is all.

Friday, April 23, 2010

Words Words Words

Remember Back In The Day when the cast of Dawson's Creek were under media fire for their extensive vocabulary and use of references that any normal teenaged viewer would have to break out their encyclopedia to understand?

Well, not all the cast. Not Jen, who was just there to be a slut, nor Pacey, who I always saw as Dawson's tagalong, but definitely Joey, and most certainly Dawson, who always appeared to be very wise beyond his years. Or maybe wise for his years. You're not fooling anyone with that pepaw, The WB.

I loved the way they spoke. I love words. I have had a long and stable relationship with words since I spoke my first one...at age three.

My mom thinks the tale of my imbecility is really hilarious and, to my sheer embarassment, tells anyone who will listen. I think she waited until I was 14 to tell me on purpose, so I could truly feel the effect on my social life.

My parents started getting a little concerned when after a year and a half, I made no sounds at all, other than crying non-stop, especially since my older sister, Olivia, had started speaking basically out of the womb. By two and a half, and after seeing numerous specialists that could figure out nothing, they booked me an appointment to see if I was just a little bit slow.

The appointment was set just past my third birthday. However, only days before having to endure the diagnosis, I miraculously started speaking... and didn't stop. I guess my mom had used my lack of speech as a vessel for her secrets, and told me everything, thinking her slow daughter would never be able to reveal these little nuggets of information.

Well, I got you, Mom! My very first phrases were along the lines of, "Auntie! Mom hates your haircut. She thinks you look like a boy!" and "Hey, why are you so poor? You're not?" And then I would start crying and crying because why did my mom tell me they were poor then? Until they would finally resign and admit that, yes, Cynthia, we are poor, okay? This was all in Cantonese, and therefore much funnier.



I learned English through the playground, fool. And in fact, I got so good at speaking English, I was put into Advanced courses all through grade school.

By grade four, around age 9, I was placed into a class with an elite group of students called Enrichment. It sounded like healthy bread, so my suspicious parents allowed it.

We got to leave regular class to play math races and read advanced-level books. Then they created a spelling team for us, and in a colour-based level scheme (white being the most basic and moving darker and darker from there), we were labelled The Black Team.

I walked around thinking I was The Matrix for a long time.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Thar She Blows!

I'm sorry that my small brush with fame had me dreaming about retirement and I didn't bother to write for nearly a week. I actually didn't really move much during this entire weekend.

Then it was brought to my attention that I am fatter than a whale.


There's really nothing I can do about it but complain repeatedly. I tried to diet one time and it lasted for about three days. I'm not even sure if it counts because by the end of Day Three, I ended up eating a Costco-sized box of chocolate bars which, although I'm not a scientist, strikes me as counterintuitive. Also, I'm allergic to chocolate, so not only do I end up with a good "Look mum, I'm four months pregnant!" gag, I also make a good Freddy Kruegar double, and I don't think the point of dieting is to collect Halloween costumes.

So obviously dieting is out.

The next best option would be to "exercise", but exercising is the bane of my existence. It wasn't always this way, comrades. It wasn't always this way...

In my late teens, I made the foolhardy decision to become one of those terrible people that "eats well" and "generally takes good care of themselves".

I did everything right: I bought new kicks, new clothes, the prerequisite headband, and one of those stupid Nalgene bottles that you can boil water in. Exactly WHAT am I going to be boiling water for in a plastic water container I have no idea ("Guys? Guys? Can we take a break here? I just want to cook some spaghetti in this water bottle. Can one of you build a fire?"), but it cost me $20, so you know it works. Oh, and a gym pass, I guess. I looked like the poster child for Lululemon, only more whale-like.

Basically, my experience with the gym cost me about $500 before ever setting foot in one. This is a lot of money for someone who sells coats for a living. Actually, I should say I was supposed to sell coats. In reality, what Maxime and I did as managers at work was lock up, put a "sorry" sign on the front door, put on as many down coats and vests that we could possibly squeeze on until we ran out out sizes, and sumo wrestle. Good times.

So I'm walking into the gym for the first time, whistling Dixie (I have no idea what this means??), and imagining my post whale body. I've chosen 6 o'clock on a weekday, A.K.A Gym Rush Hour, to debut the New Me. Aaahhh The Treadmill. Well, I certainly know how to run, and this machine looks much less intimidating than those wierd ones with all the limb-looking things sticking out of it!

I climb aboard and set foot on a leisurely and relaxed pace. Why, this is downright easy! Then I see that everyone else is working up a sweat at a run. Not to be outdone, I increase my pace to a brisk run, and continue at this rate for approximately 40 minutes. 40 minutes!!

Now, since this was my very first time on a treadmill, I didn't know that you weren't supposed to just stop the machine when you are done with your run, and that you are supposed to ease your way by slowing down and walking first. What happens next is unbelievable.

I stop the machine and immediately trip over my own feet. "WHAAAAAA!!!!" I scream, with my arms flailing about in cartoonish fashion, trying to grab onto something, anything, to break my fall.

