Once a cheater, always a cheater.....

If there’s one thing I hate ( and belive me, there are actually many, many things I hate, it’s when someone creates a quip or a saying that isn’t really true but gains popularity because of it’s punch or cuteness. Like “let sleeping dogs lie” Why do you have to let a sleeping dog lie? What if it’s sleeping in the street? Supposedly you are not supposed to wake alseeping dog because it might bite you but dogs are cute when they are waking up not vicious unless it’s like some rabid animal to begin with and then why are you around it anyways?

Or what about the saying “There’s plenty of fish in the sea?” So does make me some kind of ocean predator? I should dump my so-so boyfriend because there are plenty of other fish in the sea? Well what if I don’t want a guppy or a minnow? What if I have like a west coast salmon and I want to know what other salmon are in the ocean? If the news and state of the environment are telling us anything it’s that there are not that many salmon in the sea. Stick with your slightly dwarfed salmon or risk having to settle for a tadpole as your date for the next 10 Saturday nights!

I could go on and on about this. Don’t even get me started on the phrase “at the drop of a hat?” You might as well say whenever mood strikes you. Nobody really wears hats and if they drop it they are certianly in no hurry to pick it up off the ground and put it back on their head. Floors are dirty! Hats are where our hair is… See, where I’m going with this?

But the whole reason I thought to write this rant, was because I herad the phrase “once a cheater, always a cheater”, on the radio. I thought arcaic thoughts like that went out with “the woman belongs in the kitchen.” Saying something like once a cheater always a cheater assumes that people never evolve and never learn anything from their previous relationships. That’s saying every partner is essentially the same person and you are basically re-acting every relationship with someone else over and over again.

The truth is some relationships are bad. Some relationships are good. Sometimes you or your partner do something stupid or mean or inconsiderate. And sometimes you don’t. You shouldn’t be branded with a Scarlet letter just because once you cheated on your ex when you were trying to dump him but didn’t have the guts. You shouldn’t be branded as a cheater because you met someone amazing when you happened to be dating someone not so amazing.

Cheating sucks definietly. It’s cowardly and shady and ultimately dangerous for both you and your partner. But there’s ususally a reason behind cheating and comes from two people, not just one cheater who will always be a cheater.

What about the type of person who always gets cheated on my her/his partner? How come there’s no catchy saying for the pushover that lets her man two-time her all the time and pretends to live in oblivion? Once a doormat, always a doormat? Does that work here?

I’m not a cheater and I never have been and I don’t think I ever will be. I’ve definitely been cheated on. It sucks and hurts not only your morale and your self-esteem but also your ability to trust. But it’s something you get through. It’s something that defines a part of you and you bring into your future relationships whether you are the cheater or the cheatee.

I guess I just find it kind of condescending that people throw out these little single ladies catch phrases like once a cheater always a cheater or there’s plenty of fish in the sea or like whatever is the chic lit catch phrase du jour. It totally minimizes the intelligence of single people and what we can learn from relationships. Relationships are complicated and messy and can’t be understood through bumper sticker slogan or colloquiums. Life is all about relationships and if you could compartmentalize them into these weird slogans then life would be very dull and generic.

I prefer to see relationships as indefinable. Some are easy, sure; some are hard. But like snowflakes each one is different with jagged and smooth surfaces. Each one can melt away in second or grow into something more substantial.

Put a Key on It

If you like it, then you should have put a ring on it! That’s the stern command that has become an anthem for all the single ladies everywhere. But I beg to differ. If you like it then you should have given a key. That’s how I roll. I’m not ready for the ring on it but I’ve dabbled in the put a key on it arena. And there seem to be some misnomers out there. Allow me the honour of providing this PSA on Put A Key on It Etiquette.

A key doesn’t mean you can come over whenever you want after work or during the day when I’m not there. Key of convenience or key to the heart. Everyone has a cell phone. A quick heads up to let me know you’re coming over will allow me to wipe of my facial hair remover cream and close the door to the bathroom when I’m “making a deposit.” While I probably won’t put on a bra or shave my legs. I promise you I will he moustashe-free and there will be no potatoe-chip residue on my face ( well at least when you first get here).

