Songza: Taste Ruiner. Or Alternatively, A List of How Not to be Lame Anymore.

    [Edited for content on April 19th, 2015. Because I don't ever want these entries to be cries for help or smears on anybody's character but my own. I liked what I wrote but I don't like how it hurt somebody.]

    Let me open this with the admission that I have been listening to a playlist called "Pop Kiss-Offs" for the past, oh, two months. Two months. Taylor Swift and Ariana Grande are all up in my head in crannies I didn't think I'd want them to be in but sweet Jesus they're hitting a sweet spot. That's embarrassing. Just kidding, I was walking up a street by my place screeching off-key to Maroon 5 and two young men on their porch saw me and heard me and I mostly just felt proud.

This is the beginning of my stone cold resolution to write daily. Weekly? Semi-Weekly? Ugh.

What is this blog even about? In its entirety since 2008, I've posted about pretty much nothing in particular because I have no idea how to find a "blogging niche". Gross. I hate when people pronounce "niche" like "nitch". I think Jessie Spano did that once on Saved by the Bell and I've hated it ever since. I hate her too. You aren't allowed to be all self-righteous and brainy if you can't pronounce a one syllable word.

I guess this is the path one would start on in order to determine the indeterminable. To de-pill the fuzziness that is my poorly laundered online diary. Or something. Bear with me because not all of these essays are gonna be winners. Not all of them will be essays either. A lot of them will just be declarative sentences about grilled Gruyere and bacon sandwiches. SERIOUSLY.

The pop kiss-offs obsession is for one fairly depressing reason. I have been going through a break-up that Will. Not. End.

Originally in December of last year I thought I had a lot of really important stuff to bring forward for women who have gone through, are going through or (God I hope not) *will* go through what I have, but it occurs to me now that this notion was uppity and holy shit I can't solve my own ambiguous mud puddly life, never mind help some other beautiful, intelligent, sweet-smelling lady with hers. See what I did there? I'm learning how to be my own friend but am also being super nice to the ladies. Whatever valuable advice I do have, I'll try to weed through and get rid of the stuff that just comes off as grab-bag horsecrap like "Maybe you should just be by yourself for a while? How can you love anybody if you can't love yourself?"

 Listen, I love being by myself. I spend 3/4s of my day around people anyway. I don't really want to be by myself all the time though. And I do love me. It'd just be really nice if somebody else did too. Being loved is pretty awesome. Maybe a back rub and a couple of kept promises here and there. I'm not asking for anybody to de-mildew my shower or carry my purse. Also, why people carry their significant other's purse is beyond me. Don't touch my bag, I keep photos of other naked men I want to be with instead of you in there.

   Here is the helpful shit. And please don't think I came up with ANY of it - credit where credit is due, I have girl friends, guy friends, cousins and aunties and a mother who give me the goods regularly. This is the stuff that actually HELPS me when telling myself  to "be alone for a while" isn't cutting the mustard.

1a. People do not change for other people. People change for themselves. If they're messed up or miserable and don't want to be happy for themselves or want better for themselves and you want to stick around, it's a sure sign that you don't want to be happy for you, either. Which is just so stupid. Don't be stupid. That should be 1b.

2. If you feel like the sad idiot girl in a romantic comedy, who goes back to the partner who makes life harder when it should be lovely, STOP BEING THE SAD IDIOT GIRL IN THE ROMANTIC COMEDY. Of course, Ginnifer Goodwin and all of her naiveté is adorable, and movies know how to give us hope that the awkward skinny dude will figure it out and all of your tears and introspection will speak to him like a whisper in the wind while Coldplay is in the background, but honestly, you're still an idiot. He's an idiot too but he's not the one wasting his time.

