.piNk♥cruSh.

Won't you... be my neighbour.

Wed, 15 May 2013 17:10:00 -0400

Besides the time I basically lived in a factory converted to apartment, I’ve had bad luck with neighbours. I place a lot of blame – it’s not my fault that I have fun/sex/cute high heels that I want to wear around the house whenever I feel like it – and honestly, I think most of it has been justified, but sometimes I wonder if maybe it’s really me that’s a complete asshole and I’m just too blamey to realize it.

[I think] I was raised right. I say please and thank you and I am pretty much always concerned with other people’s well-being and happiness. I take my shoes off in people’s houses, I tell people their babies are adorable or their wedding was so much fun even when neither are true because those are the kinds of lies that make you a nice person to be around.

Of course, I’m not perfect. I screw up plenty. I forget to call my grandma and thank her for sending me cookies sometimes and I once forgot my mom’s birthday until after I’d spoken to her a couple times that day, but generally, I think you could find a lot more assholey people out there than me.

Neighbour-wise, I honestly don’t think I’m as terrible I feel. I’m not smoking crack or selling guns to kids or dropping kettle bells on the floor at 3am every Monday. But I do live my life. I have parties because nothing makes me happier than people telling me they had fun at my place. I sometimes chase my cats around the house because they’re getting fat and I’d rather chase them around til they get skinny, than tell them they’re fat and give them body image issues.

Maybe it’s because I’m 27 and I feel I’m entitled to suck the life out of the 3 remaining years of my twenties. Maybe it’s because I’ve never had a neighbour I hated soooo much as to leave them nasty notes or tell them how to live their lives. Maybe it’s because the apartments I’ve chosen have the unfortunate problem of no sound barrier between myself and the people who live around me.

Maybe it’s all of those things rolled into one but I can’t help but wonder if I’m the only one that’s the problem.

Because I don’t want to be.

The time I was sexually assaulted by a massage therapist

Mon, 06 May 2013 14:50:00 -0400

2 years ago I was sexually assaulted by a Registered Massage Therapist at the Stillwater Spa in Toronto. I don’t like using the phrase ‘sexually assaulted’ because it makes me feel like I’m needlessly playing the victim card but that’s what it was.

I’d been given a gift certificate for the Stillwater Spa as a “congratulations on getting a new job” present, so I took a Friday off work and decided to have a “me” day. I felt pretty uppity as I walked into the spa and got into my robe. I’d never been to a spa before but I pretended that I knew exactly what I was doing. I pretended I wasn’t nervous at all when they told me that my masseur for the day was going to be a man; like I’d had male masseurs alllll the time and it was no big deal.

While he massaged me, he touched parts of me I didn’t think he was allowed to touch without my permission. He grazed parts of my body I know he wasn’t allowed to graze at all. I could feel his breath on me while his hands were all over me and instead of getting up or telling him to stop, my body clenched up and I froze.

I did nothing. And I hated myself for that.

I’ve read hundreds of articles about women being sexually assaulted in various scenarios. I’ve imagined what I would do if I were ever in a situation like that, myself. The only thing I can tell you, lying on that table in that dark room overwhelmed by the smell of citrus and the sound of waves, is I have never felt more useless in my life. I didn’t scream. I didn’t get up. I laid there, stuck, until the excruciating 60 minutes was over. I got up, I even fucking thanked him, (WTF???) and then I left.

I cried. I didn’t know if I’d been assaulted or if that’s just what a professional massage felt like. I was embarrassed and disappointed that I didn’t say something to someone while I was still there. I even left a tip at the desk because I was so caught off-guard and didn’t want to be rude.

Two days later, I emailed the spa to tell them about the incident and the response I got from the spa was overwhelmingly horrifying. I got the generic, “I’m sorry to hear that you were unsatisfied with your experience at our spa” and the, “I’m surprised by your claim as no one has ever complained about this particular RMT before.” I got the unoriginal, “we’ll talk to him,” and the, “why don’t you come in and have another treatment, on us” [hahaha yeah right] and when all was said and done, I felt like they hadn’t taken me even the slightest bit seriously.

To be honest, I didn’t even know how serious I was. I felt violated and awful but I still wasn’t sure where the line gets drawn when we’re talking about someone professionally touching your body.

I almost felt guilty about getting this man in trouble because what if I was wrong? What if what I felt was just what you feel when you’re naked under a sheet in a room alone with a guy you don’t know? And then I thought back to clenching my thighs so tight I thought I was going to have bruises and thought back to counting down the seconds until I got to put my clothes back on again, and I remember why exactly it was I wanted them to know that he assaulted me…

Because he did.

As far as I know, nothing ever happened to him. He probably wasn’t reprimanded and he definitely wasn’t fired.

Shortly after it happened, I wrote an online review about my experience at the spa and last week, a girl contacted me to tell me she, too, had been sexually assaulted by the same man at the same spa. Maybe if I had reported him to the College of Massage Therapists of Ontario or to the police, that maybe I would have saved this girl from the same experience I went through.

For that, I feel terrible. And for that, I decided that I needed to report him to someone who might actually take me seriously.

It’s a messed up thing when the person who got assaulted is the one who feels bad about it.

So don’t. Because you have nothing to feel bad about.

Sexual Assault Support links:

http://www.sexualassaultsupport.ca/

Sexual Assault Support Centres in your city:

http://www.sexualassaultsupport.ca/Resources/Documents/Ontario%20SACs%20Public.pdf

2012: A Year In Review

Wed, 02 Jan 2013 22:18:00 -0500

Judging by people’s Facebook status updates between December 31^st and this morning, everyone seemed to have a really shitty and difficult 2012 [I can’t remember a time when people weren’t being constantly complainy about something but I can’t believe that everyone’s years were all complete shit].

I didn’t.

2012 was a good year. I remember the good more than the bad because no one takes photos of the times they were crying their eyes out because life sucked so bad.

So let’s review last year, shall we? It’s really cathartic.

Last year, I turned 26 and for the first time since I started planning birthday parties for myself, I didn’t make it a week-long, 2-3 party spectacle. I threw a birthday party for a good friend and opted for the quiet dinner with girlfriends for myself instead. Obviously before I came home and got shitfaced on cheap wine all by myself, because for the first time in 3 years, my dad decided to call me. As a belated birthday present to myself, I flew to California to visit my HSB for 4 days and ended JANUARY with a big, fat bang.

FEBRUARY was boring but I did get to see One Direction with K at Much Music and the boyfriend did surprise me with a candlelit dinner on Valentine’s Day, which confirmed my suspicions that he’s pretty much the best thing ever.

In MARCH, I went to visit my dad for the first time in 3 years, which basically gave me a mini-stroke. I also found out that I have asthma, which really means nothing to me except that sometimes I have to awkwardly inhale my puffer on public transit and people give me weird looks. It also means my lung doctor thinks I’m an idiot for having 2 cats that I’m allergic to because it just makes my asthma worse, to which I say, “c’est la vie” and “le shut up.”

In APRIL, the boyfriend and I went on our very first [YAY!] all-inclusive vacation to Mexico [with a couple friends]. It was my first all-inclusive vacation, I got to swim with dolphins, and for the first time in my adult life, I got to wake up, have a strawberry daiquiri on the beach, and not think about work for 8 whole days. I totally understand why people go on vacation every year. I’ve clearly been missing out.

I don’t know what prompted me to finally decide to do it, but in MAY I finally posted a really honest letter I’d written but never sent to my grandparents. It was harsh and real, and kiiiiinda hateful, but it felt so good to get it off my chest and start the warm months off on the right foot. I spent the rest of the month attending birthday parties, boat parties, Cajunga parties, and was asked to be in a print ad for a hair salon, which is hilarious because I have the worst natural hair and am the least fit person I know [the ad involved me being on an elliptical machine for 3 hours]. I do these things mostly so I have fun stories to tell and random pictures to remind me that sometimes, my life is really, really good.

In JUNE, I attended my first wedding in 10+ years, I spent a lot of time at cottages, spent a lot of money at Sirens on floral shorts and hi-lo hem shirts, and went on a last-minute road trip to Chicago with the boyfriend to celebrate our 3 year anniversary. Did I mention we somehow made it to 3 years? Holy shit, I’m a grown up. Babies next? No. Don’t even think about it.