There are two types of keys you can give or receive: a key of convenience or a key to the heart.

A key of convenience is a key given at any point during the relationship. It’s a “Here’s a key” kind of thing. No long prologue. No declaration of what the key receiver means to you, no vague far off plans of sharing bathroom shelf space or drawer real estate. It’s just a key so you can feed the cat; so you can come in late without making me get up and let you in; so you can sleep in while I trot off to work. It’s a key of convenience. A key of convenience is like a library book; it need not be returned right away but you should always ask for a renewal: not keep the key forever and secretly come over without warning or invitation. That is NOT good key of convenience etiquette. You also should not invite people over without asking. That is also not good key of convenience etiquette.

A key to the heart is different. Given after too many nights being shuffled out of the bed early to accommodate the early worker and too many missed late night rendezvous due to lack of key difficulties; the key to the heart is a step towards something more. It usually involves some kind of affectionate exchange. Some sort of inkling that the relationship seems to have a future beyond next weekend.

Sometimes a key of convenience can turn into a key to the heart. Sometimes a key to the heart can revert to a key of convenience. This is usually when the relationship is snowballing down from a potential future to a certain death.

But it is very bad key to the heart or key of convenience etiquette to keep a key longer than the relationship. Always return the key. I repeat Always return the key. Especially if it’s a girl’s key. It’s really creepy to hear someone fiddling with your locks when you’re huddled under the covers after watching back-to-back episodes of Law and Order SVU. Are you really conceited enough to think that you are the only person I would ever want to give key to? Or do you think I’m some hussy that just gives out keys to every man I meet?

It doesn’t need to be a big production. Just return the key. In the mailbox. Under the matt. A quick email setting up a drop off time. It’s not that difficult, but the more time that passes the more awkward it gets.

Just. Return. The. Key.

The Art of Couple Walking

Okay maybe this is a mute point for you you old married types, but when you are dating someone or getting to know someone or whatever, finding the right couple walk is a a very slippery slope. There are many things to account for  the size of both practitioners, where you are walking ( a couple walk in the park could be very different from a couple walk on a busy downtown street), the speed with which you both walk.... 

 

It's complicated Business and sometimes if you pull yourself out of an awkward couple walk it can send the wrong message to your new and timid couple walking partner.  While you may just mean the break in union as a chance to see the new window display at She She Bags, he may take it as a silent reprimand against his claustrophobic clutch around your shoulders. 

So please men, take this a guide to what your subconscious declaration of your property or your innocuous display of affection can mean to women and how it can affect the all important factors of trying to keeping our bags on our shoulders or our jackets from falling down or our necks from developing serious kinks in an attempt to let you seem taller and shrinking into your arms. Women, please take this as a sign.  You are not alone.  You aren't the only one who finds these situations awkward and unreadable.  And if you have never gave this kind of thing a second thought: remember: I don't have a job right now! 

