Saturday, March 31, 2012

My Brother Watches Thundercats For Serious

My brother stays up late to watch THUNDERCATS ( on Teletoon retro every night. And by “stays up late” I mean he stays up until like 8:30pm to watch ThunderCats, which is late for him because of the hours he’s working at his new job.


He tried to hide it for a while, I think. I think he tried to change the channel really quickly any time someone went downstairs, like he was trying to cover up the fact that he was watching porn or something.

But no, no porn. THUNDERCATS.

Nice legs.


And my mom is now supporting this behavior by remembering what time the show plays and saying things like “Hey! You can’t go to bed yet! ThunderCats are on!” Which would be funny if she were kidding, but she’s not. She is dead serious. So instead of funny, it’s hilarious.

And sometimes I think he must just get way too overwhelmed by his love for said ThunderCats, because often when I make eye contact with him he simply throws up his arms and proclaims: “THUNDERCATS!”

And it is awesome.

Friday, March 30, 2012

Top Gear as Research My Ass

The Prince is always thinking about what kind of a career he’d like to have. He’s constantly coming up with plans and goals- this is one of the things I love about him. Currently, he’s convinced that he’s going to be an auto mechanic who takes vintage cars and makes them run like BMW M3s. I think this is adorable, so long as it does not affect me in any way. Good girlfriend 101, bitches...


I was recently informed that The Prince’s grand plan to prep himself for this amicable venture is to watch freakin' Top Gear all the damn time. Top Gear is okay, sure, but WE’VE BOTH SEEN ALL OF IT BEFORE*. IT DOES NOT NEED TO BE RE-WATCHED.

*This is a lie. I have not SEEN, I have merely been "subjected to".

I feel the need to point out that I am a car fanatic! I love them! Just no nightly Top Gear. No.

I blame Netflix Canada, which offers way too much Jeremy Clarkson Top Gear way too much of the time.
I do not wish to spend my evenings with these men THOSE JEANS. [via]

The Prince claims that watching all of the episodes over again (most of which he’s already seen more than once!) is research for his new career path.

No. Freaking. Way.

This is totally just a plan to deprive me from watching episodes of The Pink Panther Show on Netflix all the damn time.

"The Pink Panther is a heroic, moral cartoon cat with pink fur and the manners of an English aristocrat." [via]

Depriving me of Pink Panther for personal gain?


Thursday, March 29, 2012

How to know if you have binge eating disorder

Remember that one time I was all "I have anxiety disorder"? No? Click here. In that post I sort of grazed over the fact that I have an eating disorder too, because I am a wild party. (10 points for anyone who can guess that song without the help of a search engine.)

Anyway, I'm so sorry to deviate from my regular playfully-complaining-about-boyfriend-like-a-boss posting style. Today, guys, I'm talking about an eating disorder. Binge Eating Disorder.

The title of this post is something I have googled so, so many times. Times when I’ve been in denial, times when I’ve been confused, times when I’ve been on the couch with a whole box of cookies, and times when I haven’t eaten in days.

I’ve never found a clear answer.

I’m not saying that I can offer one, but I have some thoughts to share.

I began to understand that my issues with food, weight and body image were more than just binge eating and more like binge eating DISORDER when my thoughts involving the issue began to take over my life. I lost control of my ability to take over my thoughts- binging was no longer a question, it was a habit that owned me. It was a drive, a need, a medication. I began to need to eat to save myself from feelings that I didn’t even know how to explain.

This still happens to me. I’ve been living this way for over four years, with the situation becoming progressively worse. I have not found my solution. I have not beaten down my own demons.

What I really want to say here, though, is the single most important thing I’ve learned about having an eating disorder:


Basically, you need to own that shit. You need to own the fact that you have a disorder; you should talk about it if you can, and you should try your hardest to still live your life the way you’ve always dreamed of.

Because with an eating disorder, you will feel an extremely strong compulsion to shut everything down- you’ll want to shut down your friends, school, job, and hobbies- everything. You can’t do that. You do that, the disorder wins. The disorder doesn’t get to win- it doesn’t get to take over your life. You can live your life while you’re learning to take over your disorder. It is possible.

Live your life. Be an awesome person, a stellar student, a total biotch, a girlfriend, a great friend… who has an eating disorder. Because the sooner you accept it, tell the people you love about it, and start to hate IT instead of hating yourself all the freaking time, you’ll feel better. I think.

I think, because I haven’t won this battle yet myself. This advice is just as much for me as it is for anyone else.