JULY was probably the quietest month of the summer as far as events and random happenings go. I took a lot of photos of my outfits and of my cats, I sprained my foot dancing to a Backstreet Boys song at a 90’s bar on girl’s night, and I fell in love with new foods like honey-balsamic dressing and Big Fat Burrito burritos. I also started winning a bunch of random Facebook contests [Dufferin Mall gift card, La Senza gift card, Vero Moda jeather pants, etc.] and getting enough free samples that I’ll probably never need to buy another bottle of shampoo, conditioner, or moisturizer again.

In AUGUST, I attended the wedding of a girl I used to live with in university which basically doubled as a Brock reunion and was, by far, the best weekend of my year including my birthday weekend. It’s possibly tied with Mexico but I have no idea how I would ever measure that accurately. I spent more time at cottages, taking pictures of my outfits and cats, and made one of the biggest decisions of my life that I haven’t really told anyone about and am only mentioning it now in case I decide later than I want to talk about it and then I’ll have a frame of reference.

I really hate the fall. It’s when I begin my hibernation. A moved in to my small-ish 1 bedroom apartment in SEPTEMBER and taught me how to be less OCD and uptight. We celebrated the 1 year birthday of our kitties [ie. tons more cat photos], I joined a dodgeball team, and discovered the dangerous joy that is eBay.

My 3rd wedding of the year was in OCTOBER which in my opinion is a strange time of year to have a wedding because it’s likely to be cold/rainy/snowy [knowing Stratford, which is where the wedding was]. After 2 years of living in my apartment, I finally decided to repaint and redecorate my bedroom and add a little pinspiration to the rest of my apartment. Thank fuck. For Halloween this year I decided to be a loofah - a costume I made from scratch which involved a couple pieces of elastic and a lotttttttt of hot pink tulle. I also went on a roller coaster for the first time since I was in elementary school and didn’t die or throw up or cry afterwards, which I think says a lot about my personal growth.

I also kind of stopped blogging in October because I had absolutely nothing to say that was entertaining, witty, or insightful, even though someone I know told me it’s likely because I’m just happy and content with my life. It’s probably true.

I don’t know if it’s because I do more at the end of the year to make up for the fact I did nothing significant at the beginning or because it’s just more recent and my memory sucks, but NOVEMBER was.. eventful, to say the least. I learned how to do an entirely new aspect of my job [while covering someone’s vacation] and I got so stressed out about doing it well that I ended up in the hospital….. 4 times in 5 days. What was initially diagnosed as stress-related chest pain, actually ended up being esophagitis, which basically means I couldn’t eat or drink anything without being in the most pain I’ve ever been in in my life. Long story short, I should have lost weight from not eating for over a week, but I didn’t because I ate about 6 burritos after I could swallow real food again. #fatgirlontheinside is an understatement, my friends. I need some serious burrito rehab.

Also in November, we celebrated the boyfriend’s 26th birthday, I got a new TV and a way more grown up living room set-up, bawled my eyes out at the 5th and final Twilight movie, and went to NYC on a girls trip with M.

Out of all the months, I think DECEMBER was my favourite. I really stepped out of the bubble I’d been living in for the past 11 months and tried a lot of new things. I ate foods I didn’t think I liked and I liked them, I took out [and with the exception of a couple slip ups/major events, have kept out] my weave and have been short-hairing it for a while, and I’ve even readjusted my viewpoints on some things. I helped plan and execute my work Christmas Party, I spent 6 days in Stratford, and I strengthened the intermittent relationship I have with my dad. Christmas with family is always nice, though I did miss the boyfriend quite a bit while he was galavanting across Costa Rica with his family. I got absolutely spoiled with presents and although I don’t always say it [I think I do say it sometimes], I’m really grateful for everything I have.

It wasn’t easy being in Stratford for those 6 days. My uncle passed away which meant that I had to face my father’s side of the family for the first time since they shunned me years ago. It was hard. I cried for my uncle, I cried for my widowed aunt, and I cried because I hated everyone in that room so much for what they did to me. I cried because my mom, for whatever reason, just couldn’t find it in herself to support me when I needed her the most. It was hard.

And I’m deciding to be a better person because of it.

Fuck yes, 2012 was stressful. It was busy, exciting, and it barely feels like it’s been an entire year. But regardless of whether most people remember the shitty parts, I’m choosing to remember the good. Because eventually, it just isn’t anyone else’s responsibility to make you happy but your own.

Happy 2013-ing everyone! I wish you a safe, happy, exciting, crazy, stressful, fantastic year.

xxoo,

Be As Disgusted As You Want

Thu, 27 Dec 2012 20:05:00 -0500

You want an explanation for what happened today?

Here goes:

I was 14 when my parents divorced. I was, by legal and basically anyone’s standards, a child. I didn’t mail Christmas/birthday cards. I didn’t make phone calls to anyone but my friends parent’s houses after checking to make sure it was okay with my mom. I didn’t drive so therefore, any and all visits were decided by my parents whims and desires.

I wasn’t an adult. YOU all were.

For most of my adult life, I was raised by one parent. It wasn’t the parent that was your blood relative, but for years, she [and sometimes even my dad - we’ll give him a bit of credit here] drove me to visit as many of you as they could. They would ask me to call. They would have me sign the card that went with their gift.

I was raised to be a respectful girl. I was taught manners, the value of family, and was shown an enormous amount of love and support.

And none of you [with the exception of one person; the person I was there to see today] contributed to any of that. You shut me out. All of you.

Not once did I get any calls - on birthdays, on Christmas, on graduation, or, god forbid, just to see how I was doing.

I’m an adult now; I can understand that things will change and that people will grow apart. I can understand only seeing family on birthdays, at Christmas, and for special occasions, but what I can’t understand is placing the blame on the child - a child who’s father doesn’t acknowledge that he has a family and who’s mother was told she wasn’t welcome in your family. You all blame me for never reaching out, for never calling, for never visiting, for never trying. Except I did. I did for a long time. I eventually just got fucking tired of it.

I saw how you all looked at me today when I walked into that funeral home. I saw the shock in your faces when I walked into the room and looked around. I saw how you looked at me when I walked passed you - those of you who didn’t have the maturity to come and speak to me - and I saw how you looked at me when I walked passed my grandparents without saying a word. If you think I couldn’t see the disgust in your eyes, you’re wrong.

And you know what? I feel okay about that inside, because I know I was raised to never do to anyone what you’ve done to me.

So be as disgusted as you want.

Stratford Diaries: Part 6

Thu, 27 Dec 2012 19:40:00 -0500

I hate shopping malls at Christmas (or even most Sundays). I hate children running around unchaperoned, I hate little old ladys walking soooooo increddddibly slowwwwly, I hate moms looking for deals; pushing, shoving, and bumping their ways through the stores because they’re so god damned oblivious to their surroundings.

But for some reason, I really wanted to go Boxing Day shopping this year. I hadn’t really been shopping much before Christmas because I finished buying gifts so early this year [I was so on the ball it wasn’t even funny]. I was obviously in withdrawal. Mall withdrawal.

My mom and I woke up early(ish) and headed off to London because we did Kitchener last year and the Biebs ended up showing up and the mall got locked down for a while.

For some reason, this year I had patience. I didn’t mind the 20+ minute waits in line to pay and I ended up buying something in almost every single store we went in, which was really unusual.

For a grand total of $65.00 [+ a gift certificate, which I don’t count], I walked away with a pair of brown cowboy boots, oxblood booties, blue harem pants, a vegan leather peplum tube top, and a pretty sapphire necklace [which was my biggest score for $1.98].

Considering how often I switch up my footwear [rarely], I am taking home an additional 3 pairs of shoes/boots this Christmas [including an amazing pair of moccasins that I got from miss A].

As per usual, I napped in the afternoon/early evening, had a late dinner, watched a movie with my mama bear and went to bed early in preparation for the incredibly shit day I’m expecting to have tomorrow.

Hope Santa was good to you all and I hope no one was mauled while Boxing Day shopping!