There is no walk more annoying than the backpocket jeans double walk.  Like why don't we just tie our ankles together and enter a potato sack race at the local Smith Family Reunion? Ugh! First of all, jeans fall down, easily. They fall down all the more easily when there is a hand in your pocket dragging them down. I'm all for a free feel in public, but please just give it a quick squeeze and then carry on to the destination.  Once at home, we can squeeze whatever until your hearts content, but walking like this makes me feel like a conjoined twin and the two arms always get smashed together and then on top of that you have to keep your steps in time.  It's weird.  I think after like grade 7, this type of walking needs to be outlawed except maybe if you're in a field of daisies or like maybe if you have had a big fight and are walking on the beach after making up.  Those are the only two circumstances, though!
I'm all for the arm over the shoulder walk.  It's cute.  It's comfortable.  There are a few issues though.  Like your bag. You can't really hold your bag on your shoulder in this couple walk. It'll fall down if it's any bigger than a notebook.  So then you have to hold your bag down at your side, which I find so annoying.  The bag loses its cuteness when its way down by your legs. Plus it's way easier for your bag to get snatched if it is down at your side instead of on your shoulder.  Also this walk is so cute and comfy but it does take up a lot of sidewalk space. Like if you are downtown, be prepared for  people to bump into you and give you angry looks because you are walking slow and taking up all the space. 
This is a variation of the arm over shoulder walk a.k.a the hug walk.  It's okay, I guess.   I feel like it's  such a drunk walk. Like the girl can't stand up so she's hanging off the guy to stumble into the car. It is definitely a very helpful walk when you are drunk, but when you're not.... not so much.  My arms are short, sometimes I can't reach that far around the guy and then it's like where should my hand go.... Backpocket? NO! This photo also illustrates the dangers of couplewalking when both practitioners are about the same height. She won't be able to lean into him for long or she'll get a huge hump on her back or a kink in her neck. 
I like the arm in arm walk.  It's comfy.  You don't have to be the same height or walk in time or anything.  Although I guess it looks a little formal but whatevs. I feel like this is a drunk walk also. More like a happy drunk walk before you have to be helped to the car at the end of the night. Although the more I think of it, it's not exactly a walking downtown walk.  It's more of a here I am making my entrance to the debutante ball walk.  Maybe that's why I like it so much. 
Oh hand-holding.  You are so cute.  You are so normal. Sure maybe a bit grade school but it's good nonetheless. It's cute for anyone from kids to grandparents. It lets people be different heights; walk at different speeds; not get in the way of people trying to get by downtown (unless you're one of those couples that makes people walk around you so you won't have to let go of your hands for even a few seconds and in that case.... you're lame). 

 Yes hand-holding, you are my favorite.  An oldie but a goodie. But that's just me. And every couple walking partnership is different.  So who knows what will happen next? 

Sometimes I hear you, Sometimes I don't

Okay, I feel like a self-absorbed tart saying this, but is there some kind of weird joke going on at our local Starbucks's? Is there some random drunk photo of me nabbed off facebook or flickr that has been posted in various coffeehouses with instructions for barristas to handle me with extra care and build me up with extraneous compliments?

I've been to Starbucks maybe like 6 times since I've been back ( I know, I know, a bit excessive considering I don't have a job, but whatevs... simple pleasures) and every time the barrista has given me some strange unwarranted compliment.  One guy called me beautiful, one guy said he loved my hair, one guy said i had a great smile. 

I was like OMFG is it that I am now this old maid that the young barristas feel they have to go out of their way to give me some random compliment for fear that I will go and fling myself off the nearest highrise with the remnants of a Grande non-fat sugar-free hazelnut extra hot latte clouding the crime scene and creating a PR nightmare for the Starbucks brass. 

I finally swallowed my apprehension over sounding like a) a conceited twat who wants everyone to know she once got six compliments in two weeks b) a hopelessly insecure dweeb who cannot even take a compliment easily c) a drone who cannot let a haphazard nicety go by without making into a total incident and asked my coffee cohort what she thought of this undeserved and unexpected occurrence. 

She said I was dumb.  She said that lots of people get random compliments from people; it's not like a marriage proposal or someone asking for your phone number. She said don't be dumb. She said I always get lots of compliments from strangers both at Starbucks and other places. She said you're being so dumb. She said I smile a lot and play with my hair. These are obvious things to compliment or make small talk about. She said I'm such a dummy. She says maybe in my old age my hearing is actually getting better and I am actually paying some attention to what's happening around me.  

She makes a lot of sense. But she calls me dumb a bit too much for my taste. 

How a 42-year writer is like a 108-year old vampire that is a bit manic depressive and might kill you if he has sex with You.....

Okay, I know, I know I have become way too obsessed with popular vampire fiction. But you know what? I don’t care! I like it. It’s dangerous and sexy and hot and tragic. And it helps me get through my humdrum days of boring, un-dramatic relationship problems when I can imagine I’m actually caught up in some sexy vampire werewolf love triangle or am spending my last moments with my vampire soul mate before we are both killed by the Volturi; or am innocently trying to seduce my vampire boyfriend while he tries to be “good” and not drain my blood.

