Best Places to Hide...

I was going to title this post "Best Places to Hide if You're a Rapist"... but I just don't have time to be questioned by the police right now. But yes, let us all assume that if you are a rapist, these would be excellent places to hide. You should leave your scorn at the door for this one.

Oh, so this idea came to me not while planning an attack, but while talking about how much I love to hide. Always have. I am the most patient person in the world if I am anticipating a good scare on my prey.

So here are my top 12 (because I had more than 10) places to hide:

1. In an alley way. Preferably one with dark corners and random cut-outs.

2. Behind a tree. However, if it is at night, you need to make sure that your shadow isn't showing, it totally gives you away.

3. The back seat. Crack a window.

4. Behind a door. This is one of my favourites. If you are anticipating someone coming through a door, hide behind it, then when they open and close it, BAM there you are right on the other side.

5. Basements. This requires the utmost patience. But is well worth the wait.

6. Laundry baskets. This only works if you are under 10 and can fit in one.

7. In the shower. Unless they are about to poop.

8. In a clothes rack in a large store. Preferably one that has long garments hanging to hide your feet.

9. Under the bed. Unless you had a low bed, because even if you do fit under it just snugly, when someone lies down on it, the joke is on you. Especially if you suffocate and die.

10. In a cupboard or closet. Make sure there is nothing potentially toxic spilling onto any body parts if you are hiding under the kitchen sink.

11. Outside a window. This one is best pulled off with a build up of rapping lightly on the window and hiding. And then just appearing.

12. If you have perfected the stalker walk (walking quietly at the exact same pace as your prey), then just sneaking up behind them is often a marvelous little kick.

I think I will stop there before I sound too creepy. Too late?

Well, let me leave you with this advice. Do not hide anywhere too high, like in a tree, where you could fall and seriously injure yourself. Know your prey. Do they punch when frightened? Prepare to duck. Do they carry pepper spray? Wear a mask. I mean, just avoid them all together. Do they have a heart condition? Know where your nearest defibrillator is.

And when times are tough, just picture their reactions and faces when you scared them. It always cheers me up. Am I messed up a little in the head? Dark and twisted? Slightly. But do I giggle like a child when I have executed the perfect hide-and-scream? Yes. And there is nothing like a child's laughter. Ok, so my giggle sounds more like a cackle, and it's more like an evil hag than a child. But there's nothing like that either.

Perfect tree to hide behind

A hate-hate relationship..

First off, let me apologize for going MIA, yet again.. I feel like I've lost my mojo. I'm not sure where it went, or why, but it's gone. I blame it on a wire misfire in my brain, but that's another story for another day. This little ditty is something that I'm pretty passionate about.

It's about my hate-hate relationship with my computers. I vehemently hate both my personal computer and my work computer. I have a daily urge to pick up my laptop and SLAM IT INTO THE WALL AND WATCH IT SMASH INTO SMITHEREENS. Yeah. That's how strong my feelings are. All caps.

Anywho, where were we?

Right, anger management classes.

So here is a little conversation between my computers and I on a regular day.

ME: Good morning computer.

COMP: 5 more minutes, it's not time to wake up yet.

ME: What? No, the sun's been up for at least 4 hours, wake up please.

COMP: 5 more minutes.

ME: Wake the fuck up. I have work to do.

COMP: 5 more minutes..

ME: It's been 5 fucking minutes, now stop showing me the "Windows is Starting Up" screen and get your shit together.

COMP: Ughhhh... Fiiiinnneeee. Why you gots to be like that? I am tired. I am old. These legs aren't what they used to be. It takes time to get out of bed.

ME: What? You don't have legs. You don't have a bed, you - 

COMP: I DON'T HAVE LEGS?! OR A BED?! Cannot compute. Cannot compute.

Me: This is not happening. You did not just freeze because you realized that you're a freaking computer. Hello?? Where are my programs? Why aren't you connecting to the internet??

COMP: Cannot compute. Too sad. Stop tapping my screen.

ME: I might have to throw you against the wall today. Today is going to be the day that you meet your maker.

COMP: Hewlett?? Packard?? Which one? Oooh please let it be Packard!

ME: My computer might be retarded. How did you pass the test? I'm going to have a stress ulcer.

COMP: Test..? Why are you drumming your fingers? What is that look in your eye? Is that.... pop? What is that soda doing hovering above my keyboard?

ME: Connect. To. The. Internet.

COMP: I surrender! Here! It's connected! Oh god I can't work under these conditions.

ME: Don't fucking freeze again! I haven't even opened up one single program you piece of shit. It's been 20 minutes since I turned you on.

COMP: 1. I am not a piece of shit. 2. I'm tired. 3. You do not turn me on at all. 


ME: I'll replace you with a mac.

COMP: That is an empty threat, you and I both know that. 

ME: Maybe instead of talking to me you should be starting up my programs, like I asked about 5 minutes ago. I have emails to respond to.

COMP: I'm lonely. 

ME: I'll find you a good dating site.

COMP: Dude, I'm only 3, I'm too young for a dating site. You, on the other hand, aren't as plucky as you used to be.

ME: Just start up my browser. I have emails to respond to.

COMP: Touchy subject? I mean, you are talking to a computer after all. (Which, I am still trying to compute.)

ME: Shut your face. Wait, why is my page not responding?! I didn't do anything!!

COMP: You made a face joke. I don't appreciate your sense of humour.

ME: Swear to fucking god, you are about to see the white light.

COMP: BLUE SCREEN OF DEATH.

ME: ... at this time user is unavailable. User is currently seizing and may possibly have experienced an aneurysm.

COMP: Back to sleep for this computer.


This is the shit I have to deal with. Every morning. I have 2 of them too. Not just one. Two computers that drive me up the wall. They drive me to drink.

How to Stay Single

First off, where did I go? It started off that I was going through some shit that I didn't want to write about, and then I lost my motivation to write. I went "blah". I had a few post ideas, but didn't feel they were publishable. Basically I went into my little closet and shut the door. Anyway, here's something that came to me the other day.

I've always been aware of the fact that I'm very single. But I have a horrible sense of time passing. So the other day when I realized that I've been single for 3 1/2 years, I was slightly shocked. It was an "oh....." moment (not to be confused with an "aha moment").

I'm sometimes asked, "How are you still single?" - in a flattering way. But those who know me best, know why. They're the ones that say "THAT'S how you're still single". They're the ones that politely suggest that maybe I should lower my standards. (Never!)

So here's a list. Well, my list. If you'd like to stay single, follow the list. And the white rabbit.

• Be strong-minded
• Be bold
• Be sarcastic
• Be disgusting
• Be crass
• Sit with your legs open
• Be witty
• Know your shit
• Pick your nose
• Tell really bad jokes and/or stories
• Become a Flames fan (I believe this is directly related, most men have no taste in hockey)
• Cry spontaneously, in front of a guy
• Have a big mouth - WITH WORDS people, with words
• Snort when you laugh, and laugh really loud
• Lean over when you fart
• Be suspicious of any male that talks to you
• And if he shows signs of flirting, raise your hackles
• Win at flip cup
• Start a clown collection (I haven't.. yet)
• Start a cat collection (of live cats..) (also something I haven't done yet) (live or stuffed)
• Be loud

Don't worry, you can have a backup plan. Mine is to move in with my home girl, and get the sperm of our gay friends. True story. At her birthday the other night I was talking to a young fellow, very good looking, unfortunately I'm not his type, unless I grow a penis... Anywho, after marvelling at his good looks and his smarts, here is how I introduced myself  "Hi my name is Alex, you might be my sperm donor one day". He agreed. Score! Oh, and we're going to use the sperm for artificial insemination. Not anything weird like face cream or anything.