Wish me luck at the funeral and on my drive home. I’m going to need it for both!

[this is what happens anytime someone gets a new Mac]

Stratford Diaries: Part 5

Thu, 27 Dec 2012 00:28:00 -0500

I can’t believe it’s already Christmas. I mean, it feels like forever since I was home last year - sitting around, doing nothing and being miserable I wasn’t in Mexico with the boyfriend or in Toronto with my friends - but at the same time, I can’t believe it’s been another entire year.

So much has happened. Ups, downs, Mexico, Chicago, New York, a new roommate, new friends, meet-ups with old friends, rekindling things with my dad, better fashion sense, better home decor, big decisions, big responsibilities, bigger kitties… just so much.

I can’t believe it’s been an entire year.

This Christmas we had family over to our place which was great because I got to spend time snuggling my babies in between taking drink orders and eating turkey.

I opened stockings with my mom in the morning, made a pit-stop at my dad’s for a brief Christmas visit, and came back just in time to exchange prezzies with A and her dad before everyone else showed up.

Christmases aren’t the same as they used to be. They’re not all innocence and giggles and everyone glad to just be in each other’s company.

Everyone’s basically grown up and have different priorities, opinions, needs. It’s an obligation instead of an anticipation and if the presents weren’t being exchanged or the turkey wasn’t being eaten, I’m afraid we wouldn’t have all that much to say to each other. I guess it happens with families just as much with friends. It’s only now that I’m realizing it.

I got some really great text messages on Christmas and got some obviously obligatory responses. It’s funny how it’s only been a year and so much has happened.

So much has changed.

Merry Christmas.

[always, always in pink]

[mimosas + sisters + photo booth]

[missing this guy x100000]

[apparently my mom used to dress me exclusively Amish]

Stratford Diaries: Part 4

Tue, 25 Dec 2012 22:58:59 -0500

Christmas Eve. Somehow, I survived both the year and being at home for 4 days without wanting to gouge my eyes out. I don’t want to imply that drinking every night helped me coupe, but that can’t exactly be a coincidence, can it?

Christmas Eve, my mom and I drove around the city to 4 different breakfast restaurants before we finally found one that was open so I could get the second enjoyable omelette of my lifetime and a much needed coffee. I feel like I’ve been seriously under-caffeinated since I’ve been home, which I would have thought would make me bitchier but has actually seemed to have the reverse affect.

So far, this was the most relaxing day of my trip home – I only had 3 things planned and they were all pretty spread apart. It gave me time for naps [multiple], episodes of One Tree Hill, going through boxes and boxes of old photos, and sending 1 million texts to the boyfriend because I was worried might have died in Costa Rica.

I spent some time with my dad in the afternoon, which is getting less and less weird. I’m actually happy about it, to be honest. As much as I didn’t think I would be.

Yesterday I also found out a relative I used to be very close to but haven’t spoken to in years, passed away. This trip has been so whirlwind, nothing really seems real. I haven’t had a good cry in days so I think it’ll all kind of catch up to me when I get back home. The amount of things I’ve crammed into the 6 days I’m home is overwhelming enough, let alone dealing with the loss. Even if I’m not sure I’m entitled to feel that way.

Merry Christmas Eve, everybody.
I hope Santa treats you well.

[Hawaiian 90’s]

[thrilled Santas]

[with the exception of one slip-up, I’ve been almost entirely weave-free]

[my children]

Stratford Diaries: Part 3

Mon, 24 Dec 2012 23:14:00 -0500

Day 3 in Stratford. I woke up with no early morning obligations, and no real plans other than seeing my cousin from out west and meeting up with my high school bestie.

It was the first day I could actually relax which I’ve learned I basically don’t know how to do unless I’m hung over and even then, I wouldn’t exactly call not being able to get out of bed because my head feels like it’s going to explode, relaxing.

I spent a couple hours of family time with mostly people I barely know and a couple children which, let’s be serious, everyone knows I hate. I don’t know how I’m ever going to be a parent when my attention span and patience for children is so low. On top of the fact I find them the exact opposite of endearing and I don’t enjoy making small talk with them.

What I was promised would be a 30 minute visit, ended up being a 2.5 hour soberfest which I guess I can’t complain because I ate just about my entire weight in meatballs. Something about ground beef really gets me lately. People are going to start thinking I’m pregnant, I eat so many god damned ground beef burritos.

After a 2 hour early-evening nap, a shower, and a re-insertion of my hair extensions, I met up with my HSB [read: High School Bestie for those of you who are clearly just skimming this] for a couple martinis and spent a couple hours catching up about California boys, the boyfriend, our parents, and everything else under the sun. It’s so refreshing to have friends who you can, no matter how much time has passed, pick things right back up with, like no time has gone by at all.
And in true spirit of Christmas/of me growing up and getting over my shit/realizing that Stratford doesn’t hate me and maybe I’ve just been over-dramatic for the past 8 years, I planned to meet up with a couple girls I spent my entire high school life telling absolutely everything to.

And it was so, so good.

I got to spend time with people who knew me at my worst and most innocent, I got to spend time with A and her friends for a change, and I got to remember why bars in Stratford are just the absolute worst. And I didn’t even catch a glimpse of the Biebs yet, despite knowing that he’s been in town since Friday.

I also almost fought some fucking tool-bag 19-year-old boy who had the worst attitude I’ve seen on someone in a really long time. So that was fun too!

3 days in and I’m really glad I’m spending 6 days here. And considering I was dreading spending so long in a city that knows my deepest, darkest secrets, it’s been a really good trip so far overall.

[my baby Trudy]

[my baby Fionz]

[me tolerating children]

[the one & only HSB]

[reunited & loving it]

Stratford Diaries: Part 2

Mon, 24 Dec 2012 10:59:32 -0500

I’ve been home for less than 48 hours and I’ve barely had time to breathe, let alone sit down, watch some One Tree Hill [or Law and Order], and snuggle the kitties. I’ve barely had time to miss the boyfriend, to text people back or to get excited about all the awesome gifts I got for the people I care about.

Yesterday, I got up and went to St. Mary’s for breakfast with my ex-step dad [I need to come up with a new term for him because ex-step dad sounds worse than it is] and his girlfriend. We exchanged prezzies, had omlettes, and caught up on life. It’s nice when things are as uncomplicated as my relationship with him.

It’s weird when you have to drive [or get a ride] from point A to point B in Stratford, even if the points are as close as they are in Toronto. People here just don’t really walk places. I’m not complaining; in fact I kind of like cruising around, listening to the Cameron Brothers band album, and trying to remember how to drive in snow and ice. It’s just such a different place than Toronto. My wardrobe doesn’t understand why all the pretty new things like my leather shorts and my Kariely skirt are still sitting, untouched in the bottom of my suitcase. Stratford is very much a jeans and a t-shirt type place.

Yesterday afternoon was spent in the kitchen baking Fudgee-o crust, individual cheesecakes, guacamole, and getting ready to attend a bridesmaids slumbie/potluck/birthday celebration of one of my besties who is getting married next year [did I mention I’m going to be a bridesmaid – EEEEEE!!!!!].

Last night was an almost overwhelming flow of martinis, mojitos, mimosas, great food, beautiful girls, and a ton of laughs.

I’m truly lucky to have so many wonderful people in my life – regardless of how close we are in proximity or how frequently we see each other. I know I lose sight of this sometimes. I don’t know why it’s always easier to see the things that are wrong with your life instead of the things that are good.

Lately I’ve been trying a lot of new things – mostly food with a bit of an attitude adjustment for good measure – and it feels good to just let go of all of the shit that I thought I knew and be open to something different.

I’ve been home for less than 48 hours and I already feel differently about so many things. The next 4 days should be interesting, to say the least.

[omelette au fromage avec jambon et champignons - and I liked it]

[vision boards @ the bridesmaids slumbie - mine mostly focused on hair]

[individual cheesecakes]

[It’s not called vanity when you’re showing off your wicked new t-shirt]

Stratford Diaries: Part 1

Sun, 23 Dec 2012 01:38:00 -0500

I rarely come back to Stratford. Apart from familial obligations, Winterfest, and to get my hair done by my hair stylist mother, I’ve always maintained that Stratford has had an undeserved hate-on for me.