Do not be ashamed of yourself. Be gentle with yourself. I know it’s hard. It is so. fucking. hard.

I think that part of knowing that you have an eating disorder is not knowing how the hell to stop it. 

And when all else fails, watch old Disney movies until your eyes hurt. Try The Sword in the Stone. Works for me. 

Don't you just love when the hardest advice to live by is your own?

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Relationships are all about not compromising

Last night, The Prince and I decided that we were going to walk to the nearby grocery store to buy chocolate (or, as the Prince called it: TREATS!)

We’ve both got a thing going on with the Australian Tim Tams right now. On the way there, I suggested that we get some. The Prince was SO SURE that our little IGA store wasn’t going to have them.

We get to the store. They have Tim Tams. I pick up a box.

Current score: Me, 1. The Prince, 0. 

Next we tried to decide on a second kind of “treat”. The topic of frozen yogurt came up, so we started searching for that. We find a section in the frozen aisle that just has either mixed berry or mango frozen yogurt. I throw a hissy fit over the fact that The Prince wants to get the mango kind BECAUSE I DON’T LIKE FRUIT IN MY ICE CREAM AND I CAME HERE FOR CHOCOLATE.

We walk away from the fruit-filled frozen yogurt.

Current score: Me, 2. The Prince, 0. 

Farther down the aisle, we find the actual ice cream/popsicle/frozen yogurt selections. We proceeded to spend about 20 minutes (for real) bickering and laughing over what kind of frozen dessert to get.

The Prince: They have low fat Vanilla Bean. Let’s get that.


The Prince: Okay, okay. Oooooh but they have Sorbet! That’s almost healthy! 

Me: Or we could get the Skor kind or the cookie dough kind! 

The Prince: You know I hate cookie dough ice cream. 

Me: No, actually, I’m fairly certain I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT YOU. Who doesn’t like cookie dough ice cream? 

Anyway, that sort of thing went on for a while until the Prince just picked up some caramel frozen yogurt and walked away from me, because caramel is the clear compromise between vanilla and chocolate.

Current score: Me, 2. The Prince, 1. 

On the way to the till, I grabbed a bag of Reese peanut butter eggs. Because obviously. The Prince was all “No, we are already buying so much junk!” 

I bought them anyway, like a champ.

Current score: Me, 3. The Prince, 1. 

The Prince stayed up later than me last night. When I got up today, I noticed the bag of Reese eggs sitting empty by the laptop.


Final score: Me, 3. The Prince, 2. 

In this instance, the Prince may have got the last laugh, but I would like to point out that, of course, I still came out on top of the whole situation, score-wise. Why is that the case?

Oh, come on. You know.

Because I win, bitches. I always win.

What's the longest time you've spent in an aisle trying to make a flavour decision? Did people stare at you? I bet they stared at you.

Tuesday, March 27, 2012

That’s Not My Name, That’s Not My Name

Okay, so. I’m still relatively new at my place of employment. As in I’ve worked here for two months.

There is a sweet older gentleman who works in a different department than I do, but his job entails a lot of walking past my work area to pick up mail and the like.

Every time I make eye contact with him, he says hello to me. This would be great, because you know nothing rocks my socks more than semi-mandatory office pleasantries… BUT. This guy has decided to go the extra mile and say my name each time he greets me.

The problem is that he’s butchering my name. Those of you who know my first name are probably laughing (Steven? I can hear you) because you know the exact mispronunciation he’s making.

For your reference, though, dear reader, basically what he’s doing is taking a perfectly fine and even pretty name like Theresa and turning it into something harsh-sounding like… Thurma. (I’m sorry in advance about making fun of anyone’s great aunt’s name.)

Anyway, the first time he got it wrong I ALMOST corrected him, but his little old smile was just too damn bright and cheery for me to ruin. So now it’s been two months and every day, at least twice, I’m being referred to by a name that, due to years of the same mistake, really makes me cringe to hear.

But it’s not like I can correct him NOW, right? Like:

“Oh, hi! By the way, you’ve been pronouncing my name incorrectly for the last two months. I’ve kept my mouth shut but you know what? Today’s been kind of a shitty day for me in general so I’m calling you on your crap. SAY IT RIGHT NEXT TIME, OLD MAN.”

Any other suggestions? Has anyone ever butchered your name repeatedly? Did you correct them or were you a total turtle about it?

Monday, March 26, 2012

Oh, Okanagan.

Yesterday we took a drive from Kelowna to Vernon. The highway drive there was gorgeous...

And it was a great day. The end.