I think it’s like that whenever you read a lot of first-person narrative. You start noticing things the protagonist would notice. You start comparing things in your life to things in the protagonist’s life. Now I know 42 is nothing close to 108 but since I seem to talk and act like I am 15 years old, at times it can feel like a monumental difference. He says some funny expressions that sometimes makes me think that he has lived through the black plague, the civil war and the women’s suffrage movement. Like the other day I was just like petty mad about something and he tugs on my arm and was like “Why are you acting so cold?” I totally had to bite my tongue, but inside I was like “what is this 1881?” And that tiny quick-witted quip starts me on another daydream. It is 1881. I am a suffragette and an carrying a parasol and wearing petticoats marching through the streets of London when a dark-haired stranger with a huge widow’s peak and an heavy gait saves me from being pelted with pebbles from the angry throngs of pig-headed men. It’s all confusion and chaos as a riot breaks out and I am disoriented amongst the masses. But he leads me through the crowds and down a dark alley where he grabs me by the shoulders and.... you know.... like drains all my blood. And then I look up and he’s like “What’s wrong with you? Now You’re giving me the silent treatment too?” I can’t very well be like oh I was daydreaming you were a vampire in the 1800s again. I already have reached my threshold of teen girl teasing from this one. There is no room for any more.

The Daydreaming happens more often than I’d like. I’d say for the last two months, if I’m not with him, I’d reading about Vampires, talking about vampires, talking about him, thinking about vampires, thinking about him, googling vampires (like the stars of the movie, the behind the scenes stuff about the authors and movie and TV shows... nothing like how do I actually become a vampire, I’m not that far-gone!), or like with my parents or at Bikrams. The two were bound to collide in my small pea-sized brain someday.

Sometimes when he is lecturing me about safety or rudely making me nervous about my trip by creating crazy What-if scenarios and sending me horror-stories of women raped and beaten in Buenos Aires, I try to not stomp my foot like a 10 year old or do the whole Nyah Nyah Nyah Nyah thing with my fingers stuck in my ears, but imagine that he is nervous about my safety because he is so old and he has seen so many terrible things and he sees himself as my world protector (although the whole he won’t carry my groceries anymore in an attempt to prepare me for lugging my backpack around Argentina for 15 days doesn’t really jibe with this particular daydream). Sometimes I imagine that he was a poet laureate in WW1. So as the battles at Flanders Fields were being fought and the battles on the Western Front were being waged, he strolls the sidelines watching young men getting shot at and blown to bits and he quietly writes down his reflections like a fly on the wall unable to help or engage with the soldiers in any way. He enters the barracks and sees the cruel hazing amongst comrades and feels the undercurrent of fear and loss through everyone. But he isn’t able to help them through their pain or even tell a few fresh jokes to clear their heads for a few minutes because he is not one of them. He sees all the pain in the world; he sees the worst of humanity but remains disengaged from it all.

The daydreaming is fun for the most part. I almost always “awake” back to reality with a smile on my face. But the Carl Jung part of me would say I am obviously subverting my personal fears for the relationship behind a superimposed heightened reality in order to save my psyche from acute self-awareness. (thank you damned 3rd-year Psychology elective). I don’t really want to deal with the problems we have. So I imagine we don’t have those problems. I imagine we have the problems that can be resolved in a 600 page novel (well a four-part series, is more accurate I guess).

I guess it all stems from wondering if he really likes me. Who is the chasee and who is the chaser? I thought I was the chasee at first and I would say like 60% of the time I still do. But in the most important times, I feel like the chaser. Like a very inadequate chaser that stumbles around in the dark and falls asleep with a kitty cat at her feet but wakes up with a birds nest on her head. So I dream. I dream about what it would be like if early to bed really meant early to bed because if we stay up I might have sex with you and kill you by accident. I dream that t is enormous self-restraint that keeps us apart not lack of attraction or the building piles of work waiting for him the next day. I dream that one day there will be broken bed frames and holes in the walls and bruises and fang marks all over my body. I dream about it all. And then I wake up.

Top Five Reasons I’d Rather Sleep with me Cat than HIM!