You know what breaks my fall? You know what breaks my fall?!! Not my arms, which I could probably do without anyways, but my right shin, which smashes onto the pedal of a nearby rowing machine. I've circled it in red for your perusal.



Laugh it up, Chuckles. Laugh it right the fuck up. The imagery does not even begin to convey the pain I felt, which I'm permanently scarred from (physically and emotionally) after 10 years. This Google image doesn't show the metal spikes that grow from the rowing machine's pedals at all.

I collapse to the floor and writhe in such a manner that I could probably sue Seth MacFarlane for this and win.

Everyone is crowded around me and my blood-gushing shin within seconds. It's not the way I want to become famous. "Is she okay?" I see them whispering to each other.

I try to laugh it off. "Oh no no I'm fine. Look! haha! I'm fiiiine! This is so embarassing!" I smile and make my way over to the side of the room, out of the spectators' views. I proceed to lay out a mat and pretend to do sit ups, but really I'm crying and thinking of how to sue the gym.

So watch out because I'll sue you, Seth MacFarlane! I'll sue YOU, The Gym!! I'll sue you all!!! I'LL SUE YOU ALL!!!

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Oh Em Gee.

BREATHE. BREATHE. BE. COOL.

I just logged on and nearly fell to the floor in an unexpected bout of overexcitement. WHAT is this:



I'm FAMOUS! Rymistri doesn't even know me and wants to know about my daily going-ons? I have to know more without looking creepy, so that I don't log on tomorrow and see that this icon has mysteriously disappeared. I know what You Other Three are thinking. "Don't mess this up, Cynthia! You're already starting to look creepy. Stop writing this post right now!" and that is what the half of my brain that always loses tells me, too. But how can I not?? This is a new follower who plucked me straight out of obscurity from cyberspace, and I didn't even have to beg, plead, or bribe with delicious yum-yums to get to join.

I'm not going to blow it, like I blow everything else. Not in the sexy way, Reader, get your mind out of the gutter. In like a blow up kind of way. No. No. Not like that at all, actually. I can't even think straight, I'm so excited. Unfortunately, usually my overexcitement ends in hilarious escapades of failure.

Take, for example, my very first birthday party. Not like my 1st birthday, which I only vaguely remember, but the first party that my parents allowed me to throw when I was about 8, and for the first time invite my real school friends, not just their mahjong friends' kids.

I invite everyone. In fact, I beg people to come and follow up repeatedly to see how they RSVP. Finally, I put together a decent guest list, and can allow myself to look forward to my big day. I've even got the It Girls to come!

The It Girls are blonde, blue-eyed, and shop at Gap Kids. The ringleader of this clique is Chantale, who everybody wants to sit beside at Mass and always gets picked first for team sports, regardless of her only medium-level athletic ability.

The day finally arrives: the cake is made, the movies are rented, the games are set up. Oh boy, oh boy, it's going to be the best day EVERTY-EVER!!

My guests start to arrive, including Chantale. The second she walks into the living room where the rest of us are, she freezes in her tracks.

"Cynthia, you have goldfish." She states, matter-of-factly.

"Um. Yeah?" My dad collects goldfish and other waterworld creatures and has three enormous tanks full of them in our living room. I have a weird sort of childhood.

"I'm allergic to fish."

"Well, we're not eating them." I say, wishing I could throw all these stupid water critters out the window in the cold February air. You're ruining my life, Goldfish!!

"No, like... I'm going to die."

"You're going to DIE?!?! Are you serious?!?" This is more than my not even 8-year-old mind can comprehend and I'm wishing I could die before her so I don't have to deal with this terrible situation. She shows me her allergy bracelet that, for all I remember, actually stated that Yes, Chantale is going to die from being in the vicinity of goldfish. Oh my God, I've killed the It Girl. My social life, which was supposed to be unfolding this very day, is over.

I am screaming for my parents to do something and she is crying and calling her mom and the rest of my guests are looking around in confusion at what is going on and steadily creeping nearer to where their winter coats are. This is a disaster. My fucking life is over on my 8th birthday.

Eventually, her mom reassures her that she is okay, but will pick her up to avoid any more freaking out. My parents convince everyone else with cake and chocolate that our house is safe and no one is dying, and the show goes on.

Holy shit, remember when repressing memories was a good thing? These blogs never end up the way I want them to. Is it that difficult to just end one story normally?

So now I'm almost sure Rymistri is a robot or the Internets are playing a mean joke on me, so I have to check the associated blog. She's PEOPLE!! Not only is she people, she is pretty! For anyone not in the know, I very much dislike The Ugly. They are frightening, with their often beady eyes, skin tags, and unsurprising lack of self-esteem. No thank you, The Ugly.

So now that I am sure Rymistri is a human, I am on top of the world!




I realize this picture is contradictory to my aforementioned hatred of Nature, but obviously this calls for a celebration and for this post (only), I will allow this unification.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

Wildlife.

Can someone please explain to Marty that when Taiko gets into a fight with a wild animal, his job is to pull him away, not roll up his sleeves and join in the fun?

