Guess who's back, back again. Ya, I'm back, tell a friend.

Hi, blog. Long time, no see. For everybody's sake (I'm assuming everybody else has a life and doesn't want to read for the rest of time...I don't speak for myself.) we're going to start fresh. Clean slate. Blank canvas. You know, we'll bypass some major life events like:

• I QUIT STARBUCKS. I know. I didn't think it was ever going to happen. But as I sunk into a deeper and deeper depression about how much my life was failing, my cards just all of a sudden started falling into place. Don't get me wrong, I ADORED my job at the 'Bucks, but it was never what I wanted to do forever, and it was wearing me down, and I was becoming someone I didn't particularly enjoy. So, in staying true to who I really was, I sat back and expected something to come to me. And it did. It may have taken about six years longer than if I had pursued something myself, but that's not the point. My little, baby sister (well, one of them) got preggers. Again. And while she got to be responsible for another little life, I got her job. Yay! I was a nervous wreck. I still am. I'm stepping so far out of my comfort zone that I can't even see it anymore. I'm going to be dealing with people that don't know me, don't trust me, and probably don't really even like me, as opposed to dealing with people that loved me (and I only know this because of the OUTPOUR of love on my last day at Starbucks, from customers and fellow co-workers. It was truly overwhelming). So maybe this means I'm growing up. #iwouldrathernot

• I GOT A NEW CAR. I might have the best grandparents in the universe. Okay, I DO have the best grandparents in the universe. And this is not me being biased, it's actual fact. My old car, while continuing to be faithful to me, and getting me where I needed to go, was making me nervous. But, not only could I not afford a new car, I didn't really need a new car, because mine was, in reality, doing just fine. So you could imagine my surprise when I thought the whole fam jam was taking a road trip to surprise my grandpa (let's call him 'Papa', like I have my entire life. Why do I need to be someone I'm not?) for his 70th birthday, and when we all got there it turns out my sisters and I were the ones who were the most surprised. I was so surprised that I lost complete control of what I was doing (read: sitting, what else?), and just stood up and started crying. Uncontrollable, hyperventilating, ugly crying. Don't care. It's another story for another day how wrong I was when I thought it was my old car that was jinxed...spoiler alert: it might be me.

• I GOT MARRIED. I saved the best for last. Do you remember my newfound kindred spirit? He's now my husband. See? I'm not crazy when I say I loved him from the start!** Because I think I actually did. #eerie He has blessed my life in innumerable ways. He has taught me innumerable lessons. He makes it certain that to him, I'm the best and most important thing. And even though I've always thought that about myself, it's nice to know that that's what someone actually thinks about you. Okay, okay, enough mushiness. I'm even annoyed with myself.

So those are just a few of the major life events that have happened since the last time we spoke (typed?). Husband has begged me to start blogging again, so I guess I will. I missed it, and I read about a million blogs everyday, so I guess it makes sense. I just need to figure out how to upload pictures from my phone to my computer to this blog. A little technically challenged (read: impatient), but once I do figure it out you'll feel as though you live my life with me, which basically means through food, sparkles, and knobs (another story for another day...man, I have so much catching up to do...).

Now I'm going to spend the rest of the day watching Dexter and looking at recipes I wish I had the motivation to make. They'll make me hungry hangry, and Husband will come home to me whining about how hungry I am, while I'm still in my pajamas, after he's worked all day, and I'll insist we have no food, which really means we only have two eggs when I need three to make the cake I've been dying to make for approximately three months, so it's basically the end of the world. That's not an exaggeration of this afternoon's events. I'm a joy to live with.

**And I'm still crazy.

Being very productive and being very unproductive in the same day makes for the perfect balance.

I love those days when you do absolutely nothing, yet feel like you accomplished so much. Today was one of those days for me. There was a showing on the house today, so I had to be up earlier than I would have liked. And when I say I "had to be up", I really mean I didn't want strangers creeping around while I enjoyed what I deemed to be the most comfortable sleep of my life. I deem every sleep that I'm forced to awake from the "most comfortable sleep of my life". It's just the way my sleeps work. I walked into the kitchen and saw the non-perishable bags of Trader Joe's groceries that I left there from the night before since I was in the biggest rush last night to drop off my purchases, change into stretchy pants, and flee to watch one of my all-time favorite movies at one of my all-time favorite people's house. As I begin putting away my groceries I come up with the fabulous idea to organize the freezer...

I take everything out and put it on the counter. Why isn't anything frozen solid? Oh, that's because the freezer was so JAM-PACKED with food that nothing was ventilated and therefore nothing was able to freeze. NO BIG DEAL. Partially defrosted chicken is the best anyway. When did I buy a 4L tub of ice cream? Oh, that was when I MOVED IN. Gross. And chicken wings? I haven't made chicken wings in, well, almost a year. Gross. What are these green cubes in zip-loc bags? Oh right, my failed attempt at cilantro pesto. Gross. Needless to say, after I was finished with the thing it was clean, organized, and ventilated. My 14 individually packed bags of edamame beans are now easily accessible, I discovered I have enough frozen fruit to feed a small country, and I found a hidden pack of BACON! That was the BEST surprise.

After hunks of ice have fallen onto the kitchen floor and melted everywhere, I decided to mop the floor. Not just the kitchen floor, but the entire household's floors. And I did it wrong. I cornered myself so I had NO access to my bagel and was unable to get my Lipstick Jungle DVD's from my bedroom. So there might be footprints across the living room, but they're clean. As I'm mopping the bathroom floor I decide to clean the toilet. Again. I discovered the coolest toilet cleaner ever. It's foamy, it sprays on purple and turns white when it's clean, and it smells amazing [for toilet cleaner]. I'm now obsessed with cleaning the toilet. Is it weird I wish it got dirty more frequently? Or maybe it's more sane to wish I could use this cleaner for other things. Like everything.

So now my freezer is clean and organized, my bathroom's clean, and my floors are clean, and now dry, so I have access to my bagel. That I ate with pumpkin cream cheese. Best decision.

That was the productive part of my day. The next few hours consisted of lounging on the couch, eating frozen Hostess cupcakes, and watching countless episodes of Lipstick Jungle. The only thing better than eight dollar box sets is five dollar box sets.

When one door closes, another one opens.

How exactly is it September already? How come we didn’t get a summer this year? How is it that I only got to wear my summer wardrobe (and by ‘summer wardrobe’ I mean my one pair of jean shorts and one slash two of the 1000 tank tops I own) approximately four times, but had to wear a hoody every other day of the past three months? And how is it that I’m NOT returning to school this week?! THAT is the weirdest of them all.

For the past, oh I don’t know, 23 years, I’ve spent the last week of August/first few days of September preparing for a school year of some sort. From back-to-school clothes shopping to school supplies shopping (is it weird I enjoyed this more than back-to-school clothes shopping?) to getting back in the habit of going to bed at a normal time so I could get up at 7:55 am every morning (in the past few years 7:55 am has become sleeping in for me. It could be aging, but it’s probably more due to the fact that my job requires me to begin at 4 am…so I’m up at 3:15 am…and I enjoy this?). Now, this year, I’ve spent the last week of August/first few days of September living a normal, adult life consisting of working eight hours a day, five days a week. Not buying my textbooks, not putting lined paper in empty binders, not packing my school bag 10 days in advance, and not planning the first six outfits of the school year. It’s completely foreign to me.

I’ve always told people “I can’t wait to be finished school”. I think that was a lie. I miss it.

Remember all the plans I had for this summer? A new car, trips to see K, abundant amounts of time spent with BFF drinking pepperoni caesars…well a few variations of that list actually did happen. I got a new rear window on my car, I saw K when she came to Vancouver, and I spent a good chunk of time with BFF until my bank account retaliated and no longer wanted me to consume anymore pepperoni caesars. That’s fine. I got my revenge by frequenting Trader Joe’s multiple times a week. I went from getting substantial amounts of groceries every time I went, to not being able to find anything to get because I went so often. It was a sign to bring it down a notch.

Now I’m going to force myself to be ready to move forward and get excited for fall. It does mean that I get to wear boots and scarves and sweaters (except I’ve actually been wearing sweaters all “summer”, so that one doesn’t really count). I get to sleep in pajamas with all my blankets wrapped around me like a cocoon. I get to go for brisk walks with a hot drink as opposed to sweating after four steps on my way to get a cold drink.