I don’t think that’s true anymore. I don’t know if it ever was.

I left high school not really understanding that people grow apart. The people who had been my friends all my life were just that; people I have known and been exposed to all of my life. I’d gained friends but never lost them. I didn’t realize it was not only expected but actually okay for people to grow apart and move away. I think the fact that I was one of the few who did move away made me put my guard up against those who stuck around. I stopped being invited to parties, dinners, and girls nights because I wasn’t there to be invited. I eventually stopped calling, they stopped calling, and then we kind of just weren’t friends anymore.

That’s on me. To this day, I don’t know how they feel. It never occurred to me to ask.

I’m home this time for 5 nights and 6 days, which is longer than I’ve been home consecutively for probably 2 years or more. It doesn’t feel like home to me, even though I know where all the dishes go and I know exactly how to turn the taps in the shower to get the perfect water temperature without trial and error. It doesn’t feel like home to me because I’m living out of a suitcase for 5 nights and 6 days. I’m a houseguest in a home I grew up in. I think for anyone that would be weird.

I got home yesterday and actually haven’t had 30 minutes to just sit and relax the entire time I’ve been home. I settled in the kitties, did some pre-Christmas grocery shopping for my mom, made dinner [my mom’s first and probably last burrito], fixed my weave-less hair and makeup, and headed out for a drink at Molly Blooms with my mom.

As the night progressed, I ended up having a serious chat about social media with one of my mom’s good friends, I made Kraft Dinner with whipping cream (don’t judge) for her 10 year old son, took some selfies with her tiny dog, and ended up back at another restaurant with A and two of her friends.

For the first time in a long, long time, I didn’t feel like the entire city was waiting for me to feel hated and unwelcomed. People were smiling. I ran into a couple people I knew from high school and we made friendly chit chat. I met two girls that I’d heard of but never met, and they were lovely. Everyone was nice. I was nice. Maybe Stratford doesn’t hate me after all.

And maybe I don’t need my guard up as much as I thought I did…

[no weave, no problems]

[travelling mews]

[big name, tiny dog - Napolean]

So tell me about your childhood.

Tue, 09 Oct 2012 23:11:00 -0400

I saw a therapist the other day.

It was the first time I’d seen one since my parents split up and my mom forced me to go because I think she was somehow convinced that their separation would ruin my life. I saw a woman named Roberta who had a waterfall soundtrack playing in her waiting room and who reminded me of the grandma from Judging Amy. She seemed spiritual, which, at my age at the time, meant I was judging every single thing that came out of her mouth because I thought she was weird.

She’d ask me the same questions over and over again in different ways and at various points throughout the conversation because I think she thought I was saying what she wanted to hear. Of course I didn’t think my parents separation was my fault. To be honest (and what I said to her was), I didn’t think about it much at all. I wasn’t upset. I wasn’t hurt. I knew I would live with my mom because I wasn’t close with my dad. It wasn’t something I ever dwelled on because I was 14 and my world revolved around me. My parents’ separation was just background noise in my fabulous life I’d built in my head.

Mid-session, Roberta asked if I would be willing to try a sound experiment where I would listen to beep noises through headphones and she would ask me questions at various points throughout the beeping about how the beeps made me feel. I did it, because I knew if I didn’t, I’d have to fill 15 extra minutes with some sort of conversation I really didn’t want to have.

I could tell Roberta wanted me to think that my parents’ separation was my fault. She told me over and over that I shouldn’t blame myself, even though I didn’t once indicate that I thought I had anything to do with it. She really wasn’t subtle. I could tell everything she wanted me to feel or think or say because it was written on her face and loaded in her questions.

She was without a doubt, the worst therapist I’d ever been to. She wrote me a prescription for anti-anxiety medication that I never took because let’s face it, I was 14 and couldn’t have cared less about my family falling apart. I cared about boys and friends and pretending to be drunk on weekends while my friends all actually got wasted.

My therapy experiences were never how I thought they’d be. After Roberta, I briefly saw a young woman who was pretty and well dressed and who I’m fairly confident was barely out of high school and was judging me every time I opened my mouth. She assigned me homework (which I never did) and within a couple of sessions, I gave up and decided I was cured/not crazy/not depressed/not in need of a therapist.

So a few days ago, I saw a therapist. At 26, living on my own, having a career, pets, responsibilities, a long-term relationship, and a lot of the things I predicted would make me feel accomplished and ‘grown up,’ I now feel like I need a therapist more than ever.

I have things I just can’t say to people who know me. I have things I just can’t share with people who only ever come to me when they want something. I have feelings and decisions and sometimes I just want people to ask the questions and me to selfishly and unapologetically answer them without worrying about what that person’s reaction is going to be.

Sometimes I’m jealous. Sometimes I’m crazy. Sometimes I’m rude. Sometimes I’m self-obsessed and mean and sometimes I really don’t give a shit about other people’s feelings. And sometimes, just sometimes, I want everything to be all.about.me.

I’m not a terrible person all of the time or even most of the time, I don’t think. I know when I’ve made mistakes and I am the first person to apologize and correct them when I can. I’m a good friend, a good daughter, and I’m a good girlfriend, but not everyone is perfect 100% of the time. And besides when I’m hangry [because, let’s face it, hangry people are just the absolute WORST], I’m usually pretty good at admitting when I’m not myself.

Going to see a therapist – although not something I will probably continue to do for a bunch of different reasons, none of which are particularly interesting – was actually an incredibly great learning opportunity. I found out some things about myself that I didn’t even realize until I said the words out loud. I’ve made some big decisions recently and have more big decisions to make, and having someone who has nothing invested in me or in my life just sit there and listen and respond accordingly was really, really nice.

Even if a friend’s personal experiences are comparable to your own, sometimes it’s nice to not have to listen and respond to them when they tell you that their boyfriend does the “exact same thing and omg [they] totally understand what you’re going through,” because no, that’s not at all the same thing and frankly, I don’t give a shit about your boyfriend right now because we were talking about me.

I’d be willing to argue that we’d all be better friends to each other if we all were secretly (or publicly for that matter) seeing therapists on the side. This only applies to grown ups though. Kids still need to live, learn, and be stupid, idiot kids.

I know there’s occasionally some negative stigma attached to seeing a therapist - like only delusional, certifiably insane people pay someone to listen to them talk for 60 minutes about all the stuff that’s wrong with their lives. But that’s just not true. Unless I’m one of those delusional, certifiably insane people……..

Sometimes it’s hard to tell your friends the truth. But I think it’s sometimes even harder to admit the truth to yourself. And having someone with no personal agenda (other than getting paid, obviously), giving you the back and forth and asking you the things you really don’t have the answers to on the tip of your tongue, it’s truly a rewarding experience.

Thanks for letting me get that off my chest.

Love you,

Bonjour, hello, hi.

Wed, 03 Oct 2012 00:38:00 -0400

Oh hi, remember me?

[Hiiiiiii.]

I feel like my life is slowly morphing into that of a grown up [obviously excluding the fact that my Instagram feed is made up mostly of cats and selfies]. As you can probably tell, I’ve been pretty fucking busy lately. The past few summers, my weekends were consumed by cottages [the luxury of having a boyfriend with friend’s who’s parents all seem to have cottages], but this year, they were occupied by weddings, weekend road trips to Chicago, and preparing my apartment for the impending double occupancy, which apparently takes up a lot more time and energy than relaxing on a dock with a Palm Bay in my hand.

I can’t remember whether or not I mentioned, but my cousin A moved in with me in September. In my one bedroom apartment. 2 of us. And occasionally - when they’re not with their father - 2 cats. It was a good idea in theory – someone to share the rent with, someone to always be around when I needed someone to share my “my downstairs neighbour is such a bitchhhhh” stories – but the couple days before she moved in, I started to panic a little bit.

There would be someone there, paying rent; someone I would need to be courteous of. There would be someone there - when I wanted to walk around my apartment naked. When I wanted to have sex. When I wanted to not do the dishes for 6 days just because I didn’t feel like it. The option of privacy wouldn’t be there anymore. And it made me really nervous.