3. Forgive yourself. Because if you don't say "Chelsea, you're so gullible and you need to get your head out of your ass and stop making the same mistake", then you're being dishonest and wishy-washy. But if you continue to denigrate yourself after that, you're headed to a dark place. It's scary there. There are unwashed sheets and gross kleenexes on your floor. His picture is turned upside down and you are screaming at the ceiling. It's not a good look. Nobody wants to do somebody who can't throw out their snotty tissues. Get rid of the fucking picture. Who cares. Keep the frame though, those are expensive. This is where you stop calling yourself an idiot and start smiling at yourself in the mirror. Smile sensually. Don't get creepy with it, but just be like "Hey girl. you're not an idiot anymore."

4. Stop talking about it. 

People want to hear about the sad, weird, stupid shit in your life occasionally for any number of reasons. They might feel better about their own shitty decisions if yours are worse, for starters.

Friends might genuinely want to help. Maybe you'll misinterpret them wanting to minimally help with sage advice, and you'll have the smart idea that they'll say something to somebody who knows somebody who will change somebody's mind and they'll show up at your door with flowers, another apology and a puppy. That scenario has actually gone through my head, which is why I need to stop talking to people about it. If you are my friend and you are reading this, tell me to stfu if I try to start talking about it again.

Life is really good, guys. There are places to go and friends to make and so much delicious food. If you feel like you're wasting your moments on somebody and the good times are fewer and further between as a result of that, get back to wherever it was that you were eating something tasty and dancing on your tippy toes. Honestly, your calf muscles will look amazing if you do it often enough.

Chomps

I'm Old.

   Enamored as you all are of my riproaringly exciting,  non-stop Adventuress lifestyle, which has been previously described in free press online publications (i.e. other blog posts I've written about myself) as "something straight out of an urban-jungle-setting Lady Davey Crocket episode, meets Darkwing Duck's cool younger sister's secret tales of intrigue and self actualization," -- as completely infatuated as you all are with that shit, I gotta tell you something. This week, in broad daylight, behind a government building, I was in a gang fight. 

I know. What other crazy, poorly supervised hootenannies am I going to be photographed at next? Get this: I'm heading to the back lot of my friendly Niagara Falls library to make a timely return of some DVDs (which were viewed responsibly and cared for as though they were my own, as if they were disc-shaped infants). There was a light kerfuffle about; a red wagon full of dirty children, a security guard who was so old that if anybody tried anything unsavoury he'd likely pretend not to see it to avoid conflict or water-on-the-knee or whatever happens to people Mr. Dress-Up's (RIP) age, and another respectable woman in a mini-van, most likely patronizing municipal services in the same manner as I was. But then, as I pulled my 21-speed blue behemoth of a mountain bike up to the outdoor return slot, this wanton little shit of an eight-year-old came flying out undetected from behind a fence! Kind Mini-Van Lady laid on her horn, as though to say "mind yourself, short human, for I nearly killed you", but apparently the Fourth Grade Nothing was unfazed because then THIS happened:

 "Well fuuuuuuuuuuck you!" he said.

 The kid, who flew out into traffic, who I now know has probably been awful all of his life,  told somebody older than my mom "fuck you."

 I let the weird moment slide, because maybe his Teddy Grahams were stale that day, or maybe he doesn't even get delicious recess snacks or whatever. He sucks, but maybe being little is hard sometimes. But then. Then! A SPECK of a human, even tinier than Hungry At Recess rides up beside me by the book-drop and says:

"Gimme those books."

I, questioning the verity of this insane situation, say:

"What?!"

"give me...( he then paused because he's a sarcastic little a-hole) those books."

 Okay so first of all this little dude is stupid beyond measure. I'm carrying FLAT objects. In TRANSPARENT cases. They are clearly not pages bound by any sort of cover. Idiot. That part was my inner monologue because I feel better about myself when I'm quietly disparaging the youth of today, like so many other hard-working citizens. Second of all, what in sweet hell is his plan? If I just go "Oh, these flat, clear books? Give them to you? Sure!" How is he gonna navigate somewhere with mini-arms full of literature on a bicycle? Is he threatening to destroy my pristine reputation with Victoria Avenue library by racking up my late fees? Does he just really wanna be the one who gets to put them in the drop-off box? Have I finally met the other person on Earth who loves mailboxish drawer-type apparatuses as much as me? Whatever pipsqueak, I see through your poorly orchestrated plot. I am carefully crafting a response as I quickly but still just as enjoyably return my MOVIES to their home.