1. The cat may scratch my arms and legs in his sleep but at least he doesn’t burn my face with his three-day old beard or rip my hair out with his damn Mexican silver rings that he won’t even take off at bedtime.

2. The cats only wakes me up once at 7:30 am wanting to be fed, while he wakes me up intermittently to ask random questions about his latest article/story/upset feeling in his tummy.

3. When I wake up from a nightmare, the cat either runs away or stares up at me quizzically. I prefer that over the pseudo-Freudian mumbo-gumbo that makes the possibility of getting anymore sleep that night almost nil.

4. The cat likes to cuddles and then goes away to its own section of the bed, while he flops on top of it all and claims the bed like a conquering explorer ploughing over everything that was there before.

5. The cat may sniff at something funny but I have yet to hear him ask when was the last time I washed the sheets!


**DISCLAIMER** This is about no one in particular, more like an appropriation of many men exaggerated for effect! I love you long time!

Don't You Forget About Me.

As you walk on by

Will you call my name?

As you walk on by

Will you call my name?

When you walk away
Or will you walk away?

Will you walk on by?

Come on - call my name

Will you all my name?

So I know I seem to have a lot of crippling insecurities that keep me from having as much fun as I like and saying what I mean about 80 per cent of the time. I understand that. That's just the way it is. Love me or lump me as they used to say...

But I want to know, what are YOU doing? What are you thinking about? Who are you thinking about?

I'm not obsessed or anything. Just sometimes when ther's nothing on tv and I'm waiting for my brown rice to come to the boil I stare at the espresso machine and see the weird stain you left on the coffee pot that time when you left the element on all day. Or when Ravi draws blood or I do my weekly count of cat scratches I think about the time he scratched your scalp and made you bleed. I wonder if you still have a scar? I wonder if you tell people a kitten almost clawed your brain out while you slept.

If so, do you say it was some random girl's kitten? An ex-girlfriend's kitten? Do I rate a funny nickname like Neurotico or Hysterika? Do you use my actual name when you talk about me? Or am I just the "EX?" Or the uber-bitch?

I don't think about these things often, just once in a while. And it would be nice to know that you won't forget about me.

You Give Me Fever

Maybe it's the heat. Or maybe it's the constant barrage of weddings and babies and lovey dovey coupledom. But for some reason I keep noticing them. Everywhere. Cute ones, not so cute ones, ones that look like ones I've dated before, ones that look like ones I wanted to date before. In groups, in couples or all by their lonesome. They are everywhere. Ones that are looking at me; ones that are looking at someone else; ones that I wish were looking at me; ones that I wish were looking at someone else.

What do they like make up half the population or something?

The More you Ignore Me, the Closer I Get

When you sleep
I will creep
Into your thoughts
Like a bad debt
That you can’t pay
Take the easy way
And give in
Yeah, and let me in

Anyone who takes relationship advice from Morrissey has issues. I understand that. But there is no doubting that the Mozfather take on relationships is eerily akin to my own. However it would be sorely off base to say I enjoy the thrill of the chase. That would imply that the ebbs and flows of the relationship inspire a surge of confidence in myself and my pursuit of what I want. I liken the experience to that of a kitten nipping and meowing at its owner’s feet; following him around incessantly until he is so tired of tripping over you that he finally picks you up.

But then once he picks you up, you realize that in mere moments he is going to realize that you have kitty breath and can do little more than look at him quizzically. So you scamper off. But then you still want to be with him. So you stay close and jump up for quick cuddles every now and again.

And the longer he stays away the more I wonder what he’s doing. Even if just a day goes by without a phone call or a text or an email I find myself unconsciously heading to the Market on Yates, or the Black Stilt or even just a wanderlust walk that lands me smack dab right in his neighbourhood.

It a bit sad, I guess. I mean what would my women’s lib sisters say if they heard me comparing myself to a kitten and referring to him as my owner? Not good.

He’s not that great, I know. It’s a go nowhere situation. But there’s something about him that keeps clobbering me over the head and dragging me back by my hair.

Do You think of Me?