This fall, however, will be missing somebody along with missing school. OverSharer is taking off to Greece for three months. She claims it’s for educational purposes, I claim it’s to eat food and sit in the sun. WHY ELSE WOULD SHE NEED SUNSCREEN? Over the past few months her and I have become close.  We bonded over work gossip, her oversharing stories, food, and, well, more food. Everything to do with food. Buying it, cooking it, eating it, ordering it, looking at it, smelling it, everything. There isn’t anybody else that understands my food obsession passion like her. She gets it when I describe my dinner and get more excited than me a five year old at Christmas. She gets it when I’ve created a new snack and I squeal like a five year old at DisneyLand. But most importantly, she gets it when I convince her to try it and she gets as excited and squealy as me. True.Friendship.

Work will be less interesting without her stories. I’ll just say "it describes my symptoms ONE HUNDRED PERCENT, I totes have it", and leave it at that. Except I’ll also add "looks the same going in as coming out", and know that she won’t care because I was the one that wanted to witness it. I don’t anymore.

So now she’s gone, but she has an international text messaging plan, THANK THE STARS ABOVE, so she won’t be completely out of the loop. She's really not missing much by not being here anyway. Well, she is missing out on having the privilege of knowing my newfound kindred spirit. You know when you meet someone and you just know you two will be friends and get along like peas and carrots? Like steak and potatoes? Like milk and cereal? (I think you get it.) Well that was our first encounter. I loved him from the start. (He might be scared.) And you know how I'm obsessed with basically everything I like? Well let's just say people are included. 

But don't worry, I've already told him I'm not obsessed in an I'm-going-to-stalk-and-kill-you kind of way. Just in an I'm-going-to-stalk-you kind of way. And he's okay with it. At least he better be. Kindred spirits are always okay with each other's decisions.

Fixing a heart problem requires drinking more water.

I went back and forth about whether or not sharing a certain story was too up close and personal for this blog. I’ve decided to do it.

A few weeks ago I went to the doctor because I was experiencing some freaky dizziness that wasn’t okay. I obviously self-diagnosed myself and decided I had an inner ear problem that was causing this dizziness. I told people I had vertigo because when you Google the symptoms of a condition and you have two of those eight symptoms, you clearly have that condition (*you don’t have narcolepsy, OverSharer). It turns out my doctor thought it was a heart problem, not an inner ear problem. Umm, ok…

He wanted me to wear a holter monitor for 24 hours. For those of you who don’t know what a holter monitor is, Google an image of one. When your laughter subsides, continue reading. But people get holter monitors put on all.the.time, so I was like whatevs. However, Doc wanted me to wear it while I was working and drinking “excessive amounts of coffee”. I didn’t necessarily want my customers to think I was dying by having this contraption hooked up to me, and dying they would think since the sticky pads were the size of my hand and the top one was stuck to my chest, way above where my shirt was. Very, clearly visible. So I turtlenecked it to hide them and worked my shift, drinking “excessive amounts of coffee”. I also kept a “log” of activity and symptoms during this time. Go to washroom…no symptoms. Sitting down…dizzy. Lifting multiple milk jugs…mild dizziness. Sleeping…unsure?

I took the term excessive seriously. A beyond normal excessive amount of coffee was drunk, and I still, today, can’t have iced coffee. And iced coffee was my FAVORITE. I worked it out and over the course of the 24 hours I drank the equivalent of probably about 14 cups of coffee. Maybe that’s normal for others, but for me that’s ex.ces.sive.

Two weeks later Doc calls me and wants me to make an appointment. Well, I’ve worked in a doctor’s office, and I know they only call when it’s bad news bears. Great. Doc’s exact words at the appointment:

“Well, it’s not good.”

Alright…

“I want to do further testing.”

Okay…

“A 24-hour urine test.”

HAHAHA! Of COURSE he wants another 24-hour test. And of COURSE it has to involve urine. For those of you who don’t know what this test entails, well, let’s just say I pee into a jug over a 24-hour period. That’s classy. I’m classy.

Doc tells me he wants to rule out *insert big, giant medical word here*. Then tells me to Google it to read up on it. Well a) if you’re ruling it out, why do I need to know about it? Shouldn’t I read up on it if it’s something I actually have? And b) why are you telling me to Google it?! He, of all people, should know what a neurotic hypochondriac I am! So, of course, I Google it.  Doctor’s orders.

“A rare adrenal gland tumor”.

Perfect. *calls Momma in tears*

Momma’s advice: drink more water.

What?

My interpretation of this advice through hysterics: drink multiple cups of water throughout the next three days.

I am now beginning to despise water. Unfortunate, since we used to be very close friends, water and I.

Upon further conversing, Momma is convinced it really is a heart problem (not my self-diagnosed burst eardrum that has been causing my dizziness and will inevitably cause permanent deafness), and that I’m fine. Last time I checked a heart was pretty important, but I trust everything most things she says, so I guess I’m fine?*

So I’ll keep y’all posted on my little situation. But let’s all be honest here; nothing ever just comes easy to me, so this little situation will be resolved a long time from now. I’ve already prepared myself for this. In the meantime, if you see someone carrying a jug around that’s partially filled with a liquid, that’s me. And it’s not apple juice.

*I know I actually probably am fine. But only my 24-hour urine test will tell.

Would I be more devastated if my car was stolen or my tanning lotion?

As I was getting ready today I thought about this blog. I thought about how I've continued to neglect it, despite my promises to do so no longer. I thought about how tonight I was going to have access to internet and probably not have much to do*, so I should make an attempt to visit this blog. Then I thought about what I would post about. While all this thinking was happening, I didn't mean for it to be a reason for something so unexpected, annoying, expensive, yet completely "blog-worthy" to happen. But just wait a second...this is MY life we're talking about. What happened is the reason I started this blog in the first place. A log, if you will, of events that make me raise my eyebrows, sigh, laugh it off, and move forward.

Maybe my car isn't meant to contain any glass? Maybe there should be shatterproof glass that cars are made with? And if there already is, maybe I should have been notified of this and ensured that all the glass that my car is comprised of has it. Or, maybe people should raise their children to not be so irresponsible and inconsiderate so they don't think that chucking things off an overpass bridge onto the cars below, causing shattered windows, is the best thing they could come up with to do on a Saturday afternoon.

I was confused as to how something could hit my rear window while I was driving on the highway. Perhaps something flew over my car, and landed on it, causing it to shatter, crackle, and eventually cave in, leaving shards of glass all over the backseat? No, no, apparently standing on an overpass and throwing heavy objects down onto the cars below is actually something that people do. WHAT IS WRONG WITH THESE PEOPLE?! Why is this okay? And why are these people getting away with this? No, I didn't call the police. Until I actually got to my destination I didn't think this is what happened, because I didn't think people did this. I'm way too trusting of people. My sister's neighbor tells me he used to do this when he was younger. Thanks for sharing? It made me feel better, that's for sure.

I back my car into one of the parking stalls so the gaping hole in my window is facing a fence with bushes, and not the street where it would be an invitation to take whatever you want out of the car. I put my club on the steering wheel, JUST IN CASE, gather everything of value (read: my iPod, insurance papers, and tanning lotion), and take it with me into the house. And then I wonder what exactly I'm going to do for the next 48 hours.

I now have a car that I feel I shouldn't drive anywhere, only because I don't feel like shielding my face from the chunks of glass that would be flying everywhere while the car's moving. I'm not anywhere near home. There aren't any glass repair shops open on the weekends (I guess these things only happen Monday-Friday, 9 am-5 pm). And I work at 5 am on Monday morning. Umm, ok...ohhhhh, I see, this is one of those tests where I need to think outside the box...well, this happened six hours ago and I still don't really have any ideas.

When it happened I raised my eyebrows. Then I saw the damage and sighed because I shouldn't be surprised. Then I shut my car door, more glass fell in, and I laughed because I remembered who I am. Then I thought about the so-much-worse things that are surely happening to other people and moved forward. This sucks, and it's the most inconvenient thing that could happen, but it could have been so much worse. And so much worse things are happening right now to other people, so I'm not really justified in crying over my spilled milk. However, if you see me hitchiking (I'll be the one with...nothing. I don't even carry a purse anymore), please have mercy. Don't throw rocks at me with expectations of me shattering like my window. Maybe give me a ride? I'm not bad luck, I promise.