So I say:

"No! Get away from me, you little twerp!"

Because apparently I'm from the movie The Sandlot. I'm almost thirty and it's 2014. I called this kid a twerp. That was my best response. He then, and who can really blame him, laughs in my face and says "hey guys! She called us twerps!" which was followed by maniacal eight-year-old laughter and subsequently my interaction with the final member of the bike gang. Third Kid was bigger. I don't even mean bigger like it matters. None of them were even five feet tall and they were all standing UPRIGHT on their bicycles. Still, he was somewhat more threatening. So he starts mock-repeating what I said, y'know, that time two seconds ago when I called them twerps. It was at this juncture that I pulled out all the stops for a real verbal lashing. I says to 'em, I says:

 "what's WRONG with you? Where are your MOTHERS?"

 Applause, Chels. Bravo. Truly a game-changer. Go to the drug store, purchase your compression socks and Metamucil with rolled dimes from your glass peanut butter jar and call it a night.

I rode away so discombobulated, head shaking, wondering about the rotten youth of today. Mostly wondering why I lost in a confrontation with three people who aren't my own age even if you added all of their ages together. Why didn't I just start screaming obscenities back? Why didn't I set fire to their bicycles and twirl my fake mustache like an old timey villain?

Why didn't I go INTO the library to renew Saved by the Bell instead of giving up on fun and returning stuff at the back door? Sometimes you make choices, guys.

Sometimes those choices have consequences.

Aggressive Renege: Part the First

   Lately things have just reeked of chaos. Normally that would really throw a control freakish person into a tailspin but it seems like I might actually be wearing unpredictability a bit better than usual. For instance, I brushed my teeth with my right hand today. Get this: I'm left-handed. Did that give you shivers too? I'm a renegade.

   So, dating. Oh sweet baby Jebus, it really doesn't get any easier. After the lone survivor of my okcupid escapades crashed and burned, I realized there was absolutely no rush to date anybody, ever.

  No wait, you know what? There is. The rush isn't to couple up though.  It's to hear what a man is saying when my psychotic inner voice is screaming over top of their very clearly stated honesty with "NO NO! WE'RE COMPATIBLE AND THIS WILL BE OK. YOU LOVE SANDWICHES! I LOVE SANDWICHES! WE'RE PERFECT FOR EACH OTHER."

   Sandwiches does not a strong bond make. Nor alcohol, nor board games, nor intercourse. If somebody's saying they're at odds with your most fundamental expectations in a relationship, stop wasting everybody's time and bail out, sister.

  When things don't work out and I'm feeling crummy for having my hopes up, I tend to hear a lot of "Why are you so worried? Just have fun!"

  To this well-intentioned (but often uttered by somebody with a partner) piece of advice I respond:

Are you fucking kidding me?

  Does anybody else realize that more effort goes into 'just having fun' than a pair of jeans and a pony tail? If I could roll on through these 'interactions' without caring whether or not a dude called me back, I'd be SET. But let's never mind the call back at this point! There's still preliminary maintenance for even the five-minut-iest of conversations.

If it seems like a lot of effort, that's because IT IS. Dying my roots, making sure I don't have any dead skin on my lips that seem to exfoliate of their own accord at the least opportune moments; not eating a lot of cheese; not eating a lot of anything, really. Not having pimples. Covering up the pimples. Looking like you have no makeup on even though you've got it covering your pimples. Not using the f word til they use it first; not using the toilet til they use it first. Don't be too funny. Be a little funny. Pretend they're funny. God. All. Mighty. Don't even get me started on what happens when you laugh and a booger comes out because you forgot to clean your nose before you left the house. CLEAN OUT YOUR NOSE. IT'S A THING, LADIES.