I have this tendency to obsess over decisions I’ve made once I’ve reached the point where I can’t get out of them; booking hotels, flights, committing to attend a wedding 4 months in advance. I’ve never been good at trusting my decision-making. I usually invent reasons to be worried about things I can’t control and I panic when things are left open-ended.

A month in living with A and things are great; exactly as I expected. I have someone to make meals with and to share groceries and household items with. I come home sometimes and the dishes are just done and my laundry is folded on my bed because apparently, that’s what having another person there means. I have someone to assist me in killing every single plant that comes into the apartment and feed my kitties when I’m going to be home late (unless she’s coming home even later). And considering she’s been working 2 jobs AND going to school, it’s pretty much like I’ve been living alone since I’ve seen her for a collective 2 hours in the past 2 weeks. It probably also helps that she’s like a sister to me, she likes my kitties, and she doesn’t go out drinking until 4am and then want to have heart to heart chats about it while I’m trying to sleep. She wins at roommate-ness. If you consider that something you can win at.

In addition to having a new roommate that my landlord doesn’t know about [shhhhh! he doesn’t know about the cats either….], I’ve also recently been told that my dreams of transferring to my company’s New York office will not be coming true.

My mother will be thrilled.

I say, “challenge accepted.”

I just need to figure out my life first.

I joined a dodgeball team with people I considered to be friends but in reality were more like people I was just social acquaintances with. It’s funny how team sports bring you closer to people in more ways than just proximity on the court/field/course/ice/uhhh? But as usual, I was worried about the commitment joining a team would mean. As I’m writing this, I’m convinced I need to go see a therapist immediately – this has to be some sort of disorder.

BRB while I Google that shit…

Oh yeah, I definitely have Decidophobia. And apparently it’s pretty common*.

Anyway, back to the point…..

As soon as I committed to dodgeball, I freaked out. What if I’m a terrible dodgeball player? What if I think I’m really good but I’m not and everyone starts to hate me? What if I can’t make it one week and the team has this incredibly meaningful bonding session that I totally miss out on and will forever feel like I’m not part of the team?

Please let me be clear on the fact that I’m not claiming that this is a rational thought process. I have no idea how I didn’t discover this could be a legitimate disorder before now, considering how much anxiety I have over the most insignificant things.

M and I also booked our accommodations for our girl’s trip to NYC today, which caused yet another moment of sheer panic.

I like traveling. Much like I used to love having sleepovers at friends houses when I was little. [There is a correlation between these two random statements, don’t worry. I’m getting to that.]

Most times, sleepovers were fantastic. But the odd time, without any real explanation, I would wake up in the night and immediately and inconveniently want to go home. Some times [I can remember one incidence specifically], I would cry and sob uncontrollably until I woke up my friend’s parents. I don’t remember anyone ever actually taking me home or my mom ever coming to get me, but that feeling of just needing to be anywhere but where I was, was really traumatizing for me. I had that same thing happen to me while I was in California in February. On a much, much lesser scale, I remember calling the boyfriend in tears because I just needed to not be thousands of miles away from a place that made me feel safe, even though I was with my best friend.

I have high hopes for New York; the shopping, the eating, the martinis, the just being in the city around Christmas time. I really hope I don’t end up in tears. Because explaining that I miss the safety of my own bed and the smell of my kitties is just embarrassing when you’re 26 years old.

Last week, I also made a tea date with a couple girls I’ve [acceptably] stalked via various social media platforms + a girl I know but wish I got hang out with more. I’m fortunate enough to never have experienced what it feels like to date online. Unfortunately, I can imagine that meeting people you’ve interacted with on Twitter feels kind of the same. I really liked these girls online. I was, however, pretty terrified of what they’d think of ME, offline. I tend to talk about myself a lot when I’m nervous. I also talk about cats a lot. Not as much as this girl [reeeeemixeddd], but a lot. My cats. My friends cats. People I don’t knows cats. Like more than is probably socially acceptable, so I worry about how I come across to people. I worry about a lot of things.

Thankfully, Your Yoko & Late July have pets they adore as much as I love my little monkeys, so we all got along pretty frigging fantastically if you ask me. I really love when people are even more awesome in real life than you’ve made them out to be in your head. And because I’d gotten so used to only seeing people when they had nothing better to do or when they needed something from me, it was nice to have people go out of their way to make time for people they’d never actually met. It was nice to feel included.

I feel like I’ve made myself sound like a crazy, complicated person, but I promise I’m not as bad as I sound [you can fact check with my therapist if you like]. I don’t need that all that much to make me happy. Just some kitties, enough money to afford burritos and the occasional outfit from Sirens, a roof over my head, a boyfriend to snuggle, and friends to just ask me to be there.. wherever there might be.

xoxo,

___________________________________________________________________________

*Ignoring for a moment, the fact that one of the sources of this information is a site called “toptenz.”

The second time around.

Fri, 24 Aug 2012 11:09:00 -0400

You know that part at the beginning of the movie Sleepless in Seattle, where Meg Ryan is driving at night, scanning radio stations and ends up getting the “horses, horses, horses, horses” part of the horrible version of the Jingle Bells song stuck in her head and then keeps singing it over and over again? [You probably have no idea what I’m talking about buuuuuuut that’s fine.]

Well that line; my mom used to say it to me all the time. I have no idea why, and it wasn’t even only at Christmas. We’d be in the kitchen baking or something and out of nowhere she would just start saying, “horses, horses, horses, horses” over and over. It was one of those things that I felt like just her and I understood (like the Pointer Sisters or The Judds) even though I’m sure plenty of people would know exactly what we were talking about.

It’s funny how seemingly insignificant things trigger such impactful memories. And gives me some sort of faith in humanity. It gives me hope for love and confidence in second chances.

Plus I kinda have a thing for Tom Hanks in his 20s and 30s.

I’m no stranger to second chances. Actually, I’d argue that I’m somewhat of an accidental advocate for them, despite the fact that I never seem to think people are capable of changing. Especially the bad ones.

Somehow, I usually end up being the first one to forgive and forget. Except I rarely forget. I hold on to every single shred of negativity because in the event that I do end up getting hurt again, at least I can take comfort in the fact that all those shreds amounted to me should of having known better.

Rinse, repeat.

I’ll be the first one to preach to scorned and heart broken girlfriends to forgo second chances with those who’ve hurt them. I’ll be the first one to judge when people go back on their word or change their minds or realize that giving second, third, and fourth chances is just what people do, especially to the ones who don’t deserve it. And despite my judgement; despite believing deep down in my heart that people don’t change, I can tell you without hesitation I wouldn’t leave the boyfriend if he smacked me around once or twice. [NOTT that he ever has or ever would - he wouldn’t - don’t go bananas.]

In my youth, I knew nothing if not second chances. I’d continually date the same people because it was comfortable. I’d forgive friends who talked about me behind my back because that’s all high school girls knew how to do - besides stealing alcohol from their parents and sleeping with boys without getting caught.

I’ve gone through rounds of friendships with the same person more than once in my life and it doesn’t always turn out shitty. Despite my disbelief in change, I do believe that people can, and often do, grow up; even just a little bit. Sometimes being able to acknowledge your flaws makes all the difference in the world.

Baby steps.

I’m far from perfect. In public school, I broke up with my boyfriend because I heard a rumour that another, more popular boy wanted me to be his girlfriend. When the rumour turned out not to be true, and after completely humiliating myself in front of half the school, I begged my public school boyfriend (via playing him N’Sync’s “I Want You Back” over the phone) to get back together with me.

In that instance I definitely got a second chance I did not in a million years deserve. But I guess that’s a prime example of people making decisions with their hearts and not their heads; which I do allllllll the freaking time.

You know the times you should just bite your tongue and drop it? I don’t. The times when you know that calling and calling and calllllllling 216 times in a row is crazy but you call back that 217th time because you just can’t get a grip on your emotions? I do that. The time you say the thing you just shouldn’t say because even if you’re feeling it at that exact moment, chances are you won’t feel like that later on and you’ll feel like the world’s biggest asshole for even thinking it? That’s me; nice to meet you.