Also, side note, there are only 35 sperm donors left in Canada. CRAZY right? Side side note, in a "Baby Animals" book that my little 2 year old cousin was looking at, I pointed to the tadpoles and said, "Look! Sperm!". Ya gotta teach the kids young these days. Or confuse them young.

Soo I hope you enjoyed my little ditty. I apologize again for being MIA.. I'll try to write more than once a month (and a half)... 

You should also take pictures like this...

Acceptance Speech

The amazing Lady Antimony recently gave me an award. Not just any award, but "One Lovely Blog Award"!! AND to top it all off, it's my FIRST EVER BLOG AWARD! I was tres excited. Awards make me happy and bashful and humbled and all that jazz. And then I brag. This is why you give your kid gold stars when they do something right. Then they become over-achievers and competitive and yearn for awards and recognition. Right? I'm right, right? Can you tell I got gold stars as a kid? We put them on my headboard.

So anyway, this week was not a blogging week for me. My creative juices were, well, in sludge form. Heck, I was in sludge form. (Also, I wish that the word "I" was longer so that people would know when I was emphasizing it.)

So, to make up for my lack of presence this week, I have an absolutely embarrassing admission to make. I'm kind of excited to see Fast and Furious Five. WAIT! Let me finish. Not that I expect it to be a stellar movie, but you know there will be sick action scenes and 3 half naked bodies that really should not be missed. Vin Diesel, Paul Walker and Dwayne Johnson... oh my. Rawr.

Oh, I guess it's my turn to pass this on to some lovely bloggers. There are some seriously talented writers out there, and I thoroughly enjoy reading these:

Andy à la Crazy With a Side of Awesome Sauce

Renee à la Eat.Live.Shop.

Laurenne à la Humans are Funny

Jewels à la Jewels Turning 30

Random Girl à la Random Girl Blog

Kat à la Tapetum Lucidum

Mean Girl à la Mean Girl Garage

Happy Easter my pretties. I'm looking forward to quality time with friends, family and ham. (Hint to parentals: Get a ham if you haven't already planned on it.. and I'd like some scalloped potatoes too.)

I forgot to name this one.. my bad

In case I haven't over shared with some of you yet... here is me from A to Z! (And if you're Canadian, that rhymed). I stole this from Jen O. from My Tornado Alley. She is also Canadian. And ridiculously awesome.

A. Age: 25 and 3/4
B. Bed size: Double. If a queen could fit in my bedroom, and I could afford it, I'd get one. Because I think even then I could take up the entire bed.
C. Chore you dislike: Dishes. Actually, I dislike most chores. But especially dishes.
D. Dogs: I love them. I've had a couple of big dogs and would love to get a small-medium size dog. Nothing that could fit in my pocket or that I could roll over and kill though. (It's a deal breaker for me)
E. Essential start to your day: Coffee coffee coffee. It's all I think about until I get one.
F. Favorite color: I think it's teal, but maybe I just think that because I used to like it. More likely, it's grey. Ohh, I think that maybe it could be a bluey grey.
G. Gold or silver: Silver, but I wear some gold, and also love brass.
H. Height: 5'5". I seem taller though don't I?
I. Instruments you play(ED): You will love this: Keyboard, recorder, ukelele and hand bells (yes, really). I think I still have the uke.
J. Job title: Brand manager. Baby wrangler on occasion.
K. Kids: I'd like to think that I'm not a kid anymore, but I do revert back to when I was 10 sometimes. Oh, do I have any? No.
L. Live: Toronto. If you couldn't already tell by my blog image.
M. Mom’s name: So many mom jokes, so little time.
N. Nicknames: Alex, fow, LF, Lex, Lexington, Lex Luther, Lexi, Zandra, Sweets. To name a few.
O. Overnight hospital stays: Less than 5 I think. I was in the hospital a few times as a kid, but haven't stayed overnight since then.
P. Pet peeves: Read post below.
Q. Quote from a movie: "Who wants a mustache ride?"
R. Righty or Lefty: Lefty! What whaat.
S. Siblings: A younger brother. I can't say little brother because he's been taller than me for more than half my life. I also have friends/family that are like sisters to me. But he is the only one that came out of the same va-jay-jay. :)

Look how tall and handsome my brother is!

T. Time you wake up: 9am. Bitches. I would prefer an 11 am wake up though. I don't do mornings.
U. Underwear: Thank you for not using the "P" word. Yes, I wear them. Every day.
V. Vegetables you don’t like: Zucchini. Or is that a "fruit"? Brussel sprouts.
W. What makes you run late: I do. My lack of organization.. And my mom.
X. X-rays you’ve had: Chest, skull, back - that I can remember.
Y. Yummy food you make: 5 layer nacho dip. And oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. That's it.
Z. Zoo Animal Favourites: The lions. RAWR. Pretty much anything furry actually. Especially polar bears. I did a project on one named Snowball one time. He died. I was sad.

TA DA!

What Really Grinds MY Gears

I go through different phases of "hate-ons". If I were you, I wouldn't want to be hated-on by me. My family can attest to that.

The past couple of months there have been a couple of things that have developed into full pet peeves. I loathe thee. Steam comes out of my ears. My eyes bulge. Veins pop. And if I could, I would Hulk smash. (Oh man, I really wish I could Hulk smash..)

1. Dog shit. Hey guess what? DOGS SHIT. Every day. Shocker, I know. It's too bad there wasn't some way of picking up after your dog. Sorry, hold on a second, I'm getting some news from headquarters. You can use BAGS? No fucking way. This, folks, is a game changer.

Except it isn't. Not only will any old bag do, but they even have dog shit bags. And special dog shit bag holders to attach to your leash. So that you don't forget them when you take your dog out. What, you don't like picking up shit? Then why did you get a dog? It's like buying a plant and not watering it. Or having kids but not taking them out for walks.

I have walked by pile after pile of shit every single day. And when the snow melted I saw even more. Did ya think that the snow would hide it douchebags?

Here is what I hope. I hope that you step in it. I hope that you step in a dog's shit, and not only that, that the dog is bigger than yours. Maybe you'll be wearing white sneakers or new heels. I hope it ruins them. You, asshole, are an asshole.

2. Taxis that honk at you. I'm talking about as a pedestrian. Unless I know you, you have no reason to honk at me. Or maybe if I'm about to walk into traffic, then you can honk at me. But otherwise? You get grouped with all the other scumbags who honk at passersby. There's nothing more irksome than walking down the street and having some slime ball honk at you and cat call.

Sooo why are you taxi drivers honking at me? Oh, you think I didn't notice you? Maybe I need a cab? If I needed a cab, you would know. In case you're new to this, someone who would like a cab will do the following: raise arm, either all the way up in the air, or out at about a 45 degree angle; make eye contact with cab; whistle if one is so talented as to be able to loudly do so.