Because this is the second time.

The other day, Taiko got all up into a raccoon’s face, who, in turn, destroyed his own by grabbing on and scratching the shit out of it. Instead of getting the dog, running away screaming, and denying all knowledge of the carnal event, like I did when he killed that possum, Marty steps up beside and kicks it in the face to get him off. I freaked out when I heard this, obviously because raccoons are so adorable, with their little thieving masks and generally opposable thumbs. They think they're people!

Then I realized, hold on. Fuck that shit! This raccoon scratched up my buddy's face! Whose side am I on, anyways? Certainly not HIS:


















I'll eat your BRAINS!!!!

(ok, it's still a little bit cute. You just have to imagine him wearing something sexy and dancing. Dale a tu cuerpo alegria, Macarena. ¡EEEYYYY Macarena! ¡AYEEEE!)


I know what all this 'coon and possum talk sounds like, okay? I KNOW. But I swear to God I do not live in a trailer park. I actually live in an area where people pay extra to live near wildlife! While I will camp if I absolutely have to for one night only, I am by no means a Nature Girl. I hate Nature and all it's mosquito, hot/cold, rabies-having misery. Fuck you, Wildlife.

I will admit that I have seen some awe-inspiring nature scenes, but Wildlife got me so good one time, that we are way past forgivable terms.

It has occurred to me that I start many of my ramblings with "When I was __ years old...". Like a senile old person. However, that senility is where all the magic happens. When I blow the dust off of my memories, and get to make up the parts that are not as crystal clear as they were Back In The Day, and everyone else's memories are a little foggy too, so they can't dispute any of my reporting.

Moving on.

The battle of Me And My Friend Maxime vs. Nature took place around '98, when I had just gotten a car and license, but was still a terrible driver (I say "was" to trick you into thinking I'm a good driver now. I am not. Remember that time I smashed Marty's car?) That link just takes you to two weeks ago.

On this particular day, Maxime and I were heading out, playing our favorite game, "Act out the Song". This game we made up consists of acting out every single lyric to a song. For example, back then, Pearl Jam had that terrible campfire song with all the clapping that goes "oh where, oh where could my baby be?" You know that terrible song; don't pretend like you don't know every word.

Anyways, I don't even know how to explain how we would play this lyric, other than:

oh where, oh where could my baby be?
(shrug) (shrug) (rock pretend baby)(shrug)

The Lord took her away from me.
(pray hands/close eyes) (pretend to tug of war for a baby)

She's gone to Heaven so I've got to be good
(wave goodbye sadly out the window regardless of who is outside)

so I can see my baby when I leave this world.
(pretend to spot baby outside and point excitedly) (stop car. Exit)

(clap clap - clap clap. clap clap - clap clap.)

I almost got in a car accident once when I stopped the car abruptly for this exact song. It was for the lyric, "We hadn't driven very far". Or maybe it was "the car stopped; the engine was dead." What an annoying song to be driving with me to. How would I even start explaining that to A. the other car's party, and more importantly, B. the police? HOW? "The lyric told me to do it, sir. Listen. Listen. You see?"

Anyways, surely you can see how hilarious this game can be, but I don't recommend it to anyone driving because it makes paying attention to cars, or in our case, avoiding Wildlife, extremely difficult.

I remember this much: a black and white fur ball dashing in front of the car, but instead of running past the car, it stops immediately in front, and spins rapidly around in circles as if t'were possessed by Beelzebub himself.

As we are screaming for the Lord to take us away from this terrible situation, the car slowly fills with intoxicating fumes, effectively destroying any plans we may have had that night (which more than likely at the time just involved sitting in our friend's garage, nodding our heads all cool-like to Method Man. Man, kids are boring.) The windows do nothing but allow more skunk butt fart to infiltrate my tiny car.

"Well, now what?" Maxime asks. We know we're screwed. It's social suicide to go to any event smelling like skunk butt fart.

"I don't know! Maybe we should just lay low and not see anyone. Grab a coffee or something?"

Maxime agrees and we head over to the Country Style donut place nearby.

We burst into Country Style laughing our heads off. I don't know why. It's not even funny.

Us: "Excuse me, do we smell?"

Donut Lady: "What do you mean? Smell like what?"

We're safe!

Us: "Like shit! Do we or do we not smell like shit?"

Donut Lady: "What?? I don't.. What??"

Us: "Okay, nevermind."

We relax, thinking we are good to go to our friend's garage. PAaaAAARTY!!

Donut Lady: "Okay...Actually, you girls kind of do smell like skunk. A little bit."

Us: OOHHH!! Dammit! Two fruit explosion muffins, please. And some chicken noodle soup."


Plans ruined, we sit dejectedly sipping our goods in silence, with possibly visible stink lines projecting off our bodies in cartoon-like fashion.

Sunday, April 11, 2010

PEZ!

How terrifying is the very concept of PEZ?