Do you think of me once in a while?
When you are sad or feeling blue?
Do I remind you of things that make you smile or even laugh out loud?
Like when you step outside to get the paper and you get a bit of dew between your toes
Or when you eat cookies in bed and read girly magazines?
When you think of me once in a while?
Is it good or is it bad?
Is for just a second or maybe a bit longer?
Do you want to talk or just leave well enough alone?
When you think of me once in a while do you think of what I did wrong or what I did right?
Do you think about how I might look now or how I looked then?
When you think of me once in a while, Do you wonder about my family, my friends, my health, or my happiness?
When you walk down the street do you sometimes think you see me and then try to catch my eye?
Do you think of me?
When you hear a new song or watch a new movie do you wonder what I would think?
Do you ever think of me?

Five-Day Old Pizza and Maxi Pads.....The Long Anticipated Conclusion....

I'd seen Greg's filthy basement suite a few times before, so I'm not sure how my overly-dramatic pubescent head morphed the smell of dirty laundry and half-eaten food into the mirage of vanilla-scented candles and freshly laundered linens; but so goes the mind of a girl who for years well past her teen cursed herself for not sending a b-cup bra to Luke Perry for him to autograph instead of her real Warner's A-cup sports bra.

But even in hindsight, the suite was messier than I'd ever seen. I guess the honeymoon was officially over. There was no more hiding stuff in closets or behind the couch, this was Greg; this was Greg's filth: love it or lump it.

So I loved it. I loved it with all I had. I just closed my eyes and tried to remember the lines from every schmaltzy first-time teen love scene I could remember. Downing that half bottle of jack really helped me get into character. We weren't two rebel without a cause teens in a condemned basement tryin to fumble our way through baseball metaphors; we were Brenda and Dylan at the Bellagio on Prom Night; we were Diane Court and Lloyd Dobler in the back of the car after graduation. We were anyone we could think of to be except ourselves.

Because we were embarrassing. There was hapless clothes pulling; there was awkward shifting and accidental hair-pulling; there was outright shock and full-on staring; and most unexpectedly there was a surprise visit from my Aunt Flo that was not only unexpected but unknown until after the fact.

The look of horror on Greg's face is something that haunted me for years to come. Any delusions of his cool exterior and sexual experience fizzled into nothingness as I tried to explain that sometimes "Aunt Flo" came unexpectedly and I swore up and down and even looked up for him on the Internet that he was not going to 'catch anything' from me.

I guess the copious amounts of drugs and alcohol consumed that night did nothing to ease the tension of the awful conclusion to our soap opera rendevous. There was no closing our eyes and pretending anymore. I thought I was going to literally pass out from embarrassment. I seriously was periodically checking my pulse and putting my head out the window for some air. Greg was so red. Not just red in the face; his whole body was red with embarrassment.

Everything was way too real. There was blood: on the bed; on my clothes; on him. Then I started to notice other cracks in the facade. There was a moldy pan with what seemed to be old mac and cheese next to the night stand. there were about three empty pizza boxes at the foot of the bed. There were fruit flies buzzing around a heap of dirty laundry.

While Greg was in the shower "decontaminating himself," I was becoming more and more aware that I was not in the penthouse suite of the Bellagio or even the comfortable back seat of a car. I was in a pig sty and I was starting to feel itchy and nauseous. I suddenly started to notice three tiny pink marks on my thigh. I scratched them and they almost instantly turned into red protruding welts. I couldn't take it.

I called my dad and asked him to pick me up. When Greg got out of the shower he was a bit less disgusted with me but still none too pleased that I had somehow become "allergic" to his place.
"you've been here before, and never had anything like this happen!," he grumbled, still stumbling from the booze and the atrosity that we had both participated in." Well his place had never been this disgusting I thought. And I'd never spent more than twenty minutes at his place before. And I'd certainly never done anything like whatever we had just done at his place before.

He didn't put up much of a fight. We both wanted the night to be over. Neither of us could look the other in the eye. Greg locked up the basement and decided to spend the night on his parents' couch. He left in such a hurry but I was too relieved to see him go to care.

No hug, no kiss not even a wave goodbye; just a random nod in my direction. But I certainly wanted no bodily contact with him at that moment. I didn't think I wanted any bodily contact with anyone ever again.

