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
Sunday, October 20, 2013
Thursday, October 17, 2013
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
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
Sunday, September 22, 2013
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
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