Marty bought me a Betty Boop PEZ candy dispenser because I hadn't seen one in forever and thought they were taken off the market for obvious reasons. (Because they're terrifying.)

While PEZ candy is delicious, I can't help but wonder what kind of marketing executives thought of the concept of popping candies out of nearly decapitated toys...

(doodle-oo! doodle-oo! doodle-oo! That's the dream theme song from... emmmm... Wayne's World? OMG I'm a hundred.)

"I got it, I got it. We fill the insides of the cartoon character's bodies with candy, like a fuckin' mule, see? Then the kiddies got a toy to play wit' and a treat."

"But how are the kids supposed to extract the goods, Boss?"

"What am I, Joe? A fuckin' engineer? Ha! Fellas, get-a-load-a this guy. You better come up with something by noon, kid, or Imma break ya fuckin' head off."

...The Eureka moment must have happened right then and there in Joe (Pesci)'s brain.

GAHHH DAMMIT. OK. The problem with "research" is that, more often than not, my theories get shut down by "The Truth".

With my exceptional Googling prowess, I just found out that this handsome devil, Eduard Haus, created the idea of PEZ.


This guy. Created a candy that children had to break the head off of their beloved toy to acquire, then ingest via neck sucking. That, coupled with the fact that he's like infinity years old, automatically makes him perverted.

Who you giving side eyes too, Eduard?

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Mexican Standoff

A hypothetical/daily situation between Marty and myself might go like this:

Marty: Can you get me a glass of water?
Me: Can I watch Million Dollar Listing?
Marty: That is the worst show in the history of Television.
Me (in my best Uma Thurman impression): Well, well, well, it looks like we have ourselves a Mexican standoff, then, don’t we?

But by the time I’m done my sexy sentence, Marty has already gotten his glass of water and is sitting back on the couch, watching Pawn Stars.

Marty: Do you even know what a Mexican standoff is?
Me: A tradeoff…? (I say this with a barely perceptible inflection towards the end, because I may be right, in which case, I want it to sound like I knew all along. But if it’s completely far off, I want to make it sound like I was asking so I don't look like an idiot).
Marty: (blank stare) Maybe you should look phrases up before you use them publicly.

So now, partially because I’m a little bit mad that I don’t know what’s going on with Chad/Madison/Josh on the TV, and partially because I want to use the phrase Mexican Standoff correctly for years to come (fyi, I’m Chinese, but I like to pretend I’m Latina. Has nothing to do with this story, but just for future reference, I like Latino things.), I leave the living room and hop on the Google train.

This is what Wikipedia tells me:

A Mexican standoff is a slang term defined as a stalemate or impasse.

“Stalemate”? “Impasse”? Like, what are you even talking about WikiStupidia? After numerous Mexican runarounds on the internets, I finally gather that it means an equal opportunity confrontation.


I’ve never been in one of those things. The reason for this is I change sides all the time. I'm the type of girl that would give up your name, address, and birthdate (for good measure) to avoid an unpleasant line of questioning. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold up, now. What do you mean, 'I have to go with you'? Maybe we got off on the wrong foot. His name is Martin Cyr..No, spelled with a C. Yep, just like that. He lives at my place and will be home in about an hour so you can get him then. Can you just give me like 15 minutes to get my stuff please? Yeah, sure I can call you when I'm out. Hey, what are friends for, right?"

I’ll give you a classic example of the old Switch Sides.

When Steph (I told you about her) and I were 15 or so, and allowed to leave school property at lunch, we used to hang out across the street on the grass lot by the gas station.

Steph, being the less timid of the two of us (if you can believe it), would ask adult strangers to please go into the gas station and buy packs of cigarettes, while I stood with her and tried to look cool, with some of our other friends.

Obviously, no respected adult in our white-picketed community would do this, but every once in a while some self-deprecating loner would walk by, eager for the attentions of pretty, young ladies.

On this particular day, we caught the attention of two portly trucker types. They can't believe our outrageous boldness, and we all have a good laugh together. We're friends!

"Sure, what kind?" The fatter of the two asks. We're in!

"Oh my God, you guys are so totally THE BEST!" We gush.

The very second our friends walk out of the gas station, and are about to hand over the goods to Steph, they are intercepted by a young, well-dressed couple.

"Stop it right there." The woman says, pulling out her police badge.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The guys are immediately pulled aside and given a stern talking to, right in the view of at least 100 sets of impressionable eyes.

Even in our young mindsets, we know whose side we have to take if we want to get out of this situation alive. We eavesdrop to the best of our ability, but basically these dudes are being charged big time.

The woman comes over and protectively coos over us as if we're the victims, and we are just soaking it all up, agreeing with everything she says and looking at our two former friends with wide-eyed innocence as if they're the stain on our otherwise perfect society.

Finally, the police/young couple/our only source of protection leaves, and we are left standing with the two guys. Instead of looking like two huge friendly teddy bear types like we had previously thought, the guys are looking like they want to sell us for meat. Not the slutty kind; the eatin' kind.