Sunday, March 25, 2012

So Does This Sign Specifically Mean “No Camaros”? Because If So, I’m Pissed.

This is a sign located in St. Marys, Ontario. It's stuck in the grass at a park. A few years ago, a friend of mine pointed it out to me because he thought that the car in the top of the circle was definitely an old Chevrolet Camaro, which is a vehicle I own.

In my honest opinion, he is definitely right. That's a third generation body style Camaro silhouette fo' sho'.

The even less interesting thing I'm going to tell you in this post is that I didn't originally take a picture of it. Over a year after first being shown this sign I spent quality time driving around St. Marys trying to find it again so I could steal take a picture of it.


Saturday, March 24, 2012

The Infamous "Shit Cheese" Story

This is a story that I wrote out sometime in May of 2011. My family and friends still talk about this incident on the regular.

I live at home right now (sure, it’s pathetic, you say, but I’m rich because I don’t have to pay rent and you aren’t so shut up) and my younger brother recently moved home from school to spend the summer.

My mother is always the odd one out. My dad, brother and I like to say that “she’s not part of our fun”, because she usually isn’t. She’s a hilarious woman overall and can pull off some of the best one-liners I’ve ever heard, but in general, she doesn’t match the sarcasm or wit level of her spouse and offspring. She has to find creative ways to beat us at our games.

Anyway, my mom does all the grocery shopping for our house. For as long as I can remember, the standard cheese at our house has been “old cheddar”. Sure, there’s occasionally cheese of the feta or cream variety, but there’s always a block of old cheddar somewhere in the fridge.

My brother is a total bear when it comes to people messing with his food and the way he likes it. (Ooh, foreshadowing!)

So one day, I come downstairs and hear my brother badgering my mom, saying something like “Mom! What is this stuff on my sandwich? It tastes awful!” And my mom defends herself and says it’s just cheese, only it’s a mild kind and she got it because it was on sale, and he’s just whining because he’s not used to it yet.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the cheese in question:

The "Shit Cheese".

I would like to point out the description of this cheese, as found on the brand’s website, just so you can see that they use the word FIRM twice (and incorrectly, might I add):

“Cheddar is a firm, smooth to somewhat grainy firm cheese made from cow’s milk that is orange to white in colour. Mild and slightly acidic, like buttermilk, mild, medium, or strong in flavour depending upon age. Medium cheddar has a light nutty flavor” (

First of all, that hardly makes any sense. Second of all, having had the punishment of sampling this cheese, I can assure you that THE CHEESE IS NOT FIRM. It’s soft, like… almost tofu-esque.

However, my mom was convinced that my brother was just exaggerating, so she bullied me into trying a piece to prove it was fine. I took one little piece, and, well, that shit was gross. It tasted kind of sweet. There was a hilarious rant about how it's "not right" to RAISE A FAMILY on good, normal cheese and then just expect to pull of a switch to SHIT CHEESE and not have anyone take a stand against the madness.

My mother, still unconvinced and calling both her grown children babies, ate some herself. Her facial expression quickly became one of both disgust and defeat.

So my brother and I laughed a lot and reigned victorious over the sucky cheese incident. But not for long.

Enter sucky cheese incident number two.

My mom made a really nice casserole that she makes fairly regularly and that everyone enjoys. I was the first person to have any, and immediately upon taking my first bite, I yelped:


Because you could taste it RIGHT AWAY. It had infected the whole thing!

But my mom was all, “Shh, shh, your brother is coming! Shh!”

So my brother takes some casserole and sits down at the far end of the table. Perfect, I think. I have front row seats for what is sure to be a prime example of him in bear-attack mode. I set down my fork (because really, I wasn’t going to eat that stuff) and settled in for a good laugh.

And boy was I right.

He takes a bite of the casserole. I see my mom watching him intently. His face immediately scrunches up in a “oh wow that tastes really not good” sort of way while he reaches for his glass of milk. After a long and contemplative swig, he begins his attack…

My Brother: (Talking like he’s a criminal investigator) Hey, mom. Why does my casserole taste funny? Any idea? Any idea why that might be?

My Mom: Nope, no idea. I made it how I always make it.

My Brother: (Volume of his voice escalating at an alarming rate) Really? That’s weird. Are you sure there’s no SHIT CHEESE IN IT?

My Mom: (Trying not to laugh) Well…

My Brother: So you admit you kept the shit cheese, even though I hated it last week. And then you plotted to use it against me, in something I enjoy, hoping I wouldn’t NOTICE?!

My Mom: (Laughing) I did my best.