Silver lining of this? At least it's not raining.

*This is slightly laughable, since tonight I'm babysitting my two year old nephew.

Eight dollar boxsets are the best way to pass time.

Am I really SO busy that I haven't had time to write a post in over a month? I didn't think so. In fact, looking back, I haven't done anything particularly time-consuming. I want the time back. Oh wait. I've become obsessed with Degrassi Junior High slash High. We probably all know by now that when I decide to do something I go full force. So when I see seasons 1-3 of DJH (ya, I'm cool like that, acronyming [a new word for y'all] the name of the show AND school) for $8 each I buy them, of course. Then I watch them, non-stop, in every spare second of time I have. I track down someone who owns seasons 4 & 5, with the MOVIE included (uhh yes, there IS a movie), and continue to watch it. This is probably partially because I'm completely obsessed with Wheels (the guy I would TOTALLY have the biggest crush on if I were attending DJH) and must watch him as much as possible (I've almost managed to move past the fact that his jeans leave absolutely nothing to the imagination and that he sports a mullet ponytail once he enters high school in season 4), and partially because I cannot walk into Wal-Mart and leave empty-handed. Instead I leave with multiple DVD boxsets. Every. Time. So now I have a billion shows to watch, and it gives me an anxiety attack to think that I could ever begin to watch anything while in the middle of watching something else. Alas, I finish Degrassi, and move on from there.

Except there's that movie. The movie that people are afraid for me to watch because everyone I speak to knows of my current love for Wheels and something must happen involving him in the movie because everyone avoids talking about the movie around me. The movie that may make it so I can't actually watch anything else ever because I'll feel as though it were real-life events, and that I was involved somehow. Always full force, people. How come I've never seen this movie? It might have something to do with the fact that I was 8 years old when it aired on TV, so I may not have understood these wildly outrageous, taboo topics the show deals with. Or it's because I was too busy playing with my 'Precious Places' dollhouses. Does anyone remember those? Because everyone I ask never does. I'm beginning to think that I've made these up my entire life.

Anywho, it's this crazy Degrassi show that has taken up my time. Blame that. I won't mention that as I spent 8 hours making my nephew's birthday cake this weekend I secretly wished I was watching Degrassi instead. Or that I contemplated how I could rearrange the furniture so:

A) I could see the TV from the kitchen, and
B) Roomie wouldn't notice.

Or that I revolved my errands, schoolwork, need for groceries, etc around watching it. Priorities, people. Did I live on IGA deli convenience food and iced coffee for the past however long? Maybe. Does my bank account hate me because I ordered pizza to rush home and eat while watching it because that's what they eat on the show? Maybe. Do I obsessively IMDB and Google random facts about the show and it's characters while I watch it so I can know EVERYTHING there is to know about everything to do with the show? Maybe. Am I completely giving away how cool I am by sharing such secrets? Absolutely. No judging allowed here, friends. Even though you will anyway.

Sidenote: Does anybody want to come with me to Toronto to see Degrassi landmarks? The only requirements are that you patiently deal with my squeals of excitement and hyperventilating when I see the school or the Shoppers Drug Mart from select scenes.

I think the best part of the show...umm, ok, one of the best parts of the show since there's too many to list...is that it's Canadian. So when Michelle's parents split up and her mom moves to Calgary, that's cool. Or when I stalk find out that Yick currently lives in Vancouver, that's cool. I wish it was Wheels that lived in Vancouver, but whatever. Or how about when Wheels gets a postcard in one episode and they leave the address visible and I look it up to see if they use real addresses in the [fictional] show. It turns out they do. Not like 1882 Girard Street in Full House. That's not real. And I KNOW the house Wheels lives in in the show is not his real, current address. D'uh. But when I go to Toronto for my Degrassi landmark hunt I will probably want to take a stroll by that particular address. Only probably. If I have time.

And now that I've made you all think that I'm psychotic beyond just being obsessed, I should probably mention that I'm not. Not psychotic, that is. Obsessed, yes. But we all know my obsessions are never forever. I'll find something new to obsess about soon enough. Then you'll all hear about it for an undetermined amount of time. I hope next time it's something more people can relate to. Degrassi was watched by approximately 13 people, so it's hard to find someone who understands. Kind of like 'Precious Places'.

That reminds me, for all of you people who adore being nostalgic like me, go to www.memoryglands.com. Neither Degrassi OR 'Precious Places' is on the site, BUT it's filled with hundreds of other fun stuff from the 90's. It makes me want to be little again. And feel kind of like I did when I saw sparkle cherry laffy taffy at a gas station yesterday. But I was only allowed to choose one thing, so it was kind of like I was little again. Except I chose a Wunderbar instead.

A diary entry without the hand cramps.

I wonder why it is that every time I go to write a post on this [recently] neglected blog my mind draws a blank. The most annoying part of it is that I have tons to write about. TONS. But I don't want this to be a journal for all to see.


Dear diary...

Because really, I don't actually think any of you really care THAT much about the everyday going on's in my life. Ok, 98% of my readers actually already know the everyday going on's in my life, so they would be bored reading my blog. And I'm not about boredom. Except for today when it's the nicest day we've seen in 17 years, I don't work, and I can't think of anything to do. So I'm doing what I secretly love the most: hanging out at Starbucks, drinking iced coffee, and talking to the people I love the most in the world while they slave away behind the counter and I become the demanding paying customer who steals internet. Except this time I'm sitting on the patio, enjoying the sunshine. In the shade, of course. My body would go into shock if I sat in the sun since it was just two days ago that roomie had the heat on in the house, and I was wearing jeans and a hoody because it was so cold out. I don't understand...


Ok, so update time? Maybe? Ok...

I got my windshield fixed. I was beyond impressed. Not only is my windshield brand, spankin', shiny new, but the place I went to gave me a rental car while they fixed it so I didn't have to hang out at an autobody shop for three hours (as much as I wanted to), they cleaned the outside of my car (no more caked on whipped cream streaks - thanks, MojitoMate (<-- do you like this name? We can work on it if not.)), they cleaned the inside and neatly piled up the stuff they found scattered throughout (ie: socks, a screwdriver, two pillows, a serving tray, a box of cereal, and approximately 46 tampons - but those were piled neatly on the passenger seat...and where were all of those when I was frantically looking for one? ANYWAY...), and they even shampooed the interior! Now I drive a good four meters away from any vehicle because I'm scared a rock is going to come flying at me and crack my pretty windshield. Feel free to pass me, I won't be offended. Just wave as you do, so I feel loved.

You know how I might be obsessed with bacon? Well I've started incorporating it into everything I make. And by everything I mean, well, everything. I began with bacon chocolate chip cookies. It was risky and adventurous and pretty much a hit.

Ego is boosted.

Feel like I can do something crazier.

Caramel and bacon would be superb together.

Caramel bacon bars it is.

I've made two batches in less than a week. However, I'm happy and proud to say that I did not eat both batches all to myself. I shared. I hope all of you that ate some ignored my glares as I painfully watched you consume the bacon that would normally all be eaten by me, without sharing. I'm a giver. Sometimes. I kept getting told they were delicious. I'll assume those weren't pity compliments. And it's your own fault for pity complimenting me, if that was the case, when more bars were shoved down your throat because I thought that's what you wanted. DON'T LIE TO ME NEXT TIME.

Side note: why is my Starbucks out of classic syrup? I've decided coconut is not a substitute for classic in my iced coffee. It might be worth the dollar to go next door and get iced coffee from McDonalds. It was there that my love for it was discovered. I'll let you know what happens in this suspenseful saga of my life, don't worry.

Let's rewind just over a year ago to when the Olympics were in Vancouver. I was an Olympic bandwagon jumper. I hated that they were here. I thought it was inconvenient and a hassle for anybody that lived on the "other side" of the bridge, aka me. Traffic was crazy. People were crazy. The entire world was here. There wasn't enough room. Vancouver made a fool of themselves by not having all the construction, etc. done that they planned for when the Olympics were to be here. But, K was coming into town, and I might have missed her a little bit, so downtown I went. And it was amazing. The atmosphere was insane. I was proud to be from Vancouver (Vancouver, Chilliwack, Abbotsford, it's all the same. At that particular time I don't actually think I really had a home, but that's another story for another day.).