"Look," one of them says. "I know you were just scared back there, but the truth is, we're in this together. So it's only fair that we split the cost of this fine. Do you think you guys can come up with $500?"

$500?!?! That's like my whole life. The most expensive thing I own is No Doubt's Tragic Kingdom CD. CDs cost like 20 bucks back in the day.

But before I have to start even mentally selling off my prized possessions, Steph retorts, "Fuck. That. We're not paying you shit, assholes. You guys shouldn't have bought us those smokes. You heard what that cop said. That's illegal; we're only 14!"

Aaahh.. from the mouths of babes.

Saturday, March 27, 2010

In March

At the end of each month, I'm going to attempt to recap the miscellaneous adventures and going-ons I had that I didn't write about for whatever reason.

First of all, I smashed our car. Well, technically I guess you could say I smashed "Marty's car". Well, why the Hell is the parking path so narrow? It's like my new apartment challenges me to fail. You win, new apartment. Big man.

Anyways, luckily for me, I was on my way to meet a very smashed Marty at Canoe, a very nice restaurant in Toronto. How can you be mad over $50 steaks and wine that the douchebag waiter says "isn't sold anywhere"? And also, you're stupid drunk?

Side note: what kind of waiter says that? "you can't get this anywhere?"

"Really?" Cat retorts, "Even if I go to Tuscany to the winery where this was made?"

"Yes. Even then I doubt it."

You're so cool, Canoe Waiter.

Anyways, the next morning, Marty is left with a hangover, a smashed car, and the inability to be mad at me, because there's nothing worse than bringing up a past argument, and we already went over this all last night.

*******

Another funny thing that happened was I made lifelong enemies with the staff at Futureshop where Marty and I bought a new tv, ps3, and God of War (see you later, Sunlight).

Look. Is it a big deal to ask for a discount if you are spending thousands of dollars in a store? Is it a big deal to then poll the floor staff on what they think the package is worth ("the ticketed price", they say), and then ask each individual staff what they could do for me (which was nothing every time) whenever my salesgirl turned around? What about when I escalated the matter to the store manager, who in a fit of desperation to get me out of the store and redeem the dignity of his staff, gave me his own discount? Is that a big deal? HM?

In any case, the next day, I realized I lost my phone and the culprit was Futureshop. I call and politely describe who I am and tell them my plight.

"Ohhh.. um.. right, right, yeah I totally remember you. Um.. hold on a second." (HOLD.) "Yeahh, we don't have your phone. Sorry." (CLICK.)

But she didn't even ask me one thing about the phone! Now, I'm not saying that they did find my phone and are doing all sorts of terrible things to rack up bills for me on it, but I'm not saying they're not, either. I guess we'll find out at the end of April.

*******

Once in a while, I like to get dressed up like a fancy lady and do something I can't afford. Most recently, it was a benefit for WaterCan, hosted by Aveda. The ladies there were on a league of their own, bidding thousands of dollars at the live auction for some guy to clean up their backyard. Cat and I are trying to be cool, Daddy-O, and this works for a good chunk of the night... until goody bag time.

"Oh.. these are for us? Why, thank you, sir. Catherine, let us make way to the ladies' room. Excuse us, please." (curtsy)

Once we get into the washroom, we're like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, minus all the sexin' for money. "FULL SIZE AVEDA LOTIONS??" We shriek in delight, until the toilet flushes and we curtsy on out.

On our way out, I swear to God, this happens: An older, portly gentleman tells us he is the one of the producers for Sex and the City, and our group of friends looks perfect for a new program he is developing. We're still trying to be cool, but let's be honest, the closest I am going to be to Sex in the City is that camping scene in Brüno - "Vee are sooh like ze sex in ze seety gehls!!" That's me.

We humour this Crazy Old Man (I say humour, but really I was already mentally packing for LA) for a while, as he is pitching his new show. All of a sudden, this woman comes running down the stairs. "Harold!" She shouts as she hurries toward us, "Ugh, Harold! What the hell are you doing? Are you playing Producer again?" She gives us a look that she has clearly given many a group of young women before. "I'm sorry, he does this all the time. He just wants to talk." He laughs and shrugs, like a boy who just got caught. He is no producer for Sex and the City.

Afterwards, we head of to a nearby lounge, where a well-suited Bay Street crowd frequents. We break out the camera and play what I like to call "Supermodel Documentary Hour".

The next half hour or so goes like this:

"OH. MY. GOD. You look sooooOOooo good."
"No, you look so good."
"No, like seriously? Seriously, that colour is ahmaaaazing."
"You don't even understand how beautiful that dress is on you."

(The male half of our party roll their eyes and exit bar due to embarassment.)

"Wow. Like just WOW."
"I can't even believe how beautiful we look tonight."
"Right?? Look at this picture. Just look at it. Perfection."

I should inform you that not even one girl is in the bar. Not even one. Every single man in the bar is watching at us and laughing as we take glamour shots, in "candid" poses like Gazing Wistfully at the Candle, or my personal favourite, Somebody Said Something Hilarious:



This is basically what every single one of our 800 pics looks like.


