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....

Hello, LOVER.......

You are my new favorite. Forget all the others. They never meant anything to me compared to you. You are sleek and small and fast and everything anyone could want. So you're not hot pink. That's okay. Silver is just as nice and prolly a little more grown-up.


Which is prolly something I should try to be. Grown up. Not blowing my paycheque on my lunch hour and buying toys.

But WHATEVER!!! you are sooo hot!

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!

We're All Misunderstood......

Let me preface this entry with, I know. I know I think too much about random things that most people just gloss over. So be it.

Working at a university, you get a real sense of searching. Everyone is looking for that chance, that opportunity to define themselves or to meet that person that makes everything all of a sudden make sense.

Well, I posit that nothing ever makes sense completely. As much as we all look for something to join , someone to connect with we are all ultimately alon ein our feelings and no one will completely understand them ever; probably not even you.

Take for example when something happens to you and someone else. Something that connects you forever and binds you together over a shared, intimate experience. Even though you feel close and feel connected you are not really. YOur feeling are yours alone and no matter how eloquent or how chatty you may be you will never be able to fully comvey everything you mean to anyone.

Every truth you share is filtered by the listeners' experiences and the listeners' preconceived notions on what you should be sharing.

Have you ever been in that situation where you feel like you are saying you want somespace and the listener hears that you want to move in together?

Truth is a relative term and something that can never be fully shared.

OMG! H&M!

Sometimes you get into this zone, right? Where you are like this carniverous beast that can not Satiate its hunger. Like you just want more and more and more. You devour everything in site. Everything you see looks good enough to eat: that coffee in your neighbour's hand; that shriveled apple that has been on the kitchen counter for weeks; that small child running aimlessly dressed up like a big poofy ball of cotton candy.
That's how I felt at H&M on Saturday: except I wasn't hungry for food, I was hungry for jeans, shoes, bags, sweaters, tees and tanks. All weekend I would see someone walking down the street and i would think I wonder where they bought that shirt? I wonder if they have shoes like that at H&M? I wonder if she would sell me her bag if I gave her $20 cash?
I still feel it. I want more. I want everything in two colours and all variations. I thought I would feel a bit glutonous after the mega spree but I don't.
Well, I did for a bit on Sunday but then I went to the Art Gallery and diluted myself into believing I am really not that superficial if I can spend 3 hours in an Art Gallery on a perfectly shop-worthy day.
I still want more. I want to go back again, and again and again.
Maybe it's a good thing there is no H&M here, yet. I need to bring myself back down from this high. I need to curb my appetite for clothes before I end up furtehr into the poorhouse.
And i will.

Starting tomorrow. Right now, eBay and shopkitson.com are calling me!