So this whole Canucks thing feels a little bit the same. I legitimately feel excited that they've made it this far in the finals. And seeing everyone so excited makes me pretty excited. But the excitement here in the Valley is nothing compared to that in the city. So I decided I wanted to experience the excitement of at least ONE of the final games in Vancouver. Hi, BFF. Next weekend I will be sporting my Canucks tee, cheering them on in front of some sort of big screen on some street that is closed off for all of us fans (bandwagon jumpers or not), and experiencing the excitement. All I have to say to you Canucks is please win. It will be game 5. Ideally, you should make it so it's 3-1 game win by then, and then win game 5, so you win the cup. I would like to be in Vancouver for that. I get goosebumps thinking about it. I hate that I have emotion invested in this. That's not who I am.

Now I'm going to spend the rest of my afternoon stealing songs with my stolen internet. Maybe Facebook-stalk a little bit. Maybe peruse Craigslist for things I don't need and then contemplate how I could fit a bookshelf in my car. Maybe take an afternoon snooze in the sun because I woke up this morning in my clothes from yesterday (oops), so we can all guess how my sleep last night was. Stop judging, at least I woke up wearing clothes.

Constable Douche serves and protects.

Remember the story of my rearview mirror falling off? I remember writing that post and thinking about other fun memories of me terrorizing my car that I could tell you guys. Like when I drove into a house. Or when my tires exploded on the highway. But instead, this one came to mind, and became very relevant after yesterday:

It was about three years ago, and I had just finished a long closing shift at Starbucks. I get into my car, not being able to wait to crawl into bed, only to have to get up 43 minutes later to come back to work (and I wonder why I have bags under my eyes 24/7...). I start my car, put it into reverse, turn the wheel as I back out of my stall, and *CRACK*, my windshield now has a nice spiderweb, veiny crack in it. I may or may not have forgotten to take my club off my steering wheel. Oops. I didn't even care. All I wanted was bedrightthisverysecond.

As the past three years have passed the crack has only gotten longer, wider, taller, bigger. It sometimes is in my line of vision, but not enough for me to worry about me being a hazard to anyone on the road because I can't see anything. Except the one time the sun hit the crack at the exact spot where I was momentarily blinded and couldn't see anything in front of me (or, for that matter, anywhere in my vicinity because all I saw was spots for a good 10 minutes after). It's the same as driving when my windows are still frosty in the winter because I need to be at work in the next 36 seconds and I know my route well enough that I don't need to be able to see anything while driving. Watch out fellow drivers.

In the past three years I've been told more times than I care to remember to "just pay the deductible" and get the glass fixed. Last time I checked I didn't have a spare $200 laying around to get my windshield fixed. And if I did, please let me tell you it wouldn't be spent on my windshield. I could list tens of thousands of things that I would rather spend $200 on. At the top of my list? Makeup, DVD's, pepperoni caesars, BACON (which I used the last of in the house yesterday making bacon chocolate chip cookies, so I do actually need more). But not a new windshield.

Up until douchey, regular-customer cop pulls me over yesterday. I should have known that Mexican and my witch powers would come into play when we had JUST been talking about how if we got pulled over by a different regular-customer cop that he would let us get away with anything. WHY COULDN'T IT HAVE BEEN HIM THAT PULLED ME OVER? I sometimes hate subconsciously predicting the future.

I'm just driving alongside a cop car, minding my own business, blasting 'Island in the Sun' by Weezer, talking to Mexican about the sushi we're going to eat, when all of a sudden I get the feeling this cop car is out to get me. I wasn't speeding, I didn't have drugs on me, I was wearing my seatbelt, I was abiding by all laws, but I just knew he was thinking of something to pull me over for. So I turn down the next street to lose him. Home free. Or not. I habitually look behind me and HE'S BACK! I'm still not speeding, I still have no drugs on me, I'm still wearing my seatbelt, but he turns his lights on anyway. I obviously burst out laughing, because of course this is happening. My laughter quickly turns to anger as I see what cop steps out of the vehicle. Well lookie here, look who it is...

Fast forward what felt like three hours, being pulled over on the main street in Abbotsford, where I'm sure 27 people that I knew drove past Mexican and I, who probably automatically thought we were criminals (or thought I was speeding because I might do that every once in awhile), and Constable Douche comes back to my window giving me a Notice and Order to have my windshield and burnt out taillight fixed in SEVEN DAYS. Let's keep in mind that this is a Sunday, and tomorrow's a holiday, so I have FIVE DAYS to fork out a $200 deductible AND prove that it's fixed to the police station. Five days and no time. I suppose I could try and find the silver lining of this situation and look at this fix as increasing the "value" of my car for when I have to sell it and get a new one, but right now it's just a giant inconvenience. Why couldn't he have given me 14 days? That would at least give me another pay period where I could pay for it comfortably.

Let me add that knowing my luck, as soon as I get my windshield fixed a giant rock will hit the nice, shiny, brand spankin' new glass and chip OR crack it all over again, and we'll be back to square one. If I have that expectation I won't be disappointed, right?

I brush my teeth with a bottle of Jack.

I'm just trying to gain a bit of self control with my bacon ranch dip before I can write this post. If it makes you feel any better, I'm dipping peas and carrots into it, not just eating it with a spoon, as I'm positive some of you are thinking I'm doing. I heart carrots a lot. Real carrots. Not water-logged baby carrots. I even take the time to peel and cut up real carrots. That's love. Scoops dips into dip. I felt this slight bit of nutrition was necessary after what I ate this past weekend. Note: weekend eats contained zero nutrition.

It all started on Friday when I was baking BFF bubblegum cupcakes. When I bake, well, anything, I'm a batter-eater. Especially cake batter. If any of you know me, cake batter anything is my weakness. Along with bacon, fried foods, and a few more select items that are anything but healthy. Okay, food is my weakness. I try not to generalize. Anywho, my cupcake baking went a little something like a scoop for the cupcake maker, a scoop for my mouth. *Repeat 24-26 times* I cheated and used store bought icing. I haven't mastered the making of icing yet. Mine always turns out too thick, or too thin, or too sweet (I didn't think it was possible), or too buttery, or too something that is NOT perfection. And I'm all about perfection. In most aspects of my life. Parallel parking not included.

After cupcakes are baked I go to FatBurger for dinner. The hour and a half long wait in traffic (I'll spare you the rant on my hatred for semi-truck drivers and the hassle they cause for everyone else on the road when they [more than likely] fall asleep at the wheel and overturn into a ditch) was worth it for my burger and poutine. I'm sure there's a reason it's called "FatBurger". I'm just not sure I know what it is. *shifts eyes around uncomfortably*

Then comes Saturday. Oh, Saturday. How I love thee. How I love thee even more when I know I'm getting mojitos, pepperoni boot caesars, and a Latin burger. And shots of Jack Daniel's. I refuse to think about it, as the relationship between Jack and I is becoming more and more like the relationship between tequila and I. NON-EXISTENT. After mild harassment from BFF about my cupcake carrier (how else am I supposed to transport said cupcakes to Vancouver aside from holding them in my lap? We all know they would be eaten by the time I got there. Cupcake carrier = BFF's BFF. Trust me.), and a parallel parking incident, and a beer (note: still not a fan. I try so hard.), we make our way to HAVANA!!!!!! I LOVE Havana! It provides oh so many memories, and provides the BEST mojitos! Have you ever had a mojito? Does the combo of lime and mint freak you out? But do you like refreshing drinks? Or giant wooden spoons in the pitcher? Don't just order a mojito from anywhere and think that's what a mojito should taste like. That's wrong. Go to Havana. I'll even be okay with you ordering just one mojito. I understand not everybody is an extremist like I, and orders pitchers or two or four of drinks just because they can.

Havana also has a burger called the Latin burger, that, even though the menu has changed since the last time I was there so the burger was different (we all know how well I do with change), is amazing. It has a beef patty, bacon (obviously), and now a turkey sausage patty (it used to be chorizo sausage). Then it has cheese, guacamole, some sort of mayo spread (obviously), and comes with the cutest shoestring fries. It was better with the chorizo, but it's still delicious. I will still order it. Always.