My Mom: Calm down! I had to use it; I couldn’t just throw it away! I mixed it in with two other kinds of cheese! There are three kinds of cheese in there! Not just the shit cheese!

My Brother: (Taking a pause and a sigh for dramatic effect) Okay. Imagine you’re making cookies that have three kinds of chocolate in them. You put in milk chocolate, white chocolate, and SHIT. Guess what, mom? YOU WOULD STILL BE ABLE TO TASTE THE SHIT.

And we will never have “shit cheese” again. The End.

Friday, March 23, 2012

And then I had a nightmare where my dad was a serial killer.

The title pretty much says it all, but here's what happened in more detail:

I had a nightmare wherein my dad was killing people, mostly local people who live near my parents' house, and keeping their dismembered bodies in old hockey bags in one of our sheds/garages.

It was horribly disturbing. I can remember that, at one point in the dream, I was saying to my dad:

"Dad, dad. I love you. I really do. But you need to stop killing people, okay?"

Which, now, sounds hilarious.

Anyway, I called my parents last night and got chatting with my dad:

Me: "Oh, so I had a dream where you were a serial killer."

My dad: "So you finally figured that out, eh?"

Me: "Ha, yeah, and you kept the bodies in all those old hockey bags that you keep in the shed."

My dad: "Well what else do you think I keep old hockey bags for? They serve an important purpose. I use those things for everything."

Me: "Okay, give mom the phone now."

My dad: "Okay, here she is. I have to go anyway, gotta move the hockey bags."

Thursday, March 22, 2012

Mason Jar Madness: Super Spinach & Strawberry Salad

I'm joining a major trend here by posting about putting my meals in mason jars, but whatevs. I'm over it, because after eating this salad in all its mason jar glory, I sent a text to the Prince that read:


Besides that, I struggle with getting up early enough to make a lunch, and while the Prince is a doll and sometimes packs one for me the night before, I figured it's about time I start contributing to this field of our living together arrangement.

I made five jars of ready-to-shake-and-eat salad in my beloved mason jars. Truthfully, they turned out awesome.

Here's a sort-of description of what I did to make these...

In the bottom of each jar I put enough low-fat Lemon Poppyseed dressing to be what I considered appropriate.

(Yes, for future reference- this is how I measure everything when I cook. It makes you crazy, I know.)

I threw some plain broccoli slaw on top of that. You can get bags of broccoli slaw (which usually include shreds of red cabbage and carrot in them) for less than two bucks at stores. Two dollars is worth waaaaay less than the time it would take to shred that shit myself.

On top of these I put a few raisins. Because they were in my kitchen.

Next, a layer of thinly sliced cucumbers, followed by a layer of thinly sliced strawberries.

On top of that, I sprinkled some sliced almonds because yum, and a tiny, tiny bit of crumbled blue cheese, because experimenting.

By this point, I had what looked like this from the top:

And like dis from zee side:

Then the easy part: cram spinach in the jar until it's full, so they all look like this:

Then put the cute little things in the fridge and go to bed dreaming of how delicious they are going to be when you have lunch at work tomorrow. Also spend time bragging to your boyfriend about how brilliant you are, and how all the bitches (here meant affectionately) at work are going to be jealous of your salad.

I ate mine right out of the jar, though I guess I could have used a plate but I hate dishes so NOPE. I took the spinach out of the jar before I ate and tore it up a little with my hands so that shaking the ingredients up would be a little easier. Next time I do this, I will pre-shred the spinach to save myself being kinda gross.

All in all, these are great and I'm going to make them again, probably sooner than I'm hoping, since I bet that The Prince is going to eat them all on me.

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

Hells yes, that just happened!

Prepare to be underwhelmed.

Every few days, I Google my own blog title to see if it's coming up as a suggestion. It hasn't come up yet until I've, you know, typed the whole thing.


This is the very first time that this happened:

My blog is listed on there, albeit in the middle of the pack. I am somehow very pleased with myself.

Tomorrow's To-Do List:

1) Become more popular than all suggestions listed above my blog.
2) Reign victorious. 

Meet Jet, My Darling, Dirty Pet!


The above is a picture of what happens every. single. time. I try to take a picture of my muddy, wet, dog. 

Eventually, though, he just stands there, looking at me like I'M the unacceptable one.

What, may I ask, the fuck?

See the caked-on mud he's got on his face? That there's rabbit huntin' evidence.

Jet is a rare dog in the sense that he is capable of outrunning jackrabbits, taking lids off of pop bottles, opening doors with his paws and jumping higher than all the vehicles we own. While adorable, he is consistently dancing on the fine line between intelligence and insanity.