So, next time you honk at me, don't be shocked if you see a bird. (No, not THAT bird you perverts, the one that you flip!)

3. Actually, that's all I have for now. These 2 things really piss me off. So if you partake in either. Watch yo back. And your step.

Otherwise, carry on. I probably like you. And if you see someone leave their dog shit behind. Yell at them. Fling dog poo like the monkeys do.


Yes this post is full of broken sentences. Deal. With. It.

I'm basically like Ariel

So, we've all been there right? You find something you love and suddenly you have 100 of it. So you call it a collection. My nan collects spoons and owls. It just so happens that my favourite utensil is the spoon, and I also love owls. If she ever tired of her collections, she'd be screwed, because every year she is bound to get more owl paraphernalia and spoons from family members.

Then there's me. I like collecting things just to have collections. Seriously. The idea of having a collection really excites me. It's like I'm in my own little club and I have a cool collection. I also love clubs. Sure, the dancy bar kind, but more so the kind that you join membership to. Like a craft club (note: I am not yet part of a craft club, but I have a name for myself if I ever join one.. Crafty Cat*), or a book club (which I am a part of and LOVE).. or a cool kids club. Those exist, right? If someone ever wants me to sign up for anything, just call it a club, and HECK YES I will join. Can we take attendance?

Whoa. Anyway, sorry for getting all excited there. Back to collections. More specifically, my collections.

I've had many, many collections over the past couple decades.

1. Rocks. I still collect rocks. I have some rocks from France on my bookshelf right now. How cool is that? Way cooler than when I used to steal rocks from other people's front gardens. Also, I wish rocks would stay the same pretty colour as when they are wet. For a child there is nothing more disappointing than taking her rock collection from the stream out and realizing that they are all dull grey. Not shiny and pretty. However, I did have a real rock collection. With amethyst, fool's gold, tiger's eye, quartz, marble, amber and so many others. I loved it. And I still have it. I used to love going to this one store when I was a kid and picking out my next rock.

2. Tabs from cans. What? Why? I don't remember. But I collected them. Maybe they used them to make wheelchairs? I had a shit ton of them and then threw them out when I was tired of them. But I'm pretty sure I held on to them dearly for longer than I should have.. and I didn't make wheelchairs out of them. I also spent a summer collecting beer bottle caps. We won't talk about how many I collected, or what possessed me to collect them. They smell bad.

3. Nail polish. First off, when I was a kid I loved garage sales. Others' junk was my JACKPOT. Much to my parents' chagrin. So, after I bought a bike at a garage sale ($15 bitches) I started going to even more garage sales. Mind you, my memory from my childhood is skewed (I blame it on competitions my brother and I would have to see who could hit their head on the wall harder.....) so I could have only gone to like, 3 garage sales. But I doubt it. So, nail polish. I bought 49 bottles and 2 things of nail polish remover from one lady. Forty nine bottles. And I kept them. And I bought more over the years. I went through a mini phase where I bought mini bottles of nail polish. I still like to collect nail polish, but I also throw old colours away. Maybe some kid can buy my collection some day. And the cycle shall continue.

4. Shit from White Rose. Anybody else remember this place? It was like Michael's on crack. It was this massive crafty type of store and I was in heaven. There was always something I wanted. Like boxes, any type of box - wooden, glass, woven, paper. Or old school candle holders with wicks and oil. Or candles, or even beeswax to make candles. What didn't I need from that place? I wanted everything!

5. Stuffed animals. There's a picture of me as a baby surrounded by a collection of stuffed animals. It was like Where's Waldo. And that's where my teddy collection began. My dad would occasionally bring me back a teddy bear from his business trips too. And then those damn Beanie Babies came around and I was all gaga over those. But there was one condition to this phase - the stuffed animal could have clothing, as long as it was removable. Because duh, bears don't really have tee shirts. They also don't have tags, so those came off too. I still have a couple of stuffed animals in my cupboard: AJ the green bear, Stitch (my old roomie gave him to me), and a tiny dog that my mom got me after I begged for a dog one year.

6. Keys. This started when I was a kid, and I still collect keys. I have always been fascinated by them. Big, small, old, new. I love them all. I recently bought some jailer's keys and adore them!

You thought that was it? No, here are more of my collections: lip gloss (I even made my own), clown faces (not my best moment), stickers (who didn't collect stickers!), photos, denim, perfume and starburst wrappers (what?!).

* When you say Crafty Cat, you have to say it like a Cool Cat that plays jazz. Get it? And do a little head bob and wave your hands.

Men.. Can't Ever Win Anymore

To the men, I'm sure they're all throwing their arms up in the air right now and shouting "I KNOW!" Sorry boys, but this whole equality thing means lose-lose for you.

There are moments when I get really frustrated with the lack of chivalry in today's society. More often than not, doors are not opened for me. I can count the number of times on one hand that my chair has been pulled out for me. My last foot rub?  High school.

I was once seeing a guy who was very chivalrous. I was so shocked and blown away that I didn't know how to handle it. He insisted on opening doors for me, went to my side of the car first to open the car door, and shut it. (No, mom, you never met him. I'm sorry, yes, he was very nice, but you have to know I would have scared him off eventually.) Had we ever gone out to dinner, I'm sure he would have pulled out my chair for me. I thought it was an act at first, but then realized that it was genuine. Clearly he had a good mama that raised him right! Then he said that I didn't act very lady-like, and that I had a trucker mouth, and could I please not use such foul language? And that was the end of that.

So clearly, having a guy who is eager to please, always at your beck and call, the type of guy you'd love to bring home to the parents.. well we're just not into him either.

Then there's the other side of things. I can build my own furniture, shovel the driveway, kill spiders, do the heavy lifting, and even take myself out for dinner. And I know that it's partly the "tough guy" in me. For example, I'm not one to ask for help when carrying something heavy. In fact, I love carrying heavy items just to show off my muscles ([mus][kles]). They're huge... I never outgrew the "I can do it myself!" phase. And I'm sure you know where I stand on sex. Sorry parentals if you're reading.

I don't need a man to support me financially, I was raised to be independent. I was brought up to shatter glass ceilings. But does that mean that I should pay for all meals out? Or not get spoiled? (Hypothetically of course..) Just because women are now making as much money as men, doesn't mean that they don't want to be wined and dined. I feel as if in the process of women gaining more power, more control over their own lives, and being able to have a say in society, we forgot to demand respect as well. Or maybe that's the problem, we demanded. Apparently men aren't huge fans of "being told". Clearly while training them we need to be more discreet about it.

Source

So, men, you can't:

• Be too nice
• Be an asshole
• Offer your help
• Not offer your help
• Be the little spoon
• Not spoon at all
• Offer to carry her purse
• Not offer to carry her groceries
• Be her bitch
• Call her a bitch
• Call all the time
• Not call at all
• And the list goes on..

For more sage advice, you can always email this single gal who hasn't been in a relationship in.. well a really long time.

It'd be weird if it wasn't me

Warning: The following post is not recommended for pansies with weak stomachs. 