After Havana is Local. Home of the pepperoni boot caesars. The place that holds my heart. Well, except when creepy middle-aged men try to pick up BFF and I. I sometimes wish that people knew exactly what BFF and I are like together as soon as they see us. But only sometimes. The rest of the time I get excited at the thought of our capabilities to shut someone down and make them feel approximately one inch high when we're together. In my defense, when someone starts talking about when they worked for BC TEL (for those of you who don't know, that's Telus before it was Telus - circa 1976, I swear), that's a good indication of their age. Also, when they find out you're from Abbotsford and they ask you if you know where McCallum Road is, that's another pretty good indicator that they're either a) from a time when McCallum  Road was the only road in Abbotsford, or b) from a time when dinosaurs roamed the earth. Plus his eyes bugged out of his head like his eye sockets were too small for his eyeballs. And he wore a pendant that resembled the Superman logo. Did he think he was Superman? My guess is yes. Anyway, after using his "I just got my heart broken" line, and not getting any sympathy from BFF or I, he put on his tie-dye Adidas jacket and mosied on out.

The night did not go until 6:00 am this time. And I did manage to get the fitted sheet on the pull-out couch this time. BFF even wore pajamas this time! I, however, only half wore pajamas. There is nothing wrong with wearing pajama pants and the shirt from the night before. Even when said shirt has pokey flowers along the collar that stabbed me all night. It wasn't worth the effort to change. I plan on going back May 28th. Does that work for you, BFF? My body has become obsessed addicted in need of accustomed to pepperoni soaked in caesar.

Sunday was spent on the couch. I watched two and a bit movies and finished season 3 of Full House. Then got a text from a fellow inadequate-amount-of-human-contact-that-day friend, and we decided human interaction would be good for us, so we met for cookies slash french fries dipped in a Wendy's Frosty. I bet you can't guess which was mine.

Full House and caramel sauce and a fridge full of food makes me a happy camper.

I didn't mention it ever, but for the past, oh I don't know, gazillion days, I've needed to go grocery shopping. Not clothes shopping, or baking accessories shopping, or even DVD shopping (these all took precedence to groceries - since when can I survive without a fridge full of cheese and a cupboard full of cinnamon sugar pita chips?). And I adore grocery shopping. Like, love it a lot. But this time it sounded like a giant chore to me. It could be because since I had put it off so long, the bill would be anything but minuscule, and my bank account would hate me. So I waited more days and subconsciously hoped that I would come home to a fridge full of all the ingredients necessary to make the 17,000 meals I wanted to make (I think I wanted all these meals because I was starving always and kept thinking of things that would be delicious to make, but I didn't possess anything to make any of them). I survived on granola bars, diet root beer, and leftover Easter candy for days. Then felt disgusting and set off with my TWO PAGE grocery list. Oh dear.

A cart was necessary for this grocery shopping trip. I can usually suffice with a basket, but I felt like my arms would fall off from nerve damage if I tried to do this with one. Unfortunately there were quite a few items on my list that were those things that you only have to buy once in awhile because they'll last you forever and they're expensive (ie: chicken, cheese (just kidding, cheese doesn't last awhile in my house. Unless three hours is awhile?), condiments, BACON (only because I can never just buy one pack, I need four)). I kind of felt like I was doing the I-just-moved-into-a-new-place grocery shop. How does one person go through an entire bottle of bacon ranch dressing in such a short amount of time? [I like to dip. Everything.]

I normally go through the self-checkout when I grocery shop because it brings me back to my 6.5 years of working at a grocery store (I'm not sure why I always want to be reminded of that). But not this time with my cartful (is that a word?) of groceries. I leave the store with, and I'm not kidding, NINE BAGS OF GROCERIES. Wtf?! I'm one person! However, my mood swiftly changed from depressed to excited as I neared my house because now I get to choose what I'm going to make. This? or this? I settled on the cake (mostly because I had been meaning to bake it for approximately three weeks but didn't have sour cream in the house and it was too much effort to buy some, but now, somewhere in my nine bags of groceries, I had some), and guacamole. Maybe shrimp tacos. Maybe six litres of salsa. I couldn't decide. Mexican was clearly my theme. I don't think anybody has the time to listen to me go on and on and on about my love for Mexican food. If you've ever spent any amount of time with me, you will know how much I adore it. Mostly because within the first 30 seconds of meeting me you will more than likely become aware of my love for food. Then after about 90 seconds I narrow it down to Mexican. If you don't share the love our conversation will slowly dwindle to nothing. Just kidding. Kind of.

Anyway, I baked the cake. It required homemade caramel sauce. It was to.die.for. I impressed myself. The cake took an hour in the oven. And that was after the fight I had with my blender because it wasn't doing it's job. In the end I won. I always do. Take note. But an hour in the oven? I guess that's three episodes of Full House, but patience is not my strong point. I thought repeatedly opening the oven door to "check" it would make it go faster. Again, patience is not my strong point. Plus, I was toying with missing the heart-to-heart father-daughter chat between Danny Tanner and DJ by going to the kitchen to check it. After an hour it had to cool before I drenched it in caramel sauce. And by drench I mean drizzled what was left after I ate it all while watching Full House and waiting for the cake to finish baking. Moral of the story? The cake was a success. I obviously took it out of the oven a bit too soon because I couldn't wait any longer, so it was doughy still, which is my FAVE. Come to think of it, I should have brought it all some to work today. To eat in front of all the people working out at the gym.

Unfortunately between baking the cake that took the most amount of time ever, and prepping my weekly lunch contents, I ran out of time to actually make a meal, so tonight I think I'll make my salsa and shrimp tacos. This time I bought the big taco shells so I can still have six, but they will contain mucho (Spanish reference anyone?) more stuff inside. I'm hoping when I make enough to feed a small family because I anticipate bringing them for lunch the next day, I will end up with enough to bring for lunch the next day. Let's be honest, it's not likely.

There's nothing hilarious about this weather.

Remember a few months ago when I was obsessed with this blog? My few and far between posts may not have given that impression, but I talked about it all the time. To one person. You know who you are. My lack of internet proves a hindrance to blogging 24/7, so I used to microblog on my phone with random ideas of something to write about for my next post, the next time I was around an internet connection (aka work). But then that slowly dwindled away due to obsessions of other things, like sleep. Now it's come to the point of me sitting, staring at a computer screen willing an idea to come to me. And that led to me being depressed about the lack of excitement in my life. I could go on and on and on about work (boring), or my obsession with food (not interesting to those NOT possessing a similar obsession), or I could find numerous things to complain about (which, trust me, is annoying, then no one would read my blog and that would depress me more than not having anything to write about). So, in light of this tremendously gorgeous weather we're experiencing here in the Fraser Valley, I'm going to talk about summer!

I'm stoked for the summer. Well, assuming we actually get weather that resembles something to do with summer. I'm no longer interested in this rain slash cold slash wrecking-of-my-hair weather. Currently at work (between both jobs) I have a set schedule, which makes planning a whole lot easier in terms of weekends away and drinking of pepperoni caesars. I've made a pretty decent impact on my new car fund, which makes driving to other country's to see fellow Contiki friends a whole lot easier (next month, K, next month). Roomie and I are 98% seriously considering a trip to Vegas because it doesn't make sense not to go because it costs like, $30. In saying this, I hope I return safely, with no criminal charges because I'm afraid of roomie's capabilities when it comes to legalized drinking in the streets with $1 margaritas in hand. Just in case, one of you guys will bail me out of jail though, right? And lastly, since apparently everyone I know has never been to Penticton, and since I've recently developed an obsession with the place, I feel as though weekend trips there are completely necessary, even if for attempts to make other people obsessed like I am.

Now I just need my tattoo to heal so I can start tanning again without fear of it fading to nothingnness, then I'll look like I belong in Penticton (nobody likes a pasty, white visitor from the west coast). And I need it to stop raining so I can start running outside again (running in a gym is bor-ing) and be physically prepared to walk around Vegas in July in 57 degree weather. And I need my money tree to start sprouting so I can purchase my new vehicle and actually do all of these rad summer 2011 plans. For now I suppose I'll continue sitting at my desk, sipping my iced coffee, and anticipate the day when I don't need the heater under my chair and don't have to wear 36 layers of clothing to stay warm.

I still have it.