My dad and brother refer to him as "Shit-snap."

That is all.

Monday, March 19, 2012

My Prince Brought Home a Bunch of Green for St. Patrick’s Day

Work circumstances beyond our control forced the Prince to abandon our St. Patrick's Day plans (Cosmic Bowling, heck yes!) which left me feeling sad. When he got home from work, however, he came bearing gifts of greenness in honour of the missed holiday:

Yay, amirite?!

Green Powerade Zero, which unfortunately turned out to be Gross capital G, but you know, that might have been a result of the tequila we added.

Green Apple Head and Shoulders for himself, because this way he might stop using my shower stuff.

Live Clean shampoo and conditioner, which is "green" because it's eco-friendly. I used it yesterday it was wonderful.

Sunlight Cucumber Melon, green in colour. This was a necessary buy, but still, cuuute.

Green Amp, my energy drink of choice and YES I KNOW IT'S BAD FOR ME.

A green box of Mike & Ike's, of which I ate all the cherry ones.

A cool container of Lifesavers Wint-O-Greens "for your desk at work", because The Prince knows these are my favourite.

Assorted chocolate, although not green, still part of the ensemble, because duh.

Friday, March 16, 2012

“Gooodniiiiiight little tumor…”

I’ve been known to get hysterical from time to time. Usually this means that I get into a pattern of thinking that everything I say is HILARIOUS when really what’s occurring is that I start to act like a total shithead. The Prince bears the brunt of this nowadays because he lives with me. I admit that sometimes I’m just being a shit, but in my defense, sometimes I AM HILARIOUS.

Exhibit A:

The Prince has a tiny little benign cyst on his back under his right shoulder blade. It’s so small; it’s like the size of a baby pea. It doesn’t hurt or bother him in any way so he’s never done anything about it. I noticed it sometime around the point in our relationship when he began to be shirtless all the time. 

Because I am a freak, this little bump on my boyfriend’s back started to make me curious. After weeks of us both referring to it as “the tumor”, I decided to do some quality investigating. So I googled. I googled to find out what it was and learned that it’s perfectly harmless and that I should leave it alone because it’s fine and happy just the way it is. This is apparently not the discovery my sick, sick little brain was hoping to make.

Last night, when I started to feel a total hysterical phase coming on, I decided I’d use my motivation and the cyst in the room for blog content. Under the pretense of giving The Prince a hug, I reached for the little bump on his back and sort of poked at it.

The Prince: “What, may I ask, are you doing to that? You’ve spent the last week googling it trying to figure out if you can convince me to have it surgically removed, and now you’re poking at my tumor again?”

Me: “Can I just take a picture of it to put on my blog? It’s for science, I swear. Blog science. I need new content.”

The Prince: “No. No. NO! You absolutely cannot take a picture of my medical mystery and put it on the internet BECAUSE YOU NEED NEW BLOG CONTENT.”

*Because I am not a quitter, it was at this point that I went and grabbed my camera and proceeded to chase The Prince around the apartment trying to take a picture of his bare back.*


The Prince: “I will wear a shirt all the time from now on!”

Me, with a raised eyebrow: “No you won’t.”

The Prince, with a shrug: “Yeah, I know.”

*About two minutes later I decided I was tired and wanted to go to bed. Shortly after I made The Prince tuck me in, I called him back to the bedroom. My games were not over.*

Me: “Baaaaabbbbbyyyyyy? I’m thirsty.”

*The Prince brought me some water, I drank it. Before he left again, however:*

Me: “Can I please have a hug?”

The Prince: “No. You don’t want a hug. You just want to touch my tumor.”

Me: “Nooo! I just want to say goodnight!”

The Prince caved and gave me a hug. Of course I used the tactic to once again poke the cyst. 

Me, whispering: “Gooodniiiiiight little tumor…”

The Prince let out a long, tired sigh.

Me: “I think he wants a name.”

The Prince: “What? Who?”

Me: “The cyst. I think I’ll call him Cystily. You know, like Sicily, only with CYST.”

The Prince: “Dear lord.”

Me: “Cysily! I like it. I wonder if he could assiCYST me with anything, or if he has a CYSTer? I think maybe he’s part of a larger CYSTem…. BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA”

The Prince: “Please, please stop. It’s not that funny. Stop laughing. Go to sleep.”

Me: “Wait, wait, he just said something. Cystily just said that when he grows up, he wants to be a physiCYST!”

The Prince: “I’m going to sleep on the couch.”