Friends and family and blog followers are by now, never shocked with any of my body misfires. It's most often TMI, but I really do enjoy sharing these little tidbits with people. I should feel sorry for the recipients of my pictures and details, but I don't. I relish their reaction. Yes, I document everything with pictures. It often takes a few pictures if it's at an awkward angle, so sometimes people get more than one. LUCKY!

One recipient described a picture as looking like an "alien fetus". We'll not get into what that image was.

Another, more recent picture was described as "AMAZING!!!". (Is this starting to feel like a movie review to you? It should.) Do you want to know what picture was described as amazing? A green pimple. Yes, friends, a green one. You can try googling it, I did. And find no information. Maybe I should be worried. But it's too late for that because I popped it. I had to clean up the blood spatter from the wall with wet paper towel. Are you grossed out yet? I hope so. I'm so lucky to have such supportive friends who enjoy receiving pictures of these anomalies.

I told my dad the other day that he's really lucky that my mom lets me send her pictures and tell her stories about my body misfires, because otherwise he'd be scarred. There's no such thing as "TMI" for my family. They get to hear all my gory details. Hmm.. maybe that's why nobody skypes with me anymore...

From swollen masses of bone, to penis shaped bruises, to alien fetuses, to green pimples, my body is not a wonderland, but an enigma. I'm ok with that, because it's not like John Mayer's ever going to tell ME that it's a wonderland, and enigmas are much more interesting.

I feel the need to add that I was going to add a picture to this post, but couldn't. First I googled "body misfire", then "body enigma" and nothing interesting came up. Then I googled weird body. DO NOT EVER DO THAT. Unless you want to be scarred. It got worst as I scrolled down. So now I can't add a picture. I just can't.

Not Quite Dead Yet..

Is anybody still there? No? Ah well, I deserve it! I didn't mean to abandon my blog, it just... happened. I went from being busy, to having the stomach flu (Norwalk... AGAIN!) to having zero creative energy. Excuses, excuses, I know. I hate me. I'm working on a stellar piece about why men can't win, but in the mean time... ok, so I haven't started writing it, but it's in my head. Anyway, in the meantime, here's a poem I found on my old hard drive. I wrote it 4 years ago. I used to write a lot, and this one found its way onto my computer! I like this one. It's called "My Dreams Betray Me" and I could have a hundred different pieces with the same title.

My dreams betray me with visions of you

I want to be her, that girl that you look at

To feel your eyes on me, cover me completely

Denial will keep my feelings at bay

It’s not that hard when I refuse to get hurt

A hard shell has formed

To keep you away

To keep me in

To mask the weakness that grows inside

Too embarrassed to let it show

I hate the girl who cries at night

I hate the one who abandoned me when she needed to stay

Where did I go?

This is a picture I took 4 years ago. I know. Blonde.

Now.. to get cracking on this piece.. Who wants to climb into my head and write it out?

Childhood "Dreams"

I look around me, where am I? I recognize this place, that swing, those trees. I realize that I'm in the park by my house, but where is everybody? I see the jungle gym, the monkey bars, the swings, and finally the trees that border the park, my park.

I can feel something before I can see it. A vibration in the ground that almost knocks me off my feet. It reminds me of when someone jumps too close to me on the trampoline. I feel an uneasiness in my stomach, and out of the corner of my eye,  a large shape appears.

It must be my imagination, it has to be. There is no way in hell that a dinosaur the size of half the park is coming my way. But no, the earth shaking tells me that it's not an illusion, it's a stegosaurus.

I slowly back away, then try to run, but as with all dreams, my feet feel like they're stuck in cement. Suddenly I'm far away from my house, but I have to warn my family. I try screaming at people nearby, "RUN!", but nobody hears me. They wouldn't believe me anyway. My heart pounds. I know there will be more. It will be too late.

Another, more massive dinosaur looms into view, a brontosaurus. He's moving slowly, but he's not happy. He has a baby with him, and he's protective. I try to run the other way. Danger is close. I can feel it in my bones.

My house is steps away, and I slam the door, my heart thumping in my chest, as a velociraptor bangs against the door. He can't get in. But I know what comes next. It always does. I hold my breath and look for a place to hide where he can't see me. His eye, bright and yellow and glaring, is staring at me suddenly from the floor to ceiling window in our entrance. I scramble to another room, the living room, but the tyrannosaurus takes a couple steps and sees me through the bay windows. It's too late to hide anywhere here, he's going to crash into my house at any moment.

For a split second I feel he might not be looking at me, and I bolt up the carpeted winding staircase and lunge into my room. By now he's realized that I'm gone from the living room, and I have seconds to hide behind my bed. At my bedroom window, I realize, he sees me. My foot. He can smell me now. I should have hid in my closet, there are no windows there. Do I have time? I'm frozen to the spot, unable to breathe for fear that it will break his still and that will be it. I can't even cry, I can't utter a sound, I can't call out, I'm stuck here.

I feel like the house is about to be broken apart, it shakes with such violence and the noise is deafening. He calls out, that high pitch cry. This is it. I close my eyes, and then someone calls my name.

**
Words of advice: Don't ever let your kids see Jurassic Park. This nightmare (along with one where it's a giant) haunted me for years. YEARS. Sure, I'm a pansy and I hate scary movies, but if your kid has any type of imagination, do not let them watch it. I actually still watch Jurassic Park when it comes on, it's sick, I know, but I can't help it. That scene with the velociraptors still scares the piss out of me. Now, aliens, that's another story. I could write a book on how many hours I lay frozen in my bed, deathly afraid that there were aliens in  my bedroom in the shadows. I would have killed for a simple boogey man.

I wrote this as the second writing prompt from Studio 30 Plus, the first was on Concrete. They're amazing, and I am in love with these writing prompts that get my creative juices flowing. Even if this one will probably result in nightmares night terrors.

Interesting how I call myself a strugglesaurus. Noting to talk to my therapist about this.

Meme is pronounced "meeeem"

Sooo, this is going to be the most awkward video you will ever watch. Ever. It's a meme. You will see.

Anyway, Kristine at Wait in the Van (she makes me laugh a lot, and sometimes cry) did this meme. An accent meme.

The scene opens in my little cabin apartment. If the first thing you see isn't the wood (oak) paneling, then it will be the second. And then you will notice the glare from my glasses, which I thought I was able to avoid, but apparently not.

Here are the Q's

• Your name and/or username
• Where you’re from
• The following words: Aunt, Roof, Route, Wash, Oil, Theater, Iron, Salmon, Caramel, Fire, Water, Sure, Data, Ruin, Crayon, Toilet, New Orleans, Pecan, Both, Again, Probably, Spitting Image, Alabama, Lawyer, Coupon, Mayonnaise, Syrup, Pajamas, Caught, Orange, Coffee, Direction, Naturally, Aluminum, Herbs.
• What is it called when you throw toilet paper on a house? [on the night before Halloween?]
• What is the bubbly carbonated drink called?
• What do you call gym shoes?
• What do you say to address a group of people?
• What do you call the kind of spider that has an oval-shaped body and extremely long legs?
• What do you call your grandparents?
• What do you call the wheeled contraption in which you carry groceries at the supermarket?
• What do you call it when rain falls while the sun is shining?
• What is the thing you change the TV channel with?

Anywho, the video is already too long for what it is so I'll stop talking.. errr... writing.

Oh god... enjoy.