Then two of our girlfriends come to meet us at the bar. The first words they scream in greeting: "OH MY GOD!!! HOW AMAZING DO WE ALL LOOK TONIGHT??"

Saturday, March 20, 2010

Highway to the DangerZone

Today I flew a plane. Like a real airplane that goes into the sky and has people in it.

My instructor, David, looks like Jude Law's less balding but more Russian killy-like younger brother. Except I couldn't pinpoint exactly who it was that he resembled, so I spent the entire briefing (which, by the way, was done with a plastic airplane toy and a map. Like.. thanks. No one is safe.) trying to figure it out. When he notices I am not paying attention, he politely stops and stares until I bring myself back. But then he goes on talk about yolks! I haven't eaten one thing today and I'm starving, so now the only thing I can concentrate on is a goat cheese/portobello omelette.

So when he stands up and asks if we are ready, my only two choices are:

1. Reveal that I'm sorry but I've already forgotten every single word that he said and look like an idiot. Is this even an option? Please.

2. Pretend like I just learned how to fly a plane by looking at a plastic toy moving around a map and risk everyone's lives.

Obviously I choose the latter, because it's just me, Marty and Jude Jr. and I don't even know that guy. Plus, I had made arrangements for someone to check on Taiko if we hadn't returned by afternoon. I'm very diligent.

Right away I know I'm in over my head when Jude says, "Okay, here is the fire extinguisher. I'll assume you both know how to use a fire extinguisher and I don't have to go over it with you?" I nod, but the minute he turns around my nod becomes a frantic negative head shake at Marty, who rolls his eyes and says it's fine. I have no idea how to use a fire extinguisher, but if Marty says it's fine than that means he'll save us if there is a fire and there's no need for me to know. LA LA LA LA LA

He asks who wants to go first and although I usually want to go first all the time and bulldoze my way to the front of the line, I beg Marty to go, thinking that maybe I can sneak some peeks and cheat my way through plane flying.

In my fantastical mishmashed cerebellum, I imagine the plane to be extremely spacious, with all of us being able to sit in the cockpit and have drinks, laughing over velocity jokes.

Apparently, I was not very thorough with my researching and this turns out to the plane:

Yeah, there will be no sneak peeking here. I can't even see one thing they're doing from the back seat! Ok, that's a lie. I'm sure I could have seen what Jude Jr. was showing Marty, but we were flying over Lake Ontario and it was so pretty that I forgot that I had to fly in 30 minutes.

Marty got to fly right by the CN Tower! Look how close he is!

When I realize that we are about to land, my sense of dread returns. Like seriously, I have to fly a plane. Imagine you had to fly a plane. That's pretty much what it was like; I'm a very normal person.

When we do land, we get to hang out on land for only 5 minutes! 5 MINUTES before I have to reboard, but this time sit in the front seat and fly this mechanical beast.

The plus side is I get to wear this amazing headset:

But it's also very distracting, because the two things I am thinking now are:

1. I must CONFESS!! That my LONELINESS!! Is killing me NOOOoooOOoooW, don't you know I still believe? That you will be here... and give me a siiiiIIiiiIign. HIT ME BABY ONE MORE TIME!

2. That Marty and Jude can hear me breathing through the headset, so I stop breathing, taking in precious droplets of oxygen only to confirm that yes, Jude, I'm clear on how to fucking take off, okay? (But I'm not at all.) I might actually pass out from lack of air and nerves, but I can't have this stranger thinking I'm a mouth breather.

While my brain is working overtime trying to figure out how I can breathe extra quietly, this is going on in front of me:


BEEP BOP BOOP BLIP BLIP DOOP PAP DING! "Golf, Golf, Poppa, Québec - do you copy?" BEEP BEEP BAP BOOP BIP BOP BAP!





Through strategically-placed furrowed brows and knowing nods, I manage to convince Jude that I know what I'm doing through trickery. He murmurs his approval when I level off, complete my turns and complete the altitude exercises, but I can see he has his white-knuckled hands on the equipment at all times.

By the time we are ready to descend, I'm thinking about how I can casually throw up out the window we are not allowed to open without anyone noticing. I've thrown up casually numerous times before, sometimes in the middle of serious conversations. You just keep on, man, you just keep on.

Jude is trying to get me to land this MoFo and I really have not even the slightest clue as to where to start. I tell him I'm not feeling well. He asks me if I'm sure (it's hard to tell, because I look very beautiful.) He eventually lands the plane because I refuse to touch anything anymore and I'm just staring out the window in response, while our plane plummets towards the airport and we are getting dispatched repeatedly to veer to the left.

All in all, it was a fun day. Marty decided to go forward with his pilot license and I will happily ride as a passenger from now on.

Sunday, March 14, 2010

The Problem with Crying

The problem with crying is that people think there's a problem with it. Crying is AWESOME! I don't do it very often, so when I get the chance, I immediately think of all the fun things I can use my tears for.