This past weekend I challenged my youth. I won. You see, I normally get an average of 5-6 hours of sleep a night. So when I got 12 hours of sleep on Friday night, I was ready. to. party. on Saturday night. And party I did. I consistently drank for 12 hours, closed down a bar, and continued until the sun came up. And not until the sun was peeking to what we would call dawn, but until the sun was so bright it didn't make sense to go to bed at all. Oh hi there, 6:00 am. BFF and I got to the bar early to get a table to watch the game. Drinks begin at 5:30 pm. I order a mojito that I was convinced was made with tequila. Tequila and I are not friends. In any sense of the word. Then I saw a caesar that came in a BOOT. With PEPPERONI. Umm, yes please. The caesar was deliciously spicy, it had sour cream in it (sounds strange, but was NOT. AT. ALL.), and the pepperoni was soaked in caesar, which is now how I will probably have to forever after eat my pepperoni. Thanks, Local (the bar we were at). The following caesar's were requested to have 3 sticks of pepperoni instead of the pepperoni, spicy bean, olive combo. And 3 sticks of pepperoni I got.

The game was slow, as I'm sure every one of you knows. And it was long. Two OT's? I was over it. Then we lost. Not okay. Time to change tables. To a booth. Let's just say that sitting in a booth when you're not the one on the end is a bad idea when drinking. I heard the words "I need to get out" and "can I get out?" and "excuse me" more than I wanted. Our party slowly dwindled to enough people that we could move tables. Again.

Oh hi there, New Zealanders. You're pretty. Fast forward two more hours, some more drinks, a game of musical chairs, and a snap show at the creepy Spaniard, the lights come on and we move the party onward continue to sit at our table. "Can we order food?" Uhh, no, the bar is closed. No food will be had.

We all end up back at BFF's apartment (approximately 3 steps away from said bar), to drink beer/wine, snort salt (well, one of us did. Not me.), draw whiskers with eyeshadow on those that pass out, download random apps on phones, close curtains because we are in denial of the rising sun, and then go to bed still in our clothes because it's 6:00 am.

Now, to be fair, I ended up getting my usual 5 hours of sleep, but I woke up soooooooooo tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiired. BFF comes out of her room still in her dress. We're both probably still drunk. When did this couch get pulled out into a bed? Where did this mostcomfortableduvetintheworld come from? Why am I sleeping on a bare mattress when there's a fitted sheet sitting on the table beside me? So many unanswered questions. Moral of the story? I may or may not be spending a significant amount of time at BFF's this summer.

If you're going to Penticton, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair.

I suppose I should update you all on how my absolutelyfantasticIneedtoleaverightaway vacation went. It. Was. Awesome. In a nutshell, I'm moving back. Not tomorrow. Not next month. Probably not even the month after that. But I am doing it. I may or may not have even started perusing ads for places to rent when I do move there [not tomorrow]. I packed completely inappropriately because since there was still frost on my car every morning here, I assumed it would be just as chilly there. I was wrong. It was too warm to wear any of the 65 hoodies I brought, so I wore my Lulu capris all weekend. Except Sunday I fancied it up for Easter dinner with 20 distant relatives by wearing jeggings. Stretchy fabric is the way to go. Always.

I also may have decided over the weekend that my next vehicle is going to be an SUV. Not an obnoxious one. A cute, girly Honda CRV like my momma's. I got used to driving it everywhere anybody needed to go (including home) because the kind policeman reminded momma that her license expired three days prior on her birthday (even though she claimed to have changed her birthday this year to June because she wasn't feeling up to celebrating at the time of her actual birthday). I also learned that backseat drivers make me want to kill anything that crosses my path. Even momma. Here's a snippet of a conversation had approximately 15 minutes into driving home:

Momma: You're going too fast.
Me: slows down.
Momma: The guy behind you wants to pass you.
Me: I know, but there's someone beside me.
Momma: Don't pass yet, there's someone beside you.
Me: inhales, counts to ten.
Momma: Okay, you can move over now.
Me: moves over.
Momma: Slow down to 120.
Me: slows down to 120.
Momma: This is the perfect speed. Keep going this speed.
Me: MOM! DO NOT DO THIS THE ENTIRE WAY HOME! I WILL PULL OVER AND WE WILL WAIT UNTIL A LICENSE IS AIR-DELIVERED TO YOU VIA BIRDS IF YOU KEEP IT UP!
Momma: Well I just get nervous when I'm not the one driving.

She wanted her license to be renewed so badly that she made me drive by the access centre when we got home just in case it was open on Easter Monday. It wasn't. I was right. It's not important.

So her car was so fantastic to drive I told her I'd like to buy it, since she spent the drive home analyzing every truck we saw because she's decided she wants a truck now. She didn't say 'no', so let's assume that means 'yes'. I've learned a lot of assumption lessons, so maybe let's not do that. But I feel like that's what I want my next vehicle to be.

Anyway, back to my trip. I got to cook a lot and play a lot of games and blow a lot of bubbles with nephew (and by blow a lot of bubbles I mean get bubble solution in my hair because it was windy in every direction so blowing bubbles was probably not the most ideal activity) and got to cling to g-pa, just as planned. We had a pretty solid heart-to-heart one night, which is really all I wanted out of the trip. The nice weather and living-in-luon was a bonus. I actually always live in luon, so that was normal, they just got to be shorter pants because it was warm, that was the bonus.

There was a photo shoot with the family. I'm curious to see how those turned out.

There was a lot of whining done by nephew. Good thing he's cute.

There were Easter gifts. I now feel pressure to make endless amounts of cupcakes.

There was arguing and laughing and competitiveness. No one in my family should be allowed to play games.

It was a very quick three days, but it was also a very quick drive to get there. So I predict I will be spending a significant more amount of time there. I should get used to the city I plan on living in anyway. It only makes sense.

All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go.

My life has come to the point where having 4 days off in a row is a vacation. I feel like I'm taking off to somewhere tropical and relaxing, that's how excited I am to have this time off. In actuality I only have one extra day off in addition to what I normally get off every week, but this week I'm leaving Abbotsford for my days off! I'm already packed and I don't leave until tomorrow afternoon. But I don't care. My packed bags by the front door are not a fire hazard because roomie's small so she can fit around them. It may or may not look like I'm actually leaving for 10 days based on the amount of luggage I have. I'm only gone for 3 nights. My mother will roll her eyes at me. She likes to constantly remind me I'm not actually a celebrity. She should feel privileged since she's the one that gets to ride with a celebrity for 3 hours in the car. I picture myself wearing my oversized sunglasses whether it's sunny or not, sipping iced coffee, flipping through a trashy gossip magazine. I picture her either turning up the music extra loud hoping it deters me from looking at pictures of my fellow celebrities reading, or turning off the music completely with the hopes of me talking her ear off. I'm a fantastic multi-tasker, I can talk and be a celebrity at the same time. She should know this.

So where am I going, you ask? Back to my old stomping grounds. To relive my childhood via Cherry Lane Mall and Tickleberry's ice cream parlor. To possibly cry myself to sleep every night I'm away (and for another 3 nights after I get home) because I want to live there again. It is...PENTICTON!!!!! I was born there. I was mostly raised there. I'm from there. I miss the Okanagan with all my heart. So when I get an opportunity to go back for a visit I get more excited than when the people that live above me leave the house. It's my grandparents that the whole fam is going to visit. The. Whole. Fam. (Minus MiniSis) (*that's a lot of the same letters for two words) Easter is almost as big as Christmas in my family, so let's refer to it as spring Christmas. Getting all six of us to all have the same time off to all take a road trip is an almost miracle. But at g-pa's request, we part the waters to make it happen.

My g-pa is my world. We have a mutual adoration for each other and I hate that we're so far apart, so this weekend I plan on attempting to make up our distance. I also plan to make up for his angel getting inked. At least it's pretty, nice, feminine ink...? This was the last conversation the g-rent's and I had:

G-ma: Don't forget to bring your bathing suit so you can go in the hot tub!
Me: Ohhhh...about that...I won't be able to go in the hot tub...I'm getting a tattoo...*winces in anticipation for response
G-pa: Har har har
G-ma: Oh...of what?
Me: Explains
G-ma: I'm just about done getting my tattoos.
Me: Uhh, what? What tattoos?
G-pa: Har har har (he's a man of few words)
G-ma: I just need the last line of my eyeliner done.