Yayy my first vlog.... oh wait. No, it's totally embarrassing. Is it too late to do another take??

Etched in Concrete

I often look down when I'm walking. At first, it was because I didn't want to catch others' eyes, and sometimes it was to avoid stepping in something that would probably ruin my shoes, and my day. But then I really started to look down. I started to see things etched or buried in the sidewalks. Testimonies of love, dates, messages written in permanence.

Someone once stood where I stand now, hunched over, writing R + L, then slowly scraping the perfect heart around those letters. Was it day time? Was their lover with them? Did they have to avoid getting caught by the construction workers? Did they run off together afterward, giggling; did they realize that someone like me would be looking down on it years later? I wonder if R + L are still together. Maybe they still walk by this very etching, hand in hand. I hope they didn't forget. They captured a moment in time, after the cement had started to dry, but before it completely solidified, where R really did love L.

I see a key amongst rocks embedded in the cement on 82nd and Broadway in Manhattan. I stop and stare and bend down. That key could have just as likely been layers further down and not visible, hiding. But it is here for me to see. Someone may have lost that key. What did it open? Did it keep any secrets? Was it the only one, momentarily keeping its prisoners captive, safe, locked away? How long has this key been here for, how many people have stepped over it unknowingly? Looking at the stones in the cement surrounding it, it has been here for quite some time. Cement has changed over the years, it is now white and opaque, or black. I imagine that this here section of cement is decades old. This key has seen a lot; many shops have come and gone, fashions have changed, cars have evolved and are maybe a bit quieter than when that key first ended up there.

1959. Fifty two years ago, the cement had a lot more character. I know this because where I live, the cement is dated. For whatever official purpose it serves, to me it tells a story. From the slabs dated 1959 to 2009, they become gradually less interesting, flawed, beautiful. The story begins to fade, each year the cracks between the slabs get further and further apart. Will kids soon forget the rhyme we grew up with? It plays over and over in my head: "Don't step on a crack, or you'll break your mother's back". I never stepped on the cracks.

As these sidewalks slowly get ripped up and replaced with new, cleaner looking cement, stories are erased, declarations of love are forgotten, hidden jewels become lost forever.

Rabbit Stew

I have seen more Max and Ruby episodes than some parents have, and I don't have kids. At the kids' store that I manage, we have a pint sized couch and flat screen TV (read: best kids' store ever), and for a long time Max and Ruby was on loop. Then I found other DVDs and so now I cuddle up on the tiny couch and watch the original Winnie the Pooh. I mean... it's for the kids.

That's not even what this is about. This is about RUBY. That manipulative little bitch of a sister that Max has to deal with. Is this actually a show that parents allow their kids to watch? If you are unfamiliar with the show, let me sum it up for you.

"Maaaax, you're doing it wrong! Silly, you need to do it MY way."
"No Max, your job is to watch us play. That's way more fun than playing with us."
"Max, you can do what you want to do after we do everything that I want to do, and even then, we won't do what you want to do."
"See Max? This is the right way to it. Your way is wrong, you see that now, right?! Right?!"
"Max why aren't you massaging my bunions?"
"Max, Max? Where are you? Why are you hiding from me?"
"What's that behind your back Max? Is that a knife?"
"Oh you're going to cut me a slice of cake! How sweet, but I'm going to eat the whole cake. You won't like it."
Max glares at sister, sees red and murderous rage ensues.

Ok, so maybe I exaggerated a bit, but you get the point, right? Right?

I would cut a bitch if that was my sister. Then I would make rabbit stew.

But really, this is the type of kids' shows that's out there these days? Creating "healthy" sibling rivalry? If that show was out when I was a kid I'm pretty sure my brother would have looked at me, then Ruby, then me.. then strangled me in my sleep. Seriously.

What ever happened to quality shows like Bugs Bunny and The Muppets and Fraggle Rock and Mr. Dressup? Don't even get me started on "In the Night Garden", or whatever it's called. That show gives me the heebie jeebies. There is something not right with that program. Every night at 7:30 pm, toddlers everywhere zone into this weird show that would make oompa loompas look trustworthy. See? I can't even mention it without getting my "panties" in a bunch.

I really need to do some psychotherapy where I draw out my  feelings...

"And why do you feel that you have these angry thoughts against a fictional rabbit?"

"Flopsy."

This, this one was hard to write

Kristine over at Wait in the Van does this Product of Silence series, and I connected with her theme and wanted to write a piece for it. Here it is, be gentle.

**

Depression.

This is such a heavy word. It takes the air out of a room. It makes people uncomfortable and squirmy. Why? I don't know.

I was "sad" a lot as a kid. I don't know if it was depression, but my heart ached. I was never comfortable in my own skin and was a complete worry wart. A couple of years ago I was flipping through an old notebook and found entries from when I was 9 or 10 about how sad I was. To read that my child-self was so sad and so lonely was extremely upsetting. What makes children so sad? Children are supposed to be happy and dance around the maypole with flowers in their hair.

Then, my teenage years. All of my emotions were amplified. I would range from being deliriously happy, to feeling a deep anger and rage, to utterly depressed. My moods owned me, possessed me. I felt alone. I had no idea why I could not control my emotions. There were a few times where I almost dropped out of high school because I couldn't handle it. I've never told anybody before. Luckily I had parents who refused to let me give up. It wasn't until I was 16 or 17 that my cousin told me that depression runs in the family. She'd gone through bouts of depression, my aunts had, and my mom had. My mom? The woman who watched me fall into black holes and saw me crumple to the floor? I was furious with her. How could she keep this information from me? I had felt alone for years and had no idea what I was going through and she had experienced the same? She told me she didn't want me to rely on pills like some people in my family had. But I should have found out from her that I wasn't alone. I was completely against taking medication that alters the chemicals in your brain anyway. Just knowing that I was not alone helped a bit, knowing that I wasn't a freak, that genetics had a small role. I saw my first psychologist and she was amazing. She taught me how to deal with my anxiety before it was too much to handle. How to see the warning signs and proactively stop an oncoming anxiety attack or bout of depression.

Then I started university.

There are certain things that I am still too terrified to say out loud. But I have to, for the integrity of this piece. It's easier to write out anyway, right? This is extremely difficult to write.

There were points in my teenage years were I had fleeting thoughts of suicide. But first year university brought on a whole new low. I spent a few days locked in my bedroom with the lights off and barely got out of bed. Around the time that first semester exams came around, my parents got a terrifying call. They could barely understand me through my sobs, and I was miserable. I wanted it to end. I couldn't deal with the pain anymore. I was tired. I'm sure my parents never imagined they would have to talk me down from the ledge. My parents called a suicide hotline and got them to call me. I had to describe my feelings, had I thought about suicide before? How did I imagine ending my life? Did I have a plan? It made me realize that I didn't want to die. Not yet. The next morning I was sent to see a doctor and prescribed medication. I started seeing a psychologist again. I was told that medication evens out your moods, levels out the highs and lows. I didn't want my highs to go away. Turns out they didn't. That's how high my highs are. The meds helped with the depression and anxiety that I couldn't control, the therapist helped me understand how to deal with it and prevent it.