The first thing I do is lock myself in the bathroom and turn a hot shower on, because nobody in the world can see/hear what is about to happen. I try to bring some form of music in with me, but if not, I have to use my imagination. Now my bathroom has basically been transformed into a music video set, with all the smoke, bright lighting, and mirrors going on.

Voilà! I am now Lady Gaga, on the set of Bad Romance.



"I don't wanna be friends... No, I don't wanna be friends... I WANT BAD ROMANCE! I WANT BAD ROMANCE!!"



On Pretend Music Video, no makeup is required when you have Cry Face. That being said, it really only works well with Cry Face, and only for sad or very angry songs. Songs that work very well are Unbreak My Heart, You Oughta Know, Out From Under and if you are a guy (which, for your sake, I am really, really hoping you are not. Like seriously, I don't care what the magazines tell you about girls wanting to see all the sensitivity. They lie. Stop crying.), The Scientist.

Another thing that can help you pass the time while everyone feels bad for you is to bring your camera in your cry hiding ("cryding") spot with you and take hilarious pictures.

My personal favorite is what I like to call "The Hideous Bog Creature". It's very simple. You just have to make a motorboat noise with your mouth, and take a picture very quickly in the midst of it. You are about to be entertained for hours. You don't actually need to be crying, but I think it gives it that extra... Le Hidéouse, you know what I mean?

For example, take this handsome, debonair fellow.



'What a fine young gentleman', you are thinking.

and then all of a sudden...BAM!


You see? In an instant, our elegant and beauteous Bond has become a Hideous Bog Creature!! In a few short moments, this could be you! Aren't the miracles of science fascinating? It's time we used the forces of winds and gravity to our comedic advantage. It's time we took science back.

Oh my God. Marty is asking me what I'm doing with this picture that I promised to delete and definitely not post on the worldwide web for the entire planet (i.e., my three followers) to see. I'm about the get the indian sunburning of a lifetime. Gotta run!

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Phrases that are stupid

1. "I wouldn't know him from Adam." Like do you mean "Adam and Eve" Adam? Cause I Googled and this is biblical Adam vs. a normal guy that might be named Adam (although there's like a one in an ultrabillion chance). I don't actually know the guy below, I just found this picture on the internets. I hope you're a good sport if you are reading this, "Normal Looking Guy".

On a side note, how funny would it be if you Googled "Normal Looking Guy" and your face popped up? Or better yet, if this was actually the best and easiest way to show your friends a picture of the guy you're dating?



How can you not know the guy you are looking for from Adam? Try harder.

And if not, then I only know one Adam, who was best friends with my ex, and still owes me $15 from a bet. So if you're talking about that Adam, I'm pretty sure I would be able to tell the difference. I don't think he's particularly good at disguise. That guy's just okay. Adam, stop being so cheap and give me back my $15.

2. "The bee's knees" or, alternatively, "The cat's pyjamas". This is used to describe something very cool, but I think it's stupid because a bee's knees must be very tiny (I didn't even know they had any!), and cats don't even wear pyjamas unless they are very cold...or..cool... OH! I get it now. Okay, the cat's pyjamas makes a bit of sense, I guess. It's still a weakly formulated analogy. (Like I still don't really get it.)

3. "Don't throw the baby out with the bathwater." If anyone ever said that to me, I would punch them in the face. Who is going to throw out a perfectly good baby friend?!? They're fucking adorable. I can't wait to have a million babies for two reasons. I bet you're thinking one is "Motherhood" but that's like probably number 8 because that seems pretty hard, and I really only like to try medium hard at anything. The main reason is so I can take those douchebag photos (in black and white for extra elegance) where you're practically naked and you have to look at the camera all determined-like, as if you're thinking, "This moment right here? I was born for this moment." You know which ones I'm talking about. I'm not going to post a picture because I don't want some new mother to see that I posted a picture of her and called it a douchebag photo and come kick my ass with her newfound baby friend strength. I am not a tough girl.

The second reason is so that I can listen to Britney Spears' song that she wrote about Sean Preston, "Someday I Will Understand", on repeat, which I already do, but then I really will understand! It's a very exciting time. Oh my God, the entire video one of the aforementioned photos. In movement. Brava, Miss Britney, Brava.

Obviously, I'm not in any way ready for baby raising (I've actually been described as "dizzy". Recently. Who in the history of mankind has ever been described as "dizzy"?) but a friend couple recently announced their pregnancy and they're not so "mature". Here is an actual excerpt of a conversation I recently had with the male half.

Him: "Sup, shitballsdickface?"

Me: "Oh, hey. You wanna talk to Marty?"

Him: "Men are awesome. You are stupid."

Me: (Pause.) "Yeah. I'm just going to go get Marty for you."


Good luck, little baby friend.

Sunday, March 7, 2010

Mongoose to Stink Beetle

Martin, boyfriend/best friend/general partner in crime, signed me up for a flying lesson. Next Sunday afternoon, weather permitting, you might hear a banshee shrieking through the heavens, as my Cessna (that's pilot talk for "small plane") spirals out of control over downtown Toronto.