Five-Day Old Pizza and Maxi Pads.....PART 2.....

Some people describe first love as euphoric and all-encompassing: an exhilarating magic carpet ride that takes you to all the most beautiful places in the world. I would say, not so much. First love is full of missteps and awkward moments intermitten with gooey feelings of attachment and overall horniess. But I wouldn't say I'm a pessimist; more a realist. Let's face it 98 per cent of first loves last a good 6 months longer than they should due to a contagious attachment disease, I like to call Awkward-repetition-avoidance-itis.

I mean, who hasn't comtemplated overlooking the ocassional sexual daliance due to the fact that a) you don't want to go through the whole body positions/body image/bodily functions comfort dance with another new guy; or b) you don't think you will ever be able to afford an apartment as nice as the one you two share, on your own.

But sometimes awkwardness comes upon a hill called horrific embarrassment. For most people, their innate awkwardness would give way to control and thus, they would be able to avoid horrific embarrassment. But when first love awkwardness is coupled with habitual cocaine usage and unbearable PMS cramps, you get a case of horrific embarrassment, or as I like to call it, the tale of Five Day old Pizza and Maxi Pads.......

There was something about Greg that screamed bad boy with a heart of gold. He still had his learner's license when he first met, but he had blacked out some of the letters on his "student driver" sign so it said, instead,"Stunt Driver." Very cool, that was Greg. Very loud, very forward, very abrupt; but very, very cool. He didn't have many friends, which seemed appropriate. Not everyone was in on this secret: Greg was very, very cool.

Greg was the perfect antidote to everything that ailed me. I was mischevious and ready to rebel against anything and everything in my path. I had spent too many summers looking for the perfect Dylan MacKay to match wits with my improbable Brenda Walsh. My own personal Luke Spencer to sweep me off my feet and carry me away from my abismal existence as a wallflowerish Laura Webber. That was one problem straight off the bat. We both watched far too much TV to understand what a real relationship with drugs and curfews and naked bodies and unreturned phone calls would be like.

There was nothing Greg could do that wasn't absolutely perfect. Sometimes I would break a date with him and not return his phone calls just so I could make him mad and hear him scream to me how much he loved me. He loved me a lot. He would scream it from rooftops; outside my house when I was grounded; on the family answering machine so everyone in my family could hear it.

He loved me so much that when I finally got the courage to admit to him that I could not sleep over that night because I had a visit from"Aunt Flo," he was actually relieved. At least I was not falling out of love with him; or worse falling in love with someone else. Besides, it's all part of Mother Nature's plan, right?

So despite my better judgement, and with a lack of understanding what a night at Greg's place would really entail, I preceded to prepare for a sleepover. I left my house that night with stars in my eyes and dreams of a magical night filled with candles and soft music and rose petals. When I returned less than 24 hours later, there were no more delusions of grandeur in my head. Just the all-emcompassing fear that if Greg ever broke up with me I might have to relive that horrific embarrassment all over again with someone new.........

Five-Day Old Pizza and Maxi Pads.....PART 1.....

You know how the plucky heroine always seems gets herself into some cringe-worthy jam and then she has to comeclean and get a bit embarrassed but it doesn't even matter because everyone always ends up liking her more for her honesty?

Why is it never like that in real life? How come dumb Baby can tell hot Patrick Swazye she "carried a watermelon" and STILL end up with the guy and everyone rooting for her? How come the Shopoholic can fully plan and pay for two lavish weddings in separate countries and then is just given a playful shove when she admits to her financier fiance that she just wasted like$50,000 and 100 of hours of time planning impractical weddings?

Real Diasters are never that cute and are never resolved tidily. Real disasters involve PAIN, HUMILIATION, and LIFE-THREATENING EMBARASSMENT.

Real disasters involve missteps and drunken decisions and flared tempers and, sometimes, sometimes, if you are really and truly unlucky in love and life, sometimes they involve five-day old pizza and maxi pads....

Music is like sooooo....totally awesome!