I still deal with bouts of depression and anxiety, but I can see out of them. I've become very self-analytical and am aware of every single one of my feelings. I enjoy a good cry. I eat a lot when I'm sad. I still have highs and lows. But I have a lot of highs. I feel comfortable in my skin. Maybe too comfortable. I don't walk around naked, but when you see me, you see the real me. You see all of me. Good, bad, and terrifyingly weird.

When I hit "Publish Post" I will probably have an anxiety attack. I just told you my innermost darkest secrets. Not all of them, but some of the more heavy duty ones. And your reaction?

Man vs. Minion

All I want in life is a minion.

Seriously. If you know me, you've heard me talk about them before. If I've ever had staff working for me, I have been known to call them minions "accidentally" once or twice. Oh, to have a minion would complete my life.

Don't judge. You like doing the dishes? You get daily back rubs? Your laundry puts itself away? Didn't think so.

I could get a man I suppose. But men are unreliable and there's a likelihood that he would put "lay flat to dry" clothes in the dryer. I don't need that.

Let me introduce you to Shmork. Shmork has my breakfast ready in the morning. He has a coffee waiting by my bedside and helps me get my ass out of bed. Since he's done my laundry, and knows what the weather is going to be like, he knows exactly what type of outfit I should wear each day. If I'm at work and need a coffee or snack, he is more than happy to drop a little something off for me. When I get home, I open the door to the smell of a delicious dinner. He knows all my mom's recipes. I never have to worry about not having booze in the house because Shmork knows how much I love my wine/beer/martini/cocktail.

Shmork does more than just help out around the house too. He helps make me a better person. He gets me involved in dance classes, and he even learned how to knit so that he could teach me how! Amazing, right? If I ever am in the mood for some hubba hubba, Shmork goes out and finds a man, bops him over the head and brings him to me.

Now, while all of you suckers are trying to find "the one", or fuming over your spouse leaving their clothing on every chair in the house, I will have my Shmork.

Shmork will never leave me.
Shmork will never cheat on me with another human. (He likes cats though so I can't have a cat...)
Shmork won't pretend he's listening to me while I ask him something, then look up at me with glazed eyes.
Shmork will not lie to me.
Shmork will never stand me up.
Shmork will never clog the toilet.
Shmork will never call me to bail him out of jail.
In short, Shmork will never let me down.

Shmork, made on Despicable Me's Minion Maker

What's that you say? The likelihood of me finding a minion, let alone one named Shmork, is highly unlikely? Perhaps my best option is to name my first born Shmork, or just Minion.

I made you some edible panties

First off, the word "panties" makes me uncomfortable. I managed a lingerie store for a year and even that didn't make me feel comfortable using the word. I prefer underwear, underroos, tighty whiteys, anything but panties.

Now, onto the good stuff: Valentine's Day. We all know it's a scam, but I'm pretty sure it's not going anywhere. Just like those princes in Namibia with my inheritance. Yes, V-day is retarded. But maybe it's because it's our own fault. I'm single, so I don't have the problem of being disappointed on V-day. But quietly expecting for fireworks and romance from your significant other is going to disappoint you. Seriously. Nobody's a mind reader (except for magicians) and you should have figured that out over Christmas (or Hannukah or whatever) when you got something from the Body Shop.

And if Valentine's Day was successful with more couples, I'd have more friends with late November birthdays.

I'm not saying I've had great V-days. My first Valentine's in a relationship, I came face to face with homemade edible panties. I'm all about DIYs.. but umm.. edible panties? I was 16, my first relationship and in love, and freaking out over these sticky candy "panties" made of fruit roll ups and licorice and other assorted goodies. Would I pretty please wear them? Hells no. Candy is for eating and no detours on the way to my belly. Now I see that it was super sweet and creative, but at 16, I did not appreciate them. I hope he still does DIYs for his girlfriends, just maybe not edible undies.

My last Valentine's in a relationship started off ok. The boyfriend made dinner, but I was extremely sick and left halfway through to go to the clinic. He didn't come with me, instead I later found out that he messaged a girl (stupid dirty fucking bitch) to complain about how I didn't appreciate his dinner. :)

I don't hate Valentine's Day, probably because I don't hate being single and I love the candy. And because February 15th means SALE CANDY! And more specifically, SALE CINNAMON HEARTS!! I literally eat them by the pound. I will be at Shoppers bright and early to get my hands on some of that sale candy.

Get in my belly

As an aside, I need to tell you all a joke that my brother said over dinner last time I was home. Here's how it all went down:

Me: Why is there an extra 'r' in February? And why isn't there also an extra 'r' in January? It should be Janruary.
Brother: It's Febrrrrrrruary because it's cold. Brrrr

That was my most favourite lame joke ever told. He normally has good one liners, which made the groaner that much better. Had to be there. Had to be there.

Summer Sisters - or - When I Was Almost Eaten by Bears

Before some of you little pervs decide to stick your head in the gutter - no this post is not about a hot lesbian summer love affair. That's next week.

This is about me and my summer sister from when I was growing up. A and I (I am still not familiar with the etiquette about talking about people unbeknownst to them) were born 3 months apart, and our moms were best friends. We were complete opposites, but in the summer when I would visit her in the countryside of BC, we always had so much fun. She was a wild child. I was this tiny, shy, quiet girl, and she was loud, outgoing and always rearing to go. Our opposite personalities became more pronounced the older we got, but that never made any difference when we were together.

Her mom pointed out one summer that whenever I was around, something crazy always happened. Looking back, I'm wondering if maybe I was a bad luck charm!

One summer when I was really little I was staying at their place and we experienced one of the worst storms I can remember. That's saying a lot since I used to live in Calgary. Normally, I love storms. You would have to peel me from the windows. Black outs? I loved them. But this storm shook their log house. Log houses should NOT shake. I thought I was going to die in that house, and I cried like the little girl that I was.

Another summer not long after, A's brother's friends went bridge jumping. They lived on the Slocan River in BC which is pretty fast in some areas. A couple miles up the road was a bridge that the kids used to jump from into the river below. When one of the girls went to jump her arm got caught on the railing, and the weight of her body falling sliced her hand right through the bone. By the time she was rushed back to the house, she had lost a lot of blood and her hand was barely attached to her arm. I'm pretty sure she's still alive, and that her hand was ok... but I blocked out the rest of it after I accidentally looked at her hand.

See the rapid progression of events here people??

Then when I was 15 I was chased by bears. Ya, BEARS.

That summer we had played Clue 52 times and gone up and down the river on tubes countless times a day. Floating down that river on a tube is my happy place. With the sun shining on my face, the heat of the inner tube combined with the icy water, the mountains and clear blue skies as my back drop, I was in heaven. Occasionally we would lie on the beach, then float back down the river to her house.

One time we were getting up the courage to swim in the freezing water when we saw what looked to be 2 people swimming towards us, which was odd. Then A realized that it was a mama bear and her cub, clearly in distress. The cub must have fallen in the water and the mama was trying to catch up to her. Peeps, I don't know if y'all know this... but there if there is one thing in this world that you do not mess with - it's a mama bear. Here is what then went through my head: "holy motherfucking jesus fucking goddamn fucking fuck I am going to die".

I will let this sink in for you.