There's so much insecurity tied up in the fake version of yourself that you present to the fake version of whichever person you're awkwardly trying to sleep, marry and make babies with. To be quite frank, I could now and forevermore not give three fucks about a dude who is put off by a) my sass b) my cynicism or c) my bodily functions. Actually, or d) my love for rye whiskey over ice. I am my grandfather's granddaughter.  We go hard or we nap in the La-Z-Boy. I don't cook. I an terrible at being tidy. Sometimes the reason why it looks like I haven't slept or showered in three days is because I haven't.

  I would put this out into single male world and see what boomerangs back, but I won't. I'm shamelessly devoted to lying very still with a cat on my gut, horizontally devouring pepperoni sticks and Babybels while I watch Ian Somerhalder vampire-bang his victims. There is no mystery left here, boys.

Don't like it? Leave me alone.

   I'd be remiss, however if I said I didn't love men for all the complicated things they make me feel. For all the ways I have bettered myself, FOR myself after feeling low because of one. Regardless of which gender you prefer to court/chase/stalk, we are obviously driven to do so for reasons unbeknownst to us. These reasons occasionally manage to overshadow and outweigh how livid I am that a decent Brazilian is intensely painful and also three quarters of a hundred bucks in this city.

We'll talk about pubic hair some other time.

Chomps

Width, Depth, Breadth and Dampness.

  In the spirit of honesty, because i don't believe in self-improvement without it, it feels freeing to say that I have struggled almost my entire life with a few things.

1) my big mouth
2) acne
3) my insanely small bladder, or arguably my insanely small amount of control over my average sized bladder.

Fourth on this list would be my refusal to feel ashamed. I also have zero shame about having no shame so if you wanna date me and don't need to know the dirty details about any of the above, stop reading here.

Haha! Nobody wants to date me. It's my lack of shame that allows me to say that.

Welcome, reader.

 Anyway, like I said, I'm a pants-peer. Peeer? Pee-er? How the fuck do I spell that? Wizzer. Wetter. It's important that I discern between a pants-wetter and a bed-wetter too. While bed-wetters struggle with the issue sometimes into adulthood, it isn't necessarily their fault. An unlucky bed-wetter may prepare for sleep with the assurance that they allowed enough leeway between their last beverage and bed-time, only to be awoken by a soggy, disappointed feeling that their own internal alarm didn't wake them soon enough. It's a skeleton for a closet somewhere deep in the darkness because those kinds of things which happen TO us are often the things other people will blame or judge us for, and so we hide them.

  I on the other hand, the pants-peeing representative, make bad decisions. Let's examine:

Grade one: had to pee so badly that literally every single child at my table in class knew, but the teacher didn't. She was on a phone call and I didn't want to raise my hand and get in trouble. There was also NO way I was going down the hallway by myself without permission. Are you crazy?! I'm 5! So, after a solid 5-6 minute potty dance in my seat, I stood up and the world of story circle and flash cards knew my pink corduroy overalls would never be the same.

And they weren't.

My mother was piiiiiiissed (urine joke) . Rightly so; I had seemed capable in kindergarten. Little did anybody know that kindergarten was my weird ghost year where I was saving up pants-peeing opportunities for way later in life. Way. Later.

Grade seven: had to pee on the class ski trip. Made it back to the chalet after hilariously falling down a hill, only to tell myself I was wearing too much to bother with the bathroom. I could hold it til' later. Sure sign number one that I'm going to have an accident: I cannot, and have never been able to hold it. I left the chalet for more skiing. Peed in my snow-pants aalllllll the way down the next slope. Imagine that hour long school bus ride back.

Grade nine: during an assembly.

Grade ten, grade eleven, grade twelve: during any number of curriculum enforced 1 mile runs. Try concealing that if you have shorts on. Go. Try.