Sometimes I forget how much music means to mean. Like I am not a musician by any standards although I can throw down a little Stevie Nicks on Karaoke like nobody's business; and I can create a killer playlist or Mix CD and dance like a mofo; but I'm not like aspiring to be in the music business by any means. So why does it stir so many feelings inside of me? How can certain songs get me more amped or more depressed that real situations in life?

This morning I was super tired but just couldn't fall asleep, so I just sat in my big cozy bed and listened to music. Just sat and listened. for hours. It was great. And when I tried to explain to someone how relaxing and euphoric it was, he just didn't get it. On Friday we went to an intimate concert although he said he enjoyed it, i get the feeling.....eh....not so much.

For me music is an unparalleled connection. It's not my livelihood but I definitely could not live without it. At my last job, I used to listen to it so quietly that it was almost like listening to poetic whispering all day long. It helps me concentrate, helps me relax, makes me happy and makesme sad.

It all sounds so trite. I mean there are a million people out there who are all like "Music is my Life, man!" and I would probably laugh and roll my eyes at them with the rest of the too-cool musical elite, but it's true.

It's great to be able to create anything and all art is subjective but music is something bigger than a beauutiful painting or a well-written novel or a superbly-acted movie: music unites people more than any other medium. Look at concerts like Live Aid or Live Earth, charity painting, books or plays rarely succeed as well as charity concerts.

That's not to say there aren't millions of problems with music today, particularly mainstream pop drivel, radio airplay and the music industry as a whole: but at the heart of it, in it's purest, genenist state, music is about connection and relating to universal experiences, and sometimes that is the greatest thing to do on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

High School Musical: Too Old for This Edition

So, okay, I'll admit it. Sometimes I slip back into the drunk drama and drunk dialing chapter of my life that really should have been put to bed when I was like 21.
It's a hrad habit to break. Especially when a relationship is new, and plans are being made and flirting is happening and drinks are flowing and text messaging and answering machines are sitting there waiting for you to record your embarassment at the beep.
It's not really a habit that has caused me too much grief. Yes it's embarassing. But so are a lot of things that happen. So be it.
Until now. I am hereby putting a moritorium on drunk dialing the "new guy" until like at least 3 months in, if we even last that long. Let's just say he was a little unimpressed and asked me like 4 times how old i really was. And hasn't returned my phone calls. And said that he doesn't like banana bread. And didn't come over last night.
Damn you raspberry-flavoured vodka and easy to use when I'm drunk, cell phone!
DAMN YOU!

How long is too long?

Time is tricky. Sometimes you call someone and you have nothing to say. But you call because you love them and it's time to call. Sometimes you call someone and you can't even get into it; you have too much to say: it's been too long. That person is no longer privy to all the fun little anecdotes you flavour all your relationships with. It takes too much effort. The petty small talk that must happen before you get to all the juicy bits. The what'd you do last nights and the what'd you have for lunches that you must endure before you can make the announcements and start all the fun girly laughing and dissecting that makes conversations so fun.

Sometimes I wish i could just leave messages and set the scene and let the information be heard and we could laugh and gossip in our time about what had transpired. Or that I didn't have to say hello and how are you before I get to hear the latest gossip or spread the news I'm bursting to deliver.

Politeness is so overrated. Already the telephone plays second fiddle to email when it comes to making plans. Now I've started to receive (and I'll admit I begrudgingly partake in this activity sometimes as well, It is so DAMN convenient!) in the thinking of you e-cards and sweet I miss you text messages. If you were really thinking of someone, wouldn't you set aside time to go see them or at least call them.

Imagine if someone came and knocked at your door just to say they were thinking of you and wanted to see what was up. That would be weird. It's nice, I guess, but for the most part annoying and weird and awkward. Then you would have to let them in, feed them, excetra excetra.

Sometimes, I wish, I could just let people read my brain. Not all the time, mind you, I think that would be really uncomfortable for my hairdresser and other randoms, friends and family members that I come in contact with on a daily basis. But just sometimes, when you wanted them to. So you wouldn't just be saying I'm thinking of you, you would actually be doing it and have proof!!!

That would be cool.