Second chances are tricky, tricky things because I feel like no matter what, you will never be able to recapture the innocence of the first chance. I guess the skeptic in me thinks that the first time is the only time someone can be happy, even though I know for a fact that’s not true.

I’m on chance #405829 with my dad and although I still don’t feel like he’s my father - I don’t feel obligated to call him or tell him things - I feel better without the guilt of not talking to him weighing heavy on my emotions. I wouldn’t say I’m happy but I wouldn’t say I’m unhappy either. I just am.

And as far as second chances go, that’s good enough for me.

xxoo

Tell me, how are you feeling?

Sun, 29 Jul 2012 23:11:00 -0400

I think I’ve always been a bit on the aggressive side. I get that from my father.

Like my dad, I’m pretty small but I’ve got fire in me, which I pretty much hate about myself. It’s a weakness; one of the many. I could tell you that the fight in me comes from being such a passionate person, but I know that most of it comes from I’m terrible at handling my emotions.

As hard as I try to be relaxed and easy-going, I’ve never really been good at it. It’s hard not let your feelings get in the way of your sanity sometimes. And I’m terrible at making decisions that aren’t emotionally driven. I’m terrible at making decisions, period. Too often I let people’s words get under my skin when I wish so badly I could just brush myself off and carry on. Sometimes I say the thing you’re not supposed to say and do the thing you’re not supposed to do because it’s better than crying in the shower, wishing you’d had the guts to stand up for yourself. I’m amazing at hindsight.

When I was in university, I came home one summer and worked at the restaurant I’d worked at for the 3 years prior to moving to St. Catharines. I worked the closing shift on Tuesday nights because I liked the tips and I liked that, even if it was after 2am, at least I’d know when I would be finished. I’d serve beer and wings to people who never spoke to me in high school and I always knew what to expect.

What I didn’t expect was a guy I occasionally did English projects with, to snap at me and run out on his bill.

I was hard-pressed to believe that he simply forgot to pay for his meal and so I carried that resentment and anger around with me for most of the rest of the summer. I spent most weekends in Stratford, alternating between drinking the same drinks with the same people in the same (and only) 2 bars, and I was surprised when the dine-and-dasher came up and struck up a conversation with me one night. I asked him what he deal was - I was aggressive about it. I felt disrespected and not taken seriously. I’ve never ditched out on a meal before but I can imagine that I wouldn’t forget about it if I had. I can imagine I wouldn’t be particularly interested in speaking to the server I left to figure out what to do with the bill, let alone approach them to have a conversation.

He thought it was funny. He knew I wouldn’t have to pay for it out of my own pocket. He knew the consequences for me were slim. I couldn’t decide if I was more angry about the differences of opinion and the blatant disconnect between our upbringings or the fact that he was so goddamned cocky about it.

I told him to get out of my face.

He did.

After last call, I found him waiting outside of the bar for me. How long he’d been waiting to call me a cunt in front of almost everyone I knew, I’ll never know. He approached me, yelling to anyone around him who would listen, that I had chlamydia. [Like he would know. I don’t, and didn’t, for the record.] He crossed over into my personal space and just as I was about to threaten him, he shoved me, hard, with both hands and as I stumbled backwards, I tripped over the cement parking block and fell backwards onto the cement.

I was fine; although I’m certain I told people I hit my head a lot harder than I had. My ego was what got the brunt of that encounter, and as soon as I regained my composure, I stormed up to him. And as he turned around to face me, I punched him square in the jaw.

And then down he went.

People were shocked. A lot of them gave me false praise - I know it when I hear it - but I didn’t even care. I remember thinking how I knew my dad would be proud even though we weren’t speaking at the time. I made a mental note to remember to tell him this story when we finally got around to remembering we were father and daughter.

The next morning I woke up to my mother storming into my bedroom asking if there was something I needed to tell her. I didn’t think there was, but then again, in high school, a lot of what I did I didn’t feel was her business. As it turned out, not only was this guy a thief and someone who has no problems pushing girls, he was also a big fat tattle tale. Which, as you can imagine is a trifecta women can only dream of finding in one man. Swoon.

As if being a poor excuse for a man wasn’t enough for him, he had to run and tell his mommy to call my mommy, to give her shit for her poor parenting skills. Because yes, out of everyone to blame in this scenario (which I’m more than willing to take responsibility for my part in), my mother is the clear choice.

The point of the story is, while, at the time, I was more than thrilled with myself for not letting this guy get away with being a total scumbag of a human being, I realized the next day and every single day I think of it, that I would forever be the girl who broke the jaw of the guy who claimed she had chlamydia. I guess there could be worse things, but the whole situation was something I would have loved to forget.

I’m not always physically aggressive - don’t get me wrong – although, I have had my moments (every one of which I am ashamed of). I think part of my problem is I just experience emotions more brashly than I think a lot of people do. Stupid, inconsequential things hurt my feelings. Stupid, inconsequential people do too. I make quick decisions about my feelings and I can occasionally make even quicker judgments when it means that I get to be the bigger person. I try so hard to not let things get me down and to deal with my frustrations and compulsions in a way that doesn’t make me jump down people’s throats or say passive aggressive things, but it’s something I haven’t quite mastered yet.

I guess feeling things more intensely is better than not feeling anything at all.

I think I will always have some regrets but at the end of the day, I’m the one who has to look in the mirror, and regardless of anyone else’s thoughts or opinions, I’m good with what’s looking back at me.

Even when I don’t like what she’s wearing.

xxoo,

They call her Mississippi, but she don't flow to me.

Tue, 17 Jul 2012 17:17:00 -0400

Sigh.

I’m bored.

I graduated high school, like I was supposed to. I had an after-school job, worked through my summers, applied to university, and got accepted. [With scholarships, no less!]

I graduated university, like I was supposed to. I worked part-time doing promotions for a local bar and worked at a restaurant back home during the summer. A month or so out of school, living with my aunt in Oakville, I finally got an apartment and (what I thought was) a job in Toronto. It was what I thought was the start my life as the grown up 20-something I had always dreamed of becoming.

Except the “job” I thought I had when I moved to Toronto was the equivalent of those people who stand on street corners and say things like, “DO YOU LIKE FUN?” to try to get you to sign up for a monthly donation to whatever cause is on their vest that day. I lasted one whole day. And that’s only because I was up in the Jane & Finch area and I was concerned that if I tried to leave, I would be shot.

I guess that’s where things kind of got… messed up, we’ll say. I think that’s where I realized that my life needed a plan. Except the plan I came up with was more “survive” and far less “here is where I’ll be in 5 years.”

And it’s been that way ever since.

It’s not that I’ve lived my entire adult life without truly striving for anything; I’ve strived for plenty. It’s just that I haven’t taken the time to really do the things I know I could achieve if I just unclench from my plan for a while.

Being the responsible, grown up one all the time can soooo get incredibly tiresome.

I feel like I’ve aged a lot in the last few years of my life. I used to be the idiot drunk girl that had to be carried home after the bar and somewhere along the line, I became the girl who would sneak home around midnight to snuggle her cats instead. Obviously getting cats was the first step in the demise of my former life as a party girl, but there has to be more to it than that.

It’s an adjustment; feeling boring all the time. And it definitely takes a toll on my positive outlook on life. It’s no easy feat, trying to let go of the overwhelming feeling of needing to be in bed by 11pm on a work night and I feel like a lot of my relationships suffer– who wants to spend time with a girl who gets physically sick to her stomach when people suggest just going with the flow – because sometimes I just forget how to enjoy life the same way I used to.

So here I am, only 26, and I have reached a point in my life where I’m so incredibly bored, I want to throw up. I’m bored of being boring. I’m bored of bad reality TV Mondays, date night Tuesdays, cleaning/laundry/shopping Wednesdays and Thursdays, and knowing exactly what my week is going to look like every single week until the end of forever.

All it took were weekends here and there at a cottage or in the hotel room of some fantastical American city to make me scoff at the life I worked so hard at railroading myself into. A life that, if I didn’t know otherwise, might be enough for me.