Me: “I think I’m gonna write a children’s book. A children’s book about Cystily and all his dreams and aspirations of becoming a physiCYST.”

At this point, I was both crying and howling with laughter. The Prince got up and walked out of the room.

Me: “Come on! That is SO funny! I am hilarious!”

The Prince, from the living room: “You’re a fricken’ RIOT.”

Me, yelling from the bed in a sing-song voice: “Gooooodniiiiiiiight Cyyysstilyyy, my darling little pet! I loooove youuuu! See you tomoooorrroooowwww!”

Thursday, March 15, 2012

There's Something Missing Here...

Ever have one of those mornings where you wake up late enough for work that you're forced to skip your morning shower and look like a slightly greasy drowned rat all day long?

Ever have one of those mornings where you're so freaking tired that you both stupidly and enthusiastically try to chug a whole energy drink only to wind up feeling like an entirely sick kind of burp-zilla?

Ever have one of those mornings where you get all the way to work, rush up the stairs because you are forty, yes FORTY minutes late, reach your desk, look at it and think: "Hmmm. There's something missing here..." only to discover two seconds later that the thing missing is your LAPTOP, which is practically the lifeblood of your entire job?

Of course, thank goodness, your laptop was not stolen. You took it home last night, remember? You took it home like a fool so you could watch DVDs while you ate three bowls of banana Cheerios for dinner. And then in your morning rush and stupor, you left it at home! Yay! You left it at home! And you don't have a car to go get it! Awesome! This is the best thing ever! Nottttttt.

Ever have one of those mornings, people?

Wednesday, March 14, 2012


I got a new car last year. Brand new. During one of my first weeks of ownership, my family and I used it to go out to dinner and a movie.

You see, even though her children are 22 and 20, my mom likes to pretend that we're still interested in "Family nights", which usually mean a drive to the city (oh, ow, I am so small town right now), dinner at a place my mom chooses, and a movie at a theater. She tells us that she wants to do these things because "We are a good family." My brother and I grudgingly agree to attend such events only after my dad promises us he'll pick up the tab AND that we're allowed to order booze.

So one Friday night the four of us take my car and go have beer with a side of dinner. Then we choose which movies to see. It worked out that my dad and brother were going to see a movie that started later than the one my mom and I were going to watch. The plan to make this work went as follows:

I would take my car keys into the movie with me. My dad and brother would continue to be in my car until they had to go get seats for their movie, at which time they would lock my car using the interior buttons. The movie I was in would end first, so that's why I needed my keys- my mom and I would need somewhere to go. Once the guys' movie was over, they would meet us at the car.

During the previews for the movie, I noticed that my phone had like 7 missed calls when I double checked that the volume was off. I thought it was weird, but honestly, I didn't really care.

Anywho, after the movie I get into my car and its info system notifies my that there has been "THEFT ATTEMPTED". I check my voice mail to find multiple messages from my brother which went like this:

*My car's alarm is blaring the entire time he's talking* "I HATE THIS FUCKING CAR. *other people walking past the vehicle can be heard* DAD. DAD. DON'T TOUCH IT, I TOLD YOU NOT TO TOUCH IT, HOLY SHIT. THIS IS DUMBEST VEHICLE EVER MADE. *my dad can be heard in the background trying to shut up both the car and my brother* THIS IS SO FUCKING EMBARRASSING. HONESTLY. HONESTLY, IF I HAD A GUN RIGHT NOW I WOULD SHOOT MYSELF IN THE FACE. IN THE FACE."

I guess he had been trying to call me to ask for the keys to make the alarm stop and then was so overcome with rage that he forgot he was on the phone with me every single time my voice mail picked up, so what we was saying wasn't really FOR me, but just what he was thinking in general. Like a super-angry pocket-dial.

Needless to say, my mom and I spent the time waiting for my dad and brother to get out of their movie replaying the above voice mail and crying with laughter. When they got to the car, my mom advised me to say NOTHING about the incident because my brother is a BEAR. Her exact words were: "Don't poke the bear."

Half-way through our 50 minute drive home, I couldn't hold it in anymore. I looked over at my brother, with whom I was sharing the back seat, and said:

"So heeeey, you know that time we were talking about the stories we plan to tell at each others' weddings? I think I have a new one to add to my list for yours."

And then my brother tried to murder me in the back seat of my own vehicle. To this day, he refuses to touch my car, which, if you ask me, kind of rocks. Coincidentally, my mom has stopped asking us to go out for dinner and a movie "like a good family."