Oh right, I had almost forgotten the g-ma got her eyebrows tattooed, and then decided she needed her eyeliner tattooed as well. Because being able to just get up and put on some lipstick was convenient. I guess I can't argue with that, but eyeliner?! Let's not forget my aversion to eye touching. I could not imagine a needle coming within a foot of my eyeballs. It makes me want to die.

So in 26 hours I will be en route to the beautiful, [hopefully] sunny Okanagan to stare at makeup tattoos and cling to my elders. I hope I don't return from my vacay wanting my eyes tattooed out of pure convenience.

I'm inked.

Last night I experienced the most painful two hours of my life. When I told my mother this her response was "you've obviously never birthed a child." Uhh, well, no, I actually haven't. And if it's worse than a tattoo I don't think I ever will. Ok, I'm being dramatic. It hurt like an S.O.B., but in a few weeks I'll be over it and re-evaluate all major life decisions I made based on last night.

Getting "inked" (I'm a gangster so I will use that term freely) is unlike any pain. It's hard to describe. To a fellow woman, I would say it's similar to cutting yourself shaving in the shower and having a constant stream of water run into the cut. Over and over and over and OVER again. For two hours. It didn't resemble bee stings to me, and it surely felt nothing like a needle, so I don't know how else to describe it. To a man, I don't know what to say because you guys are tough and feel no pain so it may be like a tickle to you. I have quite a high tolerance for pain. I love getting pierced and waxed (too much information? Sorry.), but getting inked (is it weird I creep smile when I type that as though I'm soooooooo funny?) was not okay. Nearing the end of two hours I started to cry. It was so far from enjoyable, and my so-called "endorphins" did NOT kick in after five minutes like promised by the artist. I felt the needle the ENTIRE time.

I especially felt the needle when it started making a weird sound that wasn't weird to me, but made the artist say "that's a new sound..." Excuse me? No new sounds, thanks. We want regular, I-hear-it-all-the-time-everyday sounds. She tells me my skin has toughened and the needle is bouncing rather than going into my skin. WTF? I attribute this tough skin to tanning all the time. Why is the hockey game on in the background? What if they score and she gets excited and inks a line down my side? What if she's paying too close attention to the game and I end up with a Canucks logo on my side? These thoughts do not make this process any easier, btw.

For two hours I was squeezing Mexican's hand with all my strength. Unknowingly, of course. Afterwards she tells me I have insane upper body strength and she's surprised her fingernails are still attached to her fingers. I honestly didn't know I was clinging so tightly until I relaxed [momentarily] in between...words? Letters? Probably not even letters, it felt like the same letter for two hours. I appreciate her tolerance with me. Had she not been there my ink would be something along the lines of the letter 'e' and 'l', and that's it.

Finally she's done. She calls me a trooper (do people not generally get a big script that takes two hours on one of the most sensitive parts of their body for their first tattoo? I guess not.) and I look in the mirror. I love it. I adore it. It's beautiful and everything I thought it would be. After I get home I was convinced the whole thing was on an angle, but I'm hoping it was my neuroticism, or my eyesight.

My sleep was terrible. I'd rather have stomping children running above me than have to sleep on my back or my left side (I'm a right side sleeper), but I was slightly paranoid that it would rub off. I guess in my head I had endured that pain for a stick-on tattoo, not a permanent marking on my body. Permanent. That's a scary thought.

This morning I had to peel off the clear wrap that she put on it to keep it clean. It felt similar to what I feel slowly peeling a stuck on band-aid off of your upper, inner thigh that is about the size of an 8"x11" piece of paper would feel like. It took me five minutes to get it off because I was convinced that every word was going to come off with the plastic. I'm not paranoid at all.

Now it's bumpy and sore-looking, but I still feel like walking around with a belly shirt on so I can show it off. Ok, I would never do that, my love for waxing pain was enough sharing for today. I am, however, happy to report I will not be one of those people that will become addicted to getting inked. My grandparents will be happy to hear that.

*Books appointment for next tattoo*

Life is changing and I'm okay with it.

It's creeping to the end of semester. Actually, this is the last week of classes, and with only one final and all but one of my final papers done (what? Only one paper left? Who am I?), it IS the end of semester. Another 4 months gone that I don't remember leaving, and, most importantly, it was the last time those 4 months will so quickly pass. I'm finished school? The thought freaks me out. I've been going to school since I was 4 years old. I don't know not going to school. A real job? No thanks. I don't want to be a big girl. It doesn't help that I convince myself daily that I'm only 23 years old (or secretly 65 years old). I still have years left before I need to worry about a career. Ok, I should have had a career 4 years ago. But I like my carefree life. I like being comfortable in my workplace. I like seeing my people everyday and knowing I get to hang out work with them everyday. 2011 has by far been ten zillion times better than 2010 and it's only April. I have high hopes.

I've neglected this little blog though. Maybe that's because I was doing homework? Real homework? I know, it's foreign to me too. What a fantastic feeling having my work done more than 26 minutes before it's due though. Why didn't I do this all along? To fellow procrastinators, try just one time doing an assignment ahead of time, I promise it's worth it. Judging by my random word-vomit thoughts I need to not neglect this blog ever again. Racing thoughts are more than just a symptom of a manic personality disorder, they are my life. Am I manic?

Where was I? Oh yes, this is a big week. It's the last week of classes. I have more than 46 seconds of spare time. I have nice hair today. I discovered an [almost] love for peanut butter (specialty peanut butter of course, my tastes are anything but regular and normal). I AM GETTING A TATTOO. All those other things were just leading up to that last one. I have pretty nice hair a lot of the time.

So it's a good thing I have nothing to focus on this week. I will spend the next 53.5 hours obsessing, going through waves of nauseousness and excitement, emotionally eating, then emotionally purging, and being more than a handful at work on Wednesday. (I'm sorry to all I work with on Wednesday, I may or may not be the biggest mess in the world. And by may not I mean most definitely will be). My ink will not be visible to the outside world. I'm getting it solely for me, and I could laugh-cry because this could quite possibly be the biggest, most permanent thing I've ever done in my life. What tells me it's the right thing to do? I haven't gone back on wanting it done. Not once have I even faltered or wondered whether I should or shouldn't get this done. I've only changed the placement 65 times. That doesn't count.

My next post will be about the experience. I have no idea what to expect. The lady that's doing it says she's had people fall asleep while getting tattooed? Who are these people? That won't be me. What if I laugh? What if I sneeze? What if I flinch? What if my blood doesn't clot and I bleed to death? What if she senses my neuroticism and refuses to tattoo me?

I hope I don't end up with 2 full sleeves.

Note to self: do not drink out of anything but a straw when mouth is frozen.

This morning I had a dentist appointment. To get a filling. I haven't had a filling since I was like, seven, and I lost it when I lost the tooth it filled (what dentist puts a filling in a baby tooth? I think that didn't even make sense to me when I was seven). I hadn't been to the dentist in approximately 64 years, so when I went a month ago I was expecting some bad news bears. But the good news gorillas stepped in and I only had one [small] cavity! So I decided 8 am was a great time to go get that filled.

I turned off my alarm at some point in my sleep, so I woke up at 7:21 contemplating pulling a no show. But I figured they'd charge me some sort of fee and I already don't have coverage so I dragged myself out of bed to go get needles stabbed in my mouth.

I didn't know what to expect. Pain was what I was mostly nervous for, because I sure didn't expect the giant blue rubber "dental dam" (HATE that term) that they flossed through my teeth and told me to breath through my nose (luckily I do anyway, I despise mouth breathers) because my mouth was now pried open by some sort of metal contraption and I had a blue piece of rubber...sheet?...hanging out of my mouth. Umm, isn't this supposed to be a half hour appointment? Why do I feel like I'm having major surgery and that I should be put under? So naturally, I turn up the volume on my headphones (I'm watching something on TV and I don't have cable so not only do I have no idea what's on at 8 am, but I don't have a clue as to what it is that I settled on) so I can't hear the saw he's bringing towards my mouth.

What feels like 13 seconds later he snaps the blue rubber out from between my teeth and unscrews the metal contraption and tells me to have a good day. Uhh, ok, thanks? He must have many more of these unnecessary "dental dams" to install in other mouths, he doesn't have time to chit chat about whether or not I can drink hot liquids because I'll die if I can't have coffee rightthisverysecond.