So we scrambled back onto the rocky beach and then proceeded to wade through the inlet where there were BLOODSUCKING LEECHES towards the steep "hill" that led to the road. We had to climb a broken ladder and maneuver some rocks to get up to the road, which suddenly seemed very far away. We knew we had to get to the road quickly because the next piece of land where the bears could get out of the river was our little beach. A had just had knee surgery from a bad ski fall and climbing + running were pretty difficult for her to manage. Here I am at the bottom of the hill/cliff pushing her up to the road and is she rushing? No.

Now that we're finally up on the road, I'm begging her to try to run. I'm crying. I believe that death in the form of an angry mama bear who blames us for her cub's probable drowning is right behind us. I think she smirked at my level of fear. Then we hear barking. And because running from bears isn't enough, we look behind us to see that 2 attack dogs are chasing us. I believe they were dobermans but my life was flashing before my eyes so I could be mistaken. (I actually love dobermans and have met a couple of the suckiest pups ever, but when you train a dog to ATTACK, they are fucking scary.) Oh, so did I mention that there were a few questionable neighbours who were growing questionable herbs in their fields? They had dogs.

So it's at this point that A gets her ass in gear and starts to try to run. Thanks, babe. Out of nowhere, I see a streak of fur coming at me on my right and it's a massive german shepherd. AKA my savior. He starts bounding after the other 2 dogs and they bugger off. I'm still in shock and wondering when the bears are going to come eat me. We hear barking coming from up the mountain behind us and hope that the bears are being chased by any combination of the 3 dogs. Home is close by and I crumble into tears.

A and I recount the story for her parents, who, like me, are shocked and glad we're ok. However 5 minutes later, it's not such a big deal and all of a sudden I'm a pansy. Anybody else want to rewind that story and tell me HOW I'M A PANSY?!

I'm just glad I didn't shit my pants. That would actually have been embarrassing. I'm also glad I didn't get any leeches on me. Because I hate leeches. Fuckers.

Mama bear & cub

 

 

I was gonna have a picture of an angry bear but it actually scared me too much to look at the pictures. So I put this one up. Do not google "angry bear" or "bear attack". Just don't.

And here is where I bare my soul

I have a secret: I'm kind of emotional.

I know, right?

But really, I have mushy insides. And feel lots. Sometimes I cry against my will. I'm all "no, I'm a tough bitch", and my insides are all like "CRY CRY CRY CRY SNOT CRY CRY CRY". The truth is, I'm a huge softy. Puppies, babies, puppies, they make me coo and and warm my heart.

Looking back, when I was younger I was naive and optimistic and warmhearted. I was a softy and very emotional. Too emotional. I had anxiety and depression problems, and on top of it all, I wore my heart on my sleeve. I'm sure that about half of teenagers experience the same thing. I was so up and down, I really had no control over my emotions. I will never forget the time that I was in the car with my guy friends and laughing to the point of tears; those tears became real and I started crying uncontrollably. Boys don't deal with tears very well, teenage boys just get nervous and scared and very uncomfortable. It was fun. Another time during Christmas I started crying over dinner because I missed my papa J who had just passed... years before.

If you ask my parents about a random emotional outburst of mine, they will tell you this story: me at 9, 10, 11 crying over seemingly nothing. When they can finally get a word in over the sobbing and hiccuping, asking me what's wrong, they hear this: "I... MISS... JILLI..AN!!" You see, Jillian was my best friend from when I was 2 until she moved away when I was 5. FIVE YEARS OLD PEOPLE. And here I was having an emotional melt down years later. Embarrassing. So now when my parents think I'm crying over nothing, they ask me if I miss Jillian. Fuckers.

I think that because I was always so emotional growing up, I started to keep the mushy ones in. I didn't want to be seen as this emotionally fucked up girl who shouldn't be taken seriously because she couldn't control her tears. So I was tougher. Showed off my muscles more. Grunted more. It wasn't hard to put the mushy away because I've always had a dark, sarcastic side. However before, where I had the angel on one shoulder and devil on the other, now the devil gave the angel a black eye and she got pissed off and left.

Huh, this post has turned into more than I bargained for. I didn't intend for it to be a soul baring post. I walked into this post thinking "hey, I'm gonna write about how much I used to be a sissy". Didn't know I'd end up psycho analyzing myself. Yay.

So, for the worst post in the history of posts.... I'm going to end this one before you all find out more about my insides. I'm going to stick to my dark side from now on. This side is less funny.

Snowmageddon

Any of you living on the US east coast or Ontario have heard the winter storm warnings over the past couple of days. And if you're in the States, then please tell me it's not as bad as I've heard.

Because I'm not ready for SNOWMAGEDDON. Not when I have to walk 5 miles, uphill both ways, with the wind in my face the whole time. Ok, so it's not 5 miles, and it's not uphill. But I do have to walk. And SHOVEL.

I'm still waiting for the news to say "hide your children, lock up your valuables!". Because those weather people are starting to scare me. Anybody hear a reporter say SNOWMAGEDDON yet? Should I be writing out a will tonight in case I'm buried in an avalanche on my way to work? Not that anybody wants my debt. Too bad you couldn't put your debt in your will, because I have a couple people in mind of who I would add to the will.

I wish I was a kid for the day tomorrow. Because you know that all the schools are gonna be closed, and that snowman building conditions will be prime. I'd also build an igloo. My cousin once built an igloo using some snow and a lot of water. It was pretty sweet, except that I was too big to go inside of it. Sad sad day.

Here are some random flashbacks as I sit here thinking about winters when I was a kid:

- I used to catch the bus when I lived in Calgary, and this one kid had a pole he would hork onto to judge how cold it was. I say hork instead of spit because you gotta have a little something extra for added velocity and weight. We could judge how cold it was by how long it would take to freeze on the pole. Clever, right?
- I missed the bus once when it was -30C and there were a few feet of snow. I had been standing there waiting for only 15 minutes, but I was so cold I couldn't move from my spot. Good thing my dad drove by and found me frozen in a snowbank.
- There were a few winters where I would ski almost every weekend. My mom had organized ski lessons for the kids at school and so we'd hit up COP (Calgary Olympic Park) a few times a week. My favourite part was when the sun would set and the lights would hit the snow. It was magical. I would stay on the slopes as long as I could. Even if I had to pee. Even if I maybe peed a little one time because I tried to hold it too long. But don't tell anybody that.
- When snow just naturally sticks together and requires almost no effort to make a snowball, you HAVE to have a snowball fight. It's a rule. Being friends with guys most often meant that I got pummeled with snowballs first. But did I ever lose? No. My winning strategy? Let them pummel me with so many snowballs that they tell me to give up. Refuse surrender. More pummeling. Refuse surrender, body is numb anyway. More pummeling. Victory, because the other side has given up because this girl looks like a drowned rat. A victorious drowned rat.

So tomorrow, I wish that I was a kid again. So I could have another victorious snowball fight or build an igloo. Alas, I will be shoveling my way out of my apartment and manning a non-snow fort (work) all day. Big sigh.

Bring it on snowmageddon. Bring. It. On.
(But be gentle)

I take winter very seriously.

You think YOUR dreams are weird?