I’m sure everyone gets restless; but at 26? Am I not supposed to be rocking the shit out of life and loving every second of it? Am I not supposed to be running around and making mistakes of my own instead of trying so hard to hold other people’s together? Instead I’m putting too much effort into relationships that are barely skin deep and I’m struggling to find things I both enjoy and am good at to fill my time.

I’m liking photos on Facebook and Instagram that I don’t even truly like because sometimes, making someone else happy is enough to make them pay attention to you for long enough that you don’t feel lonely.

I’m taking things that are not at all personal, personally.

I’m crying at stupid television shows and at nothing because I’m just too emotionally spent from all the god damned worrying I do on a daily basis.

I’m dreaming of waking up in a city where I don’t know anyone, where I don’t eat at the same restaurant every day even if it sometimes gives me food poisoning, where I don’t have my Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays and every days planned because there’s just too much else to worry about (like possibly being mugged or running into someone famous).

I guess what I’m trying to say is, fuck it, I want to go to New York.

Because as much as I enjoy free health care (I really, really do), I am just too bored. And the only time I can ever remember myself actually excited to just relax and go with the flow was when I was there last summer. It was the las time I felt like I had the world at my fingertips instead of behind me.

Love you always (although sometimes not as much),

You cheated me.

Mon, 09 Jul 2012 15:40:48 -0400

You think you know someone. You think you’ve gotten to know them at their best, at their worst, and at their in between. You’re used to them. You’re used to them disappointing you. You’re used to dealing with the let down.

We’ve never had a fairytale relationship; there’s no denying that. At best, we’ve had a one-sided relationship, at any given point in time. Right now, I’m able to fully acknowledge that you’re the one making most of the effort. You’re calling. You’re trying to make plans. You’re saying the awkward, “I love yous” that I half believe. You ask the obligatory “how are you?” and “what have you been up to?” because you can’t talk about the things that might actually begin to right all the wrong.

We talk and sometimes I forget that you robbed me of things I’ll never be able to get back. I talk about how busy I am at work just in case I need to use it as an excuse to get out of conversations in the future. You ask questions, pretending to understand things about my world that you couldn’t possibly understand or remember if you tried.

Sometimes, just for a second, I remember. I remember the times I cried at the mention of your name. I remember the awkward conversations I’ve had, trying to explain why I don’t know basic things like how you’re doing or when you got back from vacation. I remember the moment I found out that your selfishness and your addiction changed my entire future.

I get angry. I get short. Most of the time you pretend like you don’t notice, even when I can tell that you do.

We’ve never talked about it, not once. I have no idea what I would even say to you if we did. What’s done is done. Water under the bridge. I’ve been dealing with the consequences of your actions long before I even knew the consequences were the result of something you did.

I thought I knew you. I thought I’d gotten to know you at your best, at your worst, and at your in between. I’d gotten used to you. I’d gotten used to you disappointing me. I’d gotten used to dealing with the let down.

I have no idea what prompted me to ask the question I wasn’t even sure I wanted the real answer to. But I asked. I asked because I thought I knew the answer. I thought the question would have been answered with a laugh; a laugh of reassurance that, as bad as things may have been, they were never that bad.

I was wrong. I was so incredibly wrong.

All the years of feeling guilt and sorrow for you, I now know were wasted years. Every bad word ever uttered about you was true. Every less than fortunate fate that came your way has been completely deserved. You not only robbed me of a hopeful future, you cheated me out of trusting people completely ingenuously.

After years and years of pretending I’m not hurt or phased by your actions, I thought I’d reached a point where I had convinced myself that I truly don’t anymore. I guess I thought wrong.

And you win. Again.

Just some remembrance

Sun, 08 Jul 2012 16:23:00 -0400

I remember my first summer in Toronto – living with the roomie, not really knowing anyone except a couple of guys I went to high school with who had also moved to Toronto. I was working as a temp and moonlighting as a Barrista at Starbucks, trying to make rent and pay off my student loan both at the same time. Everything was new – restaurants, landmarks – and everything was so exciting.

I feel like things were a lot simpler then. I had a flip phone. I was dating guys I didn’t care about just because I could. My weekends consisted of drinking, being hung over, drinking, and being hung over. I felt lonely but in a good way; not like I was missing out on anything. Like I could do anything I wanted.

I began writing freelance articles for a couple magazines; I made girlfriends in the most unconventional (and probably the least wise) ways possible, I began knowing which direction to walk when I came up from the subway stations all by myself.

I felt like I had my groove down pat. I felt good. And all of this was before I started wearing hair extensions every day!

A lot [and I do mean a freaking lotttt] has changed in the 5 years I’ve been here. Boyfriends and friends have come and go, as have jobs, favourite alcoholic beverages, and even some of my beliefs. If someone had asked me when I graduated high school where I thought I’d be in 7 years, I never imagined this.

I never imagined I would have gotten to meet Smith from Sex & the City or have seen John Mayer in concert 3 times. I never imagined I would fall in love so deeply with anyone, let alone a boy and 2 beautiful kittens. I never imagined I would let people’s words hurt me so deeply.

But that’s the thing about mistakes, you never realize what they are until it’s too late. I often think people are blinded by their desire to see the good in people – the good in what used to be, the good they wish was there.

I’ll never know how to stop doing this, myself. I guess I don’t really want to become that jaded. As many times as I’ve had that come back and bite me in the ass.

I can’t believe how fast time is flying by. I attended my cousin’s wedding last month – the first wedding of my family – and next month, I’m going to the wedding of one of my roommates from university. After 3 years, I’m talking to my dad again. In less than a year I’ve impulsively booked trips to New York City, California, Mexico, and most recently, Chicago. I’ve rekindled some friendships with people I thought I’d lost forever. I’m meeting new people and making big life decisions and buying my own Michael Kors bags because somehow, I can finally afford it.

I think it’s important to remember the past and the path you took to get there. I think it’s important to remember all those crazy Facebook messages you sent to boys you thought were cute in university and girls who you thought were threatening your relationships. I think it’s important to remember the good in people – even people who aren’t good people in the grand scheme of things – because I think it hurts more to only think of the bad. Even in the hard times and especially when things aren’t going well for you, I think it’s important to truly be happy for people you care about and who care about you. I think it’s important to be honest with yourself because, at the end of the day, you’re the only one who has to live with what you see in the mirror.

I remember my first summer in Toronto like it was yesterday, not because of how fantastic it was (it wasn’t that fantastic; I was dirt poor), but because of how it was my first real step in becoming who I am today.

I think I’ve earned the right to be proud of that.

xxoo

All dressed up and nowhere to go.

Sun, 17 Jun 2012 17:12:00 -0400

Happy Father’s Day, everyone!

This year in lieu of buying my father a present, I decided I would buy him a sparkly card with a mug of beer on it and use the rest of the money to buy myself a couple of super cute outfits instead.

Thanks, me!!

xxoo,

P.S. all photos courtsey of the boyfriend. He really is the best.

It's a fact-of-life type thing

Mon, 28 May 2012 17:14:00 -0400

If you have a vagina, you’re probably no stranger to random men approaching you on the street or cat-calling you from behind the protection of their reflective construction vests. It’s non-discriminating, it’s often blatant, and 189 times out of 190, it’s someone you are in no way attracted to who is screaming, “nice ass and titties” at you from the window of their 2005 Dodge Caravan.

Let me give you a tip, friends; girls don’t like this! I mean some girls, maybe - you know, the sad ones who need that false self-esteem boost - but in general, I can only insist that acting like this towards girls won’t, in any way, get you laid. It isn’t flattering when a man yells at you and the 6 other women behind you on the street, that he likes the way you look. The fact that some random guy with over-inflated self confidence wants to “tap that” does not make that a compliment. And neither are any of the other derogatory and distasteful things guys spew out of their mouths at women they don’t know.

“I’d fuck you.”
“Work it.”
“Mmmmm.” [accompanied by lip licking and/or eye-molesting]

In the past 72 hours, I’ve had it worse than usual. I mean, I don’t normally cry when someone comments on his opinion of my rear end, but sometimes enough is enough. You know?

Have you ever been to Harbour 60 Steakhouse? You know, the tastier, more pretentious version of The Keg where douche bags run wild? Long story short, it’s nowhere I would ever just go for the sheer fact of how terribly out-of-place I feel even walking past it on the street in my peasant clothes.