I can't drive a car very well. I can't even run very fast, or I trip over my own feet. I have literally been in about six car accidents, all my fault but one. The only thing I do worse than take lead on transportation is let someone else do something fun while I wait. Even if it's something that might make me actually shit my pants, I'm pretty much going to be the most annoying, sulky person in the world if you do something fun and I don't.

Marty is totally bad-ass. I know him from high school, but I was a junior back in the day and he was a senior, and a boy three years older than you in high school may as well be your grendpeppy. He came to my high school for final year, with his bleached blonde spiky hair on a shiny new skateboard (prerequisite if you want to survive as a boy in late 90's high school) and slightly grungy plaid. He lived across the street from my best friend, Steph, whose garage was The Place to hang out when we were 14. We had hit The Jackpot. He smoked cigarettes AND drove a beat up Golf... in red, ladies.

I'm just going to take a quick second to tell you about Steph so you can grasp the kind of kids that we were. Both of us were Baby Geniuses and would correct teachers all the time if they made grammatical, spelling, or general historical errors. But we wanted to be awesome and did whatever it took, which in high school, means pretending to not be Baby Geniuses. It meant that whenever we walked to the principal's office for whatever reason, like dropping off the attendance sheet, we would hang our heads down low to look like we were about to get suspended. Or better yet, if we were called to the principal's office (over the entire school intercom!) we would roll our eyes and say "again?!" when really, my mom just wanted to let me know that she just checked the juice boxes and they had expired. OKAY, MOM! GAWD!!! Moving on.

Knowing him now, I feel terrible for Young Martin. He'll do anything for people, even if it makes him look like a total douchebag, which we did (obviously). I would walk the ten minutes over to Steph's house every morning, so we could coerce him to drive us to school together, even though taking the bus would have taken me less than 10 minutes. Strength in numbers! Being far too nice, Young Martin would relent after only making a few excuses (we would need at least 10 before we would even consider stopping our dual "Aw, come on..." harmonization).

Back then, I didn't give a shit. We would get to school and girls would ask us things like, "what's the new guy like?" and we could casually toss our hair back and say," Oh, Martin? He's cool." (Long, dramatic pause to show reluctance about divulging a secret. Lower voice to whisper.) "He's from Germany, you know, so he's just adjusting, meeting cool people. Poor guy, must be hard to leave all your friends like that."

He's not even from Germany!!! He was from like two hours away. But it's not like they were getting rides to school from him so they would never know what was what. Anyways, the year came and left with no major developments, and eventually, Steph and I got into witchcraft (No. Just no. I'm not ready.) and Marty graduated and moved out East.

Fast forward to a number of years later.

In short, I befriended the very friends Marty had back in high school, he moves back, I think his ears are cute, we go out a couple of times, I move indefinitely to Nicaragua, we miss, he shows up in Nicaragua when my indefinite plan becomes a definitely not happening plan, we hang out a bit there, we hitchhike across Costa Rica, the weather sucks, we come back to Ottawa, move to Toronto due to boredom and now here we are. There's a lot more romance and adventure in our relationship but I'll leave it at that. <3

Another cool thing that happened over the weekend was my amazing friend Cat got these passes to a high end makeup convention and got me an entirely new makeup collection. All MAC, thank you very much. Now, when she told me she was going, I put in my order for some beautiful, neutral, societally-acceptable colours. Makeup is extremely exciting to me; the higher end, the moreso. When she gets back with literally thousands of dollars of makeup, we lose our minds together. The fact that they are the discontinued colours, and all in bright pink, greens and reds makes no difference, although it would have been a bit nice to know before I threw out my entire makeup collection in anticipation. I went to Costco on Sunday in complete Clown Whore get-up and didn't even care because I was such a fancy lady with all my new MAC makeup. Like seriously, green liquid liner to pick up bulk paper towels.

Cat is one of Those Girls. Tall, blonde, becomes friends with everybody and gets you the best every single thing. These are the best kind of girls to align yourself with. She is but one of the best friends I have in the Those Girls category.

The first is Lisa. When Lisa met up with me in Amsterdam back in the day, the first thing she said to me, having not seen me for a very long time, was "Dude, what the fuck happened to your face?" I had broken out in a terrible, terrible (MON DIEU, QUE TERRIBLE!!) rash all over my face and nowhere else. It meant she would have to work extra hard, which isn't that hard when you are 6 feet tall and always look like you just stepped off a Parisian runway.

But the real testing starts when I lose my contacts (I lose everything) and I have to wear coke bottle glasses for the duration of our adventure.

And then my sandals snap and I'm stuck limping behind her long and graceful gazelle-like strides like some science experiment gone horrifically wrong. Just picture it, it's awful.

T'were I alone, my experience in Europe would have consisted of a lot of sitting around in hostels, pretending to be interested in futbal and scheming up ways to trick people into hanging out with me. Instead, we got guest list into every club, all sorts of freebies, and I had the best trip ever. Thanks, Lisa <3