I've always had very vivid dreams. If I have a nightmare, it's normally recurring and I feel ill the next day. I often go back to the same houses in my dreams, and story lines will pick up where they left off. They rarely make any sense whatsoever. Some of my recurring dreams/nightmares as a kid were:

- tigers chasing me through the jungle. This is the first nightmare that I remember having, and just the beginning of my running dreams
- a giant trying to find me in my house. I could NEVER hide well enough, he would always be able to see me through one of my windows. I was always afraid of robbers (and aliens, but that's another story) coming into the house and that's probably where this nightmare stemmed from.
- using my arms to fly. I loved this one. In a lot of my dreams I can still "fly" or float. I would just flap my arms and I could soar at first over small objects, then over trees and then I was high in the sky. Because I can never run fast enough in my dreams, flying comes in handy.
- dinosaurs. I would like to thank Jurassic Park for this one. I was 8 when this movie came out and was both terrified and fascinated by it. I don't think I minded the leaf eaters, it was more when T-Rex came on the scene that shit hit the fan. And because I don't think I had discovered flying yet and couldn't run fast or drive, it was pretty scary. Don't laugh.
- as I got older my dreams became more vivid; now if I have a nightmare I won't ever ever EVER forget it. I still remember the first time I died and the first time I shot a gun. Fucked, huh?

So the other night I have a dream that I lost both of my feet. I can't remember exactly how, but I think it was my fault. I blame this happening because I just finished Aron Ralston's book 127 Hours: Between a Rock and a Hard Place. He has to cut off his own hand after being trapped under a boulder for 6 days. So throughout all of my dreams that night, I had no feet. I was using those arm crutches/canes and regular crutches to get everywhere. Man, was it ever slow. Then this doctor told me he could make me new feet and I was all excited because I have always wanted to be a size 7 shoe. Seriously. I'm an 8 1/2... ok, 9 sometimes.. and believe that shoes always look better in a size 7. Sigh. Oh, and then in my dream I found out where my high school ex lived and he made me this amazing dinner of shrimp and strawberries (really?!) and then the house turned into somewhere else and a microphone wire was trying to go down my throat. I'll end it there because it just gets weirder after the microphone wire incident.

Yeah, you thought your dreams were weird? Y'all got nothing on my dreams.

T-Rex

Donating My Body to Science

I've never been a huge fan of doctors. Mostly because whenever I've gone to see one, they haven't been able to figure out what's wrong.

Let's go back about 6 years ago to when I was having some serious stomach issues. I'd seen a few doctors and finally went to talk to a gastroenterologist. I had to get a barium test done. If any of you have had one of these, grimace with me. I had to drink a litre of "strawberry" flavoured chalky barium, then some other mixture to keep air bubbles from forming. This barium had to work its way through my body and light up all my organs, so I was chalk full (get it?? chock.. chalk..) of liquid in a sweet hospital gown for a few hours. In the basement of a hospital. It was cold. Did I mention I was in a hospital gown? And I had to pee. Then when I'm on the cold x-ray table and the technician is finding all my organs I realize that I'm partially exposed. I realize this only after the technician covers me up again. The guy is fiddling around with the thingy that x-rays me (lamens terms) and I ask if there's a problem. "Well, I can't find your lower bowel." Most people would be concerned, but I had hope. Finally, an answer to my stomach problems!! Turns out, the technician just sucked. I do have a lower bowel, it was just hiding. Damn. No answers.

Fast forward to 2 years later. Another physical anomaly.  This time I had hit my head against a wall pretty hard and ended up with a giant goose egg on my forehead. Six months later.... the bump was still there. And hard. Yes, I waited 6 months before going to the doctor. I'm lying there and having my head prodded by my doctor and then she excuses herself. Remember that scene in Friends where Chandler has a third nipple and all those doctors surround him and probe him? Yeah, my doctor comes in with all her colleagues and they all wonder over what the hell this hard bump is on my head. After an ultrasound and some x-rays by multiple specialists, I have an answer of what it might be, but not why. It's inflamed bone. No, I still don't know what that is, other than a solid mass of bone. I have 2 options: get my head cut open and the bone shaved off and end up with a large scar, or hope it goes away. Rather than have an even more obvious mark on my face, I opted to hope for it to go away.

Another 6 months later it started to break up into smaller bumps and they slowly shifted and got smaller. You're thinking that maybe there was an alien or some sort of mutant bug in my head, aren't you?? I would have too, but I thought maybe the doctors could tell the difference between bone and mutant alien bug. One of the bumps started moving towards my eye socket and I was worried that it would float into my brain and KILL ME. My doctor said it "shouldn't" be a problem. I am still alive. After another few months it was finally mostly gone. I stopped getting questions on whether I got into a fight.

Then last weekend I was wrestling with my friend's dog. The little bugger pushed me over and stepped on my head. I have a hardcore scratch above my eye and above my eyebrow. They're pretty sweet. Guess what's back though... 2 little bumps of inflamed bone. Now I have to ask, "WHY GOD, WHY?!!"

UPDATE: I wrote this a few weeks ago and was thinking that the post was kind of boring. Now it's been awhile since I have posted anything so I decided to go back to this one. I now have 3 bumps but they're slightly reduced. One of my friends is in med school and I have made it his mission to find out what the hell happened to my head. I'm sure he's somewhat busy being in med school and all, but I will be knocking down his door the day he graduates.

I would also like to add that sober Alex managed to get a drunk Alex type bruise on the back of her leg. How did she do this? We don't know. In honor of that bruise, I'm going to show you a bruise I got in the summer. I woke up with it after a night of debauchery and nobody remembered how it could have happened. Enjoy. Try not to be jealous.

My entire thigh.

You're welcome. :)
Tootles friends!

Me, Strugglesaurus and Drunk Alex

There are so many times that I wish I was more artistic. Like last night, for instance. I was lying in bed and then BAM! This stupendous idea hits me. What if there was a cartoon about Strugglesaurus and Drunk Alex? I mean, if you put these two characters together, it's just cartoon genius! Strugglesaurus would be a t-rex (it's how I've always imagined her - awkward arms, massive tail that gets in the way) and DA would probably need one of those kids' leashes. Poor Strugglesaurus would always have to keep track of her and be tugging on the leash and sooner or later would bump her head on the wall after pulling the leash too hard. Then DA would wonder, yet again, where all the bruises came from. See?! Cartoon genius. Except... I have no artistic talent. Zero. It's all unfolding inside my head and I have nowhere to put it! Also, I'd probably run out of ideas after about 3 cartoons.

Can we just pause though for a minute? I curse my genetics for this one. My family plays Pictionary and I can say with confidence that we are all artistically challenged. However my brother and I kick ass every time. They should rename the game to Family Feud though... it's not like there's any sore losers in my family or anything, but nobody likes losing is all...Oh, right back to my story. If my parents were just more artistic then maybe I'd have a chance at this whole cartoon thing.

I would also be able to illustrate the kids' book I plan on writing some day. Which would make it even more awesome. A moment of silence please, for me being artistically challenged.

I thought for a minute about whether I should draw something up to prove how horrible I am at drawing. Then I figured that maybe I should keep one or two things to myself. That's how bad it is. Maybe DA will guest post some day and she can show you her drawing skills.

Hope y'all had a good holiday and New Years!

PS - It's 2011?! Wtf? I'm stuck in 2006.