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.