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

The Things I Keep

My smartphone is about to explode because I refuse to delete certain text message threads in my messages. It stalls when I try to text anyone and it doesn't tell me when I have new messages sometimes. It's overflowing.

But yeah, I won't delete the two threads from The Prince. (One from his old Ontario number, one from his current BC number).

On a daily basis I get angry at my phone and at my own sentimental self for keeping all these texts. I'm not kidding, guys, I have saved texts from May of last year when we met.

The thing is, though, every time I go to delete one of the threads (at which point I struggle over whether to delete to the super old ones or the recent ones, never both), I start reading the threads (one of which is 3,859 messages long) and I just. can't.

I love them because they're some kind of weird string through my entire relationship with the Prince. The texts go through the first time he told me he thought I was funny, the first time we said goodnight to each other, the arrangements for our first date, our first fight, the first time I ever wrote "I love you" to a guy, the day he moved away from home, the days we were reunited, and all of the hundreds of times I've simply written "rawr" to him and have been rewarded with an "I love you so much."

I'm going to let my phone explode, is what I'm saying. I kind of want a new one anyway. What I know I don't want is to lose these words I'm hanging on to. I want to keep them. They make me happy. They remind me that there's a reason I have a dirty boy in my apartment who uses all the clean towels and snores his face off.

Does everyone do this? Do you have a bunch of text messages locked in your phone that you can't let go of? I'm seriously considering writing them all down on paper.

Monday, March 12, 2012

Mason Jars Are Awesome...

...ways to get wasted on a Sunday night.
The Prince and I use mason jars for everything. They are our drinking glasses, our "tupperware", our drink shakers, our EVERYTHING.

We bought 12 of these when we got our apartment because we couldn't agree on what kind of glasses to buy. The next day we went to a bar where my drink was served in a mason jar. The day after that, we became mason jar converts and have never looked back.

The picture above is of two awesomely good drinks: On the left, a mix of tequila with pineapple and mango juice garnished with some apple slices and a rim of brown sugar. On the right, a classic cesar (but using tequila instead of vodka) with a "drunken green bean" (yep, those are real things) and a celery stalk, complete with a rim of pepper and salt.

For some reason, we always decide to drink on Sunday nights, probably because that's generally when we run out of food. One of us looks in the freezer for something to eat, sees the bottle of tequila, and next thing you know we're on the couch watching an entire season of It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia whilst entirely bombed.

On that note, happy Monday!

Friday, March 9, 2012

"I don't embarass easily."

The circumstances under which I was hired for my current job were tres “hush-hush” at first because I still had some time to spend at my then-current job and also I didn’t want my mother to die of a heart attack. So yeah, I couldn’t exactly come home from what was supposed to be a week-long visit with my boyfriend and say “OH AND I GOT A NEW JOB ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE COUNTRY WHILE I WAS AWAY HA HA.”

So because I waited to mention the new job to everyone, I also held this story in, and I just remembered it last night so now I’mma tell it.

I had an interview and was offered a job. I accepted that job two days later. Two days after that I was bawling like a baby at the airport because I was leaving the Prince to go back to Ontario for another two months before I would get to see him again at Christmas. We were trying to wait until the last possible second before I had to go, and when they did the last call for my boarding I finally turned and walked toward security. I turned around at the doors to take one final look at The Prince and wave but instead of turning and seeing my prince I turned around straight into the face of the man who had given me a job two days prior. 

He looked awfully confused to see me standing there waving at him with mascara all over my face. I fumbled and tried to explain that I was waving at my boyfriend, who was back behind him. Then we both enjoyed the awkward that was going through security together while trying to make small talk about my future start date. Nothing says “good hire” like a crying girl taking off her thigh-high boots in the middle of an airport.

Turns out we were waiting in the same area for our different flights, so my new boss and I had even more time to sit and chat. He came and found me, sniffling to myself, and was all “It’s a sad day for you today. You’ll be back here before you know it, though. Email me once you break the news to your boss and your family back home.”

And everything was fine except for my ego and the fact that the last message I got from the Prince before my plane took off said something along the lines of: “Sweetie, who was that old silver fox dude you were talking to when you turned around to wave?”

I had totally forgotten this story until yesterday when some people on staff were discussing embarrassing moments and I was all “Yeah I don’t really have any, I don’t embarrass easily.” And my boss opened his mouth and was like “Actually, you do. I recall this one time, at the airport…”

Thursday, March 8, 2012

On Not Having Some Luxuries

I moved to Kelowna on a plane, which means I didn’t bring too much stuff with me, or at least too much stuff that MATTERED. I say this because I’m not even kidding when I say that I brought over 40 scarves out here with me.