I worked a VMWare dinner event at Harbour 60 a couple weeks ago and had to exercise every last bit of restraint I had not to stab one of their “elite” patrons in the face with my heel because of his lack of basic human decency.

I was being friendly. I didn’t work at the restaurant but I can imagine that people assumed I did because of how I was dressed, and in the interest of being professional, I made a point to be nice to everyone, not just attendees of the event I was working. If someone made a joke, I’d laugh. If they smiled, I smiled. If they engaged in conversation, I’d engage back. But my politeness has a limit. And that limit is making racist comments to people you don’t know.

I don’t know who this guy was or how many pints he’d had but he did not take well to my annoyed expression at his racial slur. And that’s when he told me I should be sucking his dick.

15 minutes later, he apologized. And 20 minutes after that, he called me a bitch.

#cuuuuuuuute. Money really doesn’t buy class.

But these last 72 hours is where I feel like all my crazy men experiences culminated and almost made my head explode.

I was walking home from work on Friday evening, talking to my mother on the phone about I don’t even know what, when a teenage boy on a bike came out of nowhere and yelled, “nice ass.”

Things like this don’t even make me turn my head anymore. I could have been wearing a parka in the dead of winter and have this still happen. A girl is a girl. A vagina is a vagina. The rest is just details to these types of guys. And because I wasn’t paying attention, for all I knew, he could have been talking to one of the other probably hundred women walking through Chinatown at that exact moment.

Until he biked past again [had he circled the block?] and yelled, “nice ass.”

[Can you not tell I am ignorez-vousing you?]

“Nice ass. Give me your number.”

“Go away. I’m on the phone.”

“Can I have your number please?”

“I’m ON the PHONE.”

“Come on, I said you had a nice ass. How come you won’t give me your number?”

Because somehow, this horny 15 year old boy was lead to believe that’s all it takes to get a girl’s phone number. In this case, a girl, who, had she been a teen mom, would probably be old enough to be his mother. It only took him about 8 blocks to get the hint before he moved on to some other poor girl with a backpack coming out of the liquor store.

The kicker of this story? On the streetcar later that night, I was retelling it to the boyfriend on the phone when a man sitting in front of me turned as he got up to get off and said, “the kid on the bike was right, you have a great ass.”

Oh good. So boys never grow up. Cool. Thank you for confirming that.

I supppppose you could argue that it’s my own fault for wearing tight, bum hugging dresses around during the daytime hours. But when you dump a full Iced Capp down your shirt and the only other outfit you have in your purse is said black, bum hugging dress, then you’re kinda out of options. And in that situation, I guess I’d rather people be staring at my bum than at a huge coffee-coloured stain down the front of my white t-shirt because it kind of made me look homeless.

But that’s just me.

On Saturday, while waiting quietly and unprovocatively on an eastbound subway platform, yet another strange man approached me. At first, he seemed like some normal guy but once he invaded my personal space, I knew that he was either crazy or at the very least a big, fat weirdo.

He asked me how to get to Finch station.

In my life, I have never been to Finch station and without the aid of one of those TTC map thingys, I am not good with TTC stops. Not even the ones I use regularly.

“I’m sorry, no, I’m not sure how to get to Finch station.”

“No, but say you lived at Finch station, how would you get there?”

“Haha I’m not sure, I’m sorry. I’ve never been to Finch station.”

“Okay but say you and your boyfriend decide to get serious, move out of the downtown area, get engaged, eventually married, and decide to buy a house at Finch station, how would you get home?”

By this time, I’m half nervously, half actually laughing, people around me are judging me, and the man is looking as confused as ever. I felt bad but I also kinda felt like he could shank me at any point so as soon as the subway arrived.. I hopped on and sat between 2 people just in case he tried to grab me and take me to Finch station with him.

In all fairness to the last guy, his mental health may have had something to do with him approaching unsuspecting women on subway platforms, but the others have absolutely no excuse.

It makes me sad to think that this is what courtship has come to; that this is what some men think is a legitimately acceptable way to interact with women. And being a girl, there’s no way to win.

Sometimes all I want to do is throw my hair in a pony tail and grab a coffee and I’d like to preserve the right to do that without worrying about whether some guy with paint splatter on his coveralls wants to break his dick off in my ass.

Because yeah, that’s exactly what every girl wants to hear at 9am on a Sunday.

Oh wait, no we don’t.
xxoo,

Dear Grandma and Grandpa [you know who you are]

Wed, 09 May 2012 16:44:00 -0400

Dear Grandma and Grandpa,

When I was little, I thought the world of you. You snuck me spoonfuls of peanut butter and gave me coffee when my parents weren’t around. I looked forward to sleepovers at your house, even though you didn’t have cable [this was pre-internet] because I actually liked spending time with you. I liked how I felt when I came to your house, sitting at the kitchen table, watching you make me potato pancakes; like there was nothing I would ever need to worry about.

But I grew up. I learned a lesson both of my two older cousins had learned the hard way; each independently from other: You love your granddaughters more than you love your grandsons, but you only truly love them one at a time.

For a long time, I was the one to be; I was the favourite. I didn’t realize I had taken over the title and I didn’t realize that it came with an expiration date.

I sometimes wonder if my younger cousin hadn’t come along, if I would still be your favourite. But I guess you’ve got great granddaughters to love more now. I truly wonder what will happen when new baby girls stop coming into your life.

But then again, I don’t wonder that often. You don’t cross my mind that often, to be honest.

How long has it been since we’ve spoken now? 7 years? More? I sometimes feel like my memories of you are just images in my head that I made up from something I’d read. Although I do remember the last family Christmas I attended at your house like it was yesterday….

My dad had long disowned his sisters and because of the divorce, you no longer welcomed my mom into your family. I was thankful that one of my aunts remembered to invite me. But only one.

It was uncomfortable and people weren’t particularly friendly with me, even though I was a blood relative to almost everyone in the house and had been for my entire life. For being such a gifty family, I was a bit confused when every other child in the house got presents, except me. I’ll remind you, I wasn’t the oldest.

After dinner, Grandpa, you pulled me aside in the alcove between the kitchen and the living room, just off the hallway. You pulled a crisp $50 from your pocket and put it in my hand. I honestly don’t remember you saying anything, but remembering back, the look on your face said it all.

It was a payoff.

I was being paid to eliminate myself from future family events for the cost of $50. Had I realized it at the time, I would have asked for more.

I know my father was your son but if it weren’t for my mother, you wouldn’t have had much of a relationship with me at all. My mother truly valued you both and encouraged your participation in how I was raised. She knew all along that my time to be loved by you was limited, but she encouraged it anyway because, after all, you were my grandparents and every little girl deserves to have a relationship with her grandparents for as long as time allows.

I remember when I was in university, my mom called to tell me you, Grandma, had slipped in the parking lot of the mall and had hurt yourself in the fall. I remember a few weeks later, my mom calling me back to tell me that she’d read a letter in the local newspaper written by you to the people who had helped you when you fell. I still have the letter tucked away in a box in my apartment because that letter represents something to me. It reminds me, in times of weakness and of sorrow, in times of guilt and longing, that you, Grandma, are one of the most selfish people I have ever met. You took the time to write that letter. You made the effort to send it to the newspaper, to have it published. In the probably 30 minutes it took you to write that letter, you made more effort for those complete strangers than you did with me my entire life.

It grounds my hatred in reality.

Any news I hear about you both comes from someone who told someone else who eventually told my mother. I think, even after all you have put us both through, she still wants me to know how you’re doing because, like I said earlier, you are my grandparents.

But as many concerning things as I have heard about the state of your health, I just can’t make myself care anymore.

You, Grandma, were married before you married Grandpa but you pretend as if it didn’t happen. You, Grandpa, can’t admit that your daughter was dating a man who robbed a convenience store with a fake gun or that one of your grandson’s is gay. You are both bigots, racists, and are prejudice against so many people and things, and for all the years I looked up to you as a child, I am so thankful that I didn’t end up anything like either of you.

With all my heart and every inch of my soul,