It's two hours later and my mouth feels fat and I'm concerned that when the freezing wears off that I'll be in a lot of pain from the slight obsession that's started of biting my tongue and cheek just because I can't feel it and think it's cool. I took 2 advil and dribbled water down my chin. Apparently I can't feel a water bottle on my lips. Now I feel like I have drool and water all over my face, and probably have for the past two hours, because I hadn't realized that doing such a simple thing would turn out to be impossible. I don't like having to concentrate on mindless things like eating or drinking. That might make me eat less and we all know that can't happen.

My boss anounced that I had "dental work done" to a roomful of clients. That makes it sound serious. My stroke face makes it look serious.

I will always win.

I enjoy my sleep. A lot. I don't need to sleep until 1 pm (because I'm a grandma and am usually in bed by 10 pm, due to my days starting at 5 am, of course...), but I do need a good chunk of sleep. At one time. Uninterrupted. 8 hours is ideal. I'll take 7. So when Saturday is nearing I'm practically running to my bed on Friday night because I get to "sleep in" (aka sleep uninterrupted with no reason to get up early). But then we throw the family that lives above us into the mix. It's a mom, dad, and two girls aged 3 and 5. I've never been upstairs in their part of the house, but based on their daily shenanigans I vision a bowling alley, a track, and a McDonalds Play Place in their living room. It's a fun game for them to run (and by run I mean STOMP) across the house and squeal at the top of their lungs. Over and over and over again. At 6:30 am. EVERY MORNING! I'm not a particularly patient person, but I decided to be gracious and give them every last bit of patience I possessed. Then I snapped.

About two weeks ago it was a Sunday morning at about 7ish am, and they were having a bowling tournament above us. At least it sounded like a bowling ball was dropped and something was rolling along the length of the house. So I aggressively threw back my covers, threw open my door, grabbed the broom and pounded on the ceiling. Silence. For about two hours, and then they started up again, but by that time it was an acceptable time to have a track meet, so I didn't care as much.

So this nice, little family were angels for the next two weeks, until yesterday. Again, Sunday morning, about 7:30 am, and the girls were apparently getting flying lessons from the dad. Squeals and stomping and screams and every other noise you can imagine, driftly nicely through the floor to my bedroom. And roomie's bedroom. [I should add that she's equally unimpressed, I'm not being unreasonable]. A small amount of hidden patience creeps out and I let it be. Until 2 pm when I need a nap because I'm so exhausted and they're still playing basketball with bowling balls above me. Out comes the broom again. This time was much less effective. So I plot.

8:30 pm rolls around and I still hear them stomping around (seriously, where do they get this energy from?), then 9 pm comes and it's quiet. So I turn on my music. LOUD. I place one speaker facing upwards toward the ceiling in my bedroom (aka a sleeping someone's bedroom) and leave the other in the living room. I'm practically laughing because I'm so clever. Or so I think anyway. Then there's a knock at the door.

Neighbor dad: Does the music have to be so loud?
Me: Do your children have to be so loud?
Neighbor dad: She's three...
Me: So you have no control over her?
Neighbor dad: She has 90% hearing loss...
Me: So do I. It makes me talk louder, not walk harder.
Neighbor dad: (running out of excuses for his out of control child) I've already apologized.
Me: It was a SUNDAY morning, you have to respect the people that live below you!

(Is it unreasonable for me to suggest to him to let his children run around outside screaming? It wasn't raining...Or take them to the park and let them run around like puppies so they fall asleep? Or put a movie on for them since it IS 7 am on a SUNDAY MORNING?)

Neighbor dad: (starts walking away and mutters) This is f***ing ridiculous!

I turned down the music a little bit. Enough that it wasn't annoying me, but not too much that they couldn't still hear it. But only for another 5 minutes because I started to get anxious about my paused Gilmore Girls episode that I had seen 13 times before, but couldn't handle not watching at that moment.

I was in bed by 10 pm.

I wish I knew my neighbourhood.

It was a beautiful evening yesterday and I was home before it got dark, so I had no excuse to put off going for a run. I figured I had driven in the general area of my neighbourhood enough times that I knew the streets and the looks of the roads enough that I could map out a run-route in my head and be okay. I was mistaken.

It all started out well, just jogging down the street until I came up to a side street and decided to turn down it. Blasting my music and not paying attention led me to turn down a street that was actually a San Francisco-style street that was completely vertical. But I was too proud to turn around and try the next street, so up the enormous I climb. Slash LUNGE up. Yes, I felt that I was good enough to lunge up this hill. I wasn't, and my legs are paying for it today. It was the longest lunge-walk of my life. Neverending, if you will. I could see the top, but it wasn't getting any closer.

Finally the top. And a street that I knew! Bonus. So off I go jogging down the familiar street, thinking that since I just climbed Mount Everest to get here, one of the next side streets MUST go downhill, directly to my front door. No such luck. I turned down another side street that did go downhill, but curved around to the opposite direction of where I needed to be going. Still convinced that I'm going to recognize SOMETHING that looks familiar (because I'm currently jogging on a street I've never been on in my life), I keep going. Until it gets dusky. Great, now I need to be home soon so I don't get mugged, and I have no idea where I am. Too embarassed to just turn around and head in the direction I came from, I do the following:

Cross the street to a cul-de-sac, run the perimeter of said cul-de-sac (as though it was my plan all along), cross the street back to the side I came from, and start running in the direction I came from, which is now uphill again.

It was comforting knowing that I at least knew where I was going this time, but as I come back to the top of Mount Everest I can't even walk down it because it's so steep. So I end up practically running down it anyway. I reach the bottom of the hill and 10 minutes later I return home, as it's almost dark out. I'm safe like that.

I barely had the front door closed and I beelined to the kitchen to devour 36 4 cookie dough truffles. The run made that okay.

"Working out" has a different meaning for everyone.

It might be vain of me, but I like to look...decent, when I'm at the gym. Makeup, I don't care about. Hair, I don't care about. Even shaved legs, I don't care about. But I will admit that I've fallen victim to the lululemon fad (might I add here, though, that I had lulu pants before ANYONE I know did (or knew at the time, because it was THAT long ago)). I have my lulu capri's, my lulu tank, and my lulu headband (but I don't care about my hair so that one doesn't count). And really, I look like anybody else working out at the gym. Except the girl that showed up in her KFC uniform...

Yes, she walked in, handed in her membership card, and hopped right on a treadmill, IN HER UNIFORM. I stared. A lot. I thought maybe I must have been in a cardio-infused, hallucinatory mindset. Ok, no. She is really in her uniform. Maybe the gym paid her to come in smelling like deep fry to taunt all the members. Deep fry and sweat...you couldn't pay me enough. Well maybe for deep fry.

Ok, so she doesn't care about her gym appearance, I'm not judging. Very much. But then, as I'm driving down the road today, I see a sidewalk jogger. I'm supes jealsy because I LOVE running outside. Maybe not on the main street of the city, but outside compared to on a treadmill is most definitely preferred. And this is what he's wearing: a collared polo t-shirt, board shorts, and socks pulled up to his knees. None of that screams "I work out on a regular basis" to me. It more screams, "I felt the need to go for a jog rightthisminute, and grabbed the first thing I saw" (or maybe didn't see, in his case). So he runs on the main street, in that attire, for ALL to see, nbd.

But then there was this treat:

A guy in what I would consider "proper" workout attire (I am an expert, after all), sprinting in a circle around the perimeter of the parking lot of the mini mall. SPRINTING. Maybe he was running from someone, but I watched, and no one was coming after him. Maybe in his head they were? It's difficult to say.

Oh, and let's not forget the girl in one of my circuit classes that during the 45 seconds of whatever weight machine one was on, she was texting and dangling her legs over the machine as though she was sitting on a bridge, over a pond, on a hot summer day, with her sandals seated beside her, basking in the warm sun. To boot, she was 16 pounds, soaking wet, so maybe she didn't have the strength to be lifting any weight with her legs? Her thumbs were getting quite the workout though.

I guess the moral of my bizarre fitness observations is that everyone exercises in their own way (and don't get me wrong, good for them! At least they're getting out there and getting fit...kind of...that's more than I could have said a few months ago), albeit, it's not in any way I would consider exercising, but I guess that just makes me a giant lululemon-wearing, gym-going snob. With greasy hair and unshaved legs. Gotta love me.