Eighteen years old: on my way to Midland, with my mother. Stretch of highway, no motherfucking exits. Insane attempt to pee in chocolate milk carton. Failure. Tears.

  I have gotten better at not doing this over the years. Marginally. I don't commonly wiz with reckless abandon (if sober), and I listen to my inner voice that screams "What are you doing?! Run! Bush! Tree!" Oddly the voice never gives preferential treatment to indoor plumbing. It simply requests I not destroy my jeans. One memory will stay with me forever, and it is because of how defeated I felt on that day that the pee-pee pantaloons saga has started to taper off.

Christmas, 2009: I left work that day with the usual tingle. I had probably also consumed almost a litre of fluid; most likely diuretic, given that I work in the coffee business. Being the idiot that I am, I ignored it. Tingles don't mean nothing, son. I had shit to do. Bought a tree, as a matter of fact. Intended to bring it on 3 different forms of public transit. So ambitious was I, in all my seasonally inspired glory. So wiggly though. So wiggly with the anticipation of relieving myself and suddenly so frustrated with how cumbersome that stupid tree was. But I carried on, as most idiots would.

Approximately four medium sized blocks from my apartment it became very clear I wasn't going to make it. I was on a bus surrounded by people, still carrying that goddamn tree. I needed to make a decision, fast. Urinate in front of my neighbours on a moving vehicle, or hop off and face my situation alone in the slush. I opted for alone, with the tree. So I rang the bell, stepped down, and I began to drag the symbol of THE MOST WONDERFUL TIME OF THE YEAR behind me, the stump leaving a dirty scuff on the sidewalk blocks. And so I trudged.

 I trudged and peed all the way home.

 There. Now you know something about me that most decent people would keep to themselves.

Chomps

crumbs goeth before the dustpan.

 
    Coming to you live, from the Burlington bound double-decker coach, currently traversing the Vineland portion of the QEW at this VERY instant.

Hello, friends.

I'd like to talk to you about love. But as it stands I'm recovering from a hangover only slightly less annoying than the last time I touched base, so that shit's OFF the agenda.

Hamburgers, though. If there's a bone or mushy organ in here somewhere that doesn't want a cheeseburger at 10:15am, its little voice is being drowned out by the body parts that do.

You ever have a moment where you're talking with a person you trust and you somehow get to a place where you say something you've NEVER said out loud before? It doesn't necessarily have to be profound, it could literally be as simple as how you really feel about Baked Lays -which, by the way, are of the devil. One of those moments happened yesterday.

It was crazy. There was this sudden wash over me where I had to stop eating my unbelievably delicious omelette and say to myself "Woah. Is it possible you're not awesome at a thing that you've always said you're awesome at? Do you actually suck at it and do you maybe need to work on it?"

Yeah. Deep, right?

It was skee-ball.

But anyway, if I've been living relatively switched on and emotionally intelligent for (let's say) the past 6 years, thinking I was amazing at skee-ball just because I FELT like I was, and making it my one solid argument in any conflict with a little help from hyperbole, eg. "I am the BEST at this. Nobody rolls these things up that wooden deal into those little holes the way I do," then do I really have a leg to stand on? Who died and made me the human yard-stick for measuring overall bestness at this? The International Academy of Arcade Games hasn't sent me any honorary mention and let's be honest, every two or three years myself or my other team member leaves due to irreconcilable differences.

Furthermore, who the HELL would want to hang their hat on a skee-ball legacy when they could spend more of their time, I dunno, being a good person? Showing gratitude and humility?

Anyway, the honesty and embarrassment attached to realizing you haven't been true to yourself can leave you flailing. Luckily I had eaten some fairly dense toast so I didn't just explode into a million feathery pieces like a hotel pillow when it comes to terms with its poor craftsmanship, during a sibling-instigated blanket-fort war.

My first act as a human, free from skee-ball and environmentally unfriendly prize tickets, is to stop keeping track of my acts as a human. I am so entirely not the best at anything and it feels pretty awesome to admit it.

Chomps