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.

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.

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!!!

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.

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.

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.

I am not a tough girl.

Today, on my way home from work, an enormous whale of a woman nearly knocked me into the subway tracks and destroyed my life. Well, there was no train coming, but you get the idea. I give her this look like, "Excuse my beautiful beauty!?" She looks back but just keeps on walking, like it was my fault I couldn't dodge out of her way fast enough as she bulldozed past the entire walking area. Like I'm the asshole here. Like I forced her mother to mate with an ogre.

This is so unfair! On public transport, I say please and thank you, I give up my seat to old people, and I turn down my ipod to whisper level so no one is disturbed by Lauryn Hill's beautiful rendition of Joyful, Joyful from Sister Act. 2.

And YET. Yet, all the crazy bag ladies, the Googley-eyed, and the ne'er-do-gooders of Toronto seem to gravitate towards me, and always on public transport.

Anyways, I'm embarassed to report that nothing happened past giving Turkey Sub The Look. And let's be honest, it was only to the back of her head. I wish I said something, and in my mind, she got the verbal beatdown of a lifetime, but in real life? Not so much.

I am not a tough girl.

I can attribute my lack of toughness to two historic events that shape who I am today: a complete and utter wuss. Come along and ride on a fantastic voyage... (That's me pulling you to the early 90's.)

When I was about 11, my parents went away, leaving my 15 year old sister, Olivia, in charge of me and my then 7 year old brother. Obviously, she throws a massive party in true Kid n' Play fashion. All the boys are wearing high tops and wildly coloured baggy jeans, and the girls are clad in black, have drawn on their beautiful eyebrows/lip outlines. The smell of hairspray, cigarettes, and Love's Baby Soft is rampant.

I'm allowed to hang out. I'm in Heaven. My brother, unfortunately, is told to stay in the walk in closet in my parents' room for the night. I know that nowadays, this sounds like abuse, but this was the 90's, man. Everybody was rolling down the streets smoking indo, sippin' on gin and juice. Well, not, like everybody; not, like, me. I just sat there and marvelled at my newfound grown-uppityness.

All of a sudden, Hell breaks loose. I don't know why, but for some reason, every single person has to leave the house. There's, like, a fight outside or something. Olivia and her bff, we'll call her Carrie (because that's her name), both the types to not take shit, divide and conquer, my sister emptying the main floor and her friend clearing out the basement. Where I am. I am freaking out, but obviously this has shaped out to be the best day of my life.

I'm following Carrie around because she picks up a BAT, like she's about to throw down some crazy, and I'm petrified. What happens next, when I reminisce now, must absolutely go down as The Most Embarrassing Moment of Carrie's life. She is screaming and threatening fully grown teenage boys in my basement. With a bat. I'm standing beside her in my best Tough Girl impression, and I throw in a "You got that?! Party's OVER, ok? OK?" as if I'm going to do anything about it. I'm 11, my glasses cover 90% of my face, my outfit consists of spandex bedazzlement, and everything I know about Tough Girls I learned from Brenda Walsh. I had purple and green elastics on my braces and a rainbow coloured retainer.

Everyone eventually leaves, but even in my preadolescence, I know as soon as the words leave my mouth that I am a massive Tough Girl failure, and I have to repress this memory (which I have until now).

(Cue Venga Boys)

I'm 16. I'm coming home from ELECTRIC CIRCUS. 'Nuff said? Okay, for those of you not in the know, Electric Circus was a live dance show hosted by MuchMusic from the late 80's to early 2000. A common outfit for a male "EC" dancer might be a blue top hat, no shirt (just yellow glitter), and oversized fleece pants in hot pink.



This is real picture of my friend back in the EC days, although I didn't know her then. I only post this because, for one, I can't find any of myself, and two, as someone who has an exclusively holt renfrew wardrobe now, she is completely unrecognizable. She's wearing a tablecloth here.

On this night, I opted for a more demure look: pigtails (?!), bellbottomed jeans that I made myself by cutting up two perfectly good pairs and sewing them into ONE, and a red sequinned top. Eeyeah. Moving on.

So I get on the bus, and I see this girl who used to go to my high school, Shelley Collins (whose name has only slightly been altered for protective purposes). She was the type that got up in the middle of geography class, hyperventilating, and no one knew why. Geography is not that difficult, Shelley. It's France, it's there, it's not going anywhere. After years of unwarranted hyperventilation and cruel high school torment, Shelley transfers to another high school and no one sees her for years. Until now.

She's beautiful! Shelley is like a character right out of a straight to DVD movie produced by magnanimous forces Aaron Spelling and Jackie Collins combined. Her face is tearstain-free and she's dressed in typical, suburban fare. Not like me. I smile at her in acknowledgement (we weren't friends) and keep walking to the back of the bus. Because I'm so awesome.

About 10 minutes on this bus ride goes by before Shelley comes by and sits beside me, with a smile like she wants to be friends. Now, while she may appear to be sane at that moment, there's no fucking way I'm going to become friends with a potential hyperventilator. Sorry, reasonless hyperventilators of the world.

Anyways, as necessary niceties are exchanged, I can see that this is no ordinary social call, and Shelley's eyes have a bit of the crazy and she's talking really fast about high schools. Oh my god. She wants to fight me. Fight. Me. She thinks I was one of the people that made her crazy, but this is not me!! I took Calculus in high school; I was always friendly with both The Amazing and The Terrible!

I stop the niceties and ask if she is okay, because it is so obvious that something is not that I'm just getting creeped out. She takes a deep breath and says this: "I'm going to beat up your brother."

?!?!??!?!

WHAT?? My brother at the time is 12! He listens to Savage Garden and plays Pretend Butterflies with me when we're bored (I'm sorry, Will. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorrysorrysorrysorrysorry.) On a side note, I may have slightly miscalculated the activities and dates/ages. Pretend Butterflies is just a game where we tie blankets around our necks like Superman, but instead of playing a socially acceptable game like Pretend Superheroes, we opt to become butterflies. It's weird. I know this now. We may have been 4 and 8 though when we did that, which seems much more appropriate that 12 and 16, so let's go with that. (But it's not true.)

Back to Shelley. After I breathe a sigh of relief that no one can hear but my own blackened selfish heart because I realize that my face is safe for now, I work on convincing her to not beat up my preteen brother. I FAIL. I'm still not even sure why she wanted to, but by the time my stop came and I had to cut her off to go home, she was still dead set on me passing the message that she was coming for him and to watch out.

So yeah, Will, if you see Shelley Collins, watch out. She's going to beat you up. I'm sorry I forgot to tell you for almost 15 years, but she's coming for you, okay?

**********

So now you can clearly see how these near death experiences have scarred me for life. You are probably thinking one of two things:

1. If I stopped dressing like such a dickhead, maybe these things wouldn't happen to me.

2. Why does my brother seem to have a passing role in the events in such a weird way? Being locked in a closet and threatened by a paper bag inhaler??

Well, as for my dress code, these brushes with death still happen to me when I'm wearing my normal clothes, which nowadays do not involve bedazzlement or multiple sewing-togethers.

And for the record, my brother turned out totally normal.



He's nocturnal and about to go on a tour of South East Asia with his punk band Germ Attak. One time, he got locked in the catacombs underneath Paris for 8 hours straight in the pitch dark. That's totally normal, right? Yeah, yeah, it's cool.