Anyway, in the two months I’ve been living here, first in The Prince’s university residence and then in our apartment, we’ve managed to go without quite a few things that we thought we were definitely going to want and need.

These things are:
1) A vehicle.
2) A television.
3) A microwave.
4) A pet.
5) A laptop (I don’t have one- we share The Prince’s).

So far, I’m impressed that we’ve lasted without these things. Here are what it’s been like to live without:

Living without a vehicle blows chunks. Kelowna transit is crapola. I wish for my Chevy Cruze on a daily basis, and every time the sun shines I want my Camaro like a crackhead wants crack.

Living without a television has been fine. The Prince has Netflix on his laptop so we’re good.

Living without a microwave has been an adjustment but we’re used to it now and kind of like it. I’ve heard it’s healthier to avoid having one, so whatevs. It’s hard when you want to reheat something in 30 seconds, but we’re learning to save those kinds of leftovers to take to work where we both have microwave access.

Living without a pet is torture. We talk about getting one on a daily basis. Every day I check all the local shelter listings and almost cry when I realize over and over again that we just aren’t at home enough/ just don’t have the extra cash to have a pet. By pet I mean puppy, because we are both dog people, and I mean dogs of the large variety. We’ve talked about a kitten once or twice but decided against it because I’m a little allergic. Also, when it boils down to it, the problems with either a cat or dog are the same- who would look after them when we go back to Ontario for visits? And how would they adjust to us possibly moving back to Ontario? I don’t know. I just want a puppy SO BAD. 

Living without a laptop has been fine because I have one at work and also I use The Prince’s at home. I was really planning on buying one the second I started my job, but so far going without has been okay. The only time it’s terrible is when The Prince takes his laptop to night class and I get home from work to find NO TECHNOLOGY IN THE APARTMENT WHATSOEVER and I start thinking of things to do and my thoughts go like so:

Oooh I’ll read a book! I’ll make some cards and mail them! I’ll make some soup! I’ll watch a movie on Netflix! Wait… no. Damn. Okay, I’ll do the laundry! And while I’m waiting for it, I’ll watch a movie on Netflix! Uggghhh, wait, no.


So yeah. Not having stuff. It’s awesome.

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

For Anxiety Disorder

Sometimes I wonder about whether or not it’s acceptable for me to believe that my life is hard. I consider that there are uncountable worse things or situations that could be a part of my life.  I think that feeling shitty on the regular is merely a dirty, selfish habit of mine that should be ground into the pavement I walk on.

It’s hard to write “I” and “me” and “my” when I’m talking about this. I want to say “You start to feel pathetic”, but you don’t. I feel pathetic, sometimes. I just added the “sometimes” because saying “I feel pathetic” seems to be the exact kind of literal pathetic that garners eye rolls and urges to “Stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

I am so thankful for so much. I was just handed a paycheck. I am loved and in love with someone who understands that occasionally, everything with me is just a flat “No”.  I am thankful for my abilities, for my family, for the education that almost killed me. I was going to say “I am thankful for my health”, but I am pretty sure that would require working with percentages.

I try, once in a while, to blame this on my mother, who in turn would attempt to blame this on her mother. Two women who struggle daily with anxiety and depression- the kind of mothers who stay up all night on the couch in the dark waiting for their children to come home from a party because “What if something awful happens.”

I knew that I was depressed; I knew that I had a problem with eating, and I knew that I was stressed and anxious way too often. The thing is, though, I don’t think I believed I was depressed until the psychotherapist across the room said “It’s okay to cry, you’re obviously very depressed”. I don’t think I believed I had a debilitating issue with eating until I described my food habits and the doctor said “Well, that’s definitely an eating disorder.” Mostly, I know that I didn’t believe I had anxiety disorder. I just thought I was stressed. Hell, the doctor didn’t even say the words “anxiety disorder” at the appointment. When I picked up my new prescription for Prozac at the pharmacy a few days later, I read it on the bottle: “FOR ANXIETY DISORDER”.

And then there was a swirling feeling in my head where I realized that I’d just read an awful societal label on an actual paper label that had been stuck to a bottle and therefore stuck to me. What happened next is a series of mind spinning that I usually only verbalize as “I shouldn’t be driving right now, I just can’t focus.”

So I sat in the car and listened to myself whimper like an injured animal.

I take Prozac now, but I constantly question if it’s doing anything for me. I try to remember what the doctor said when he told me I needed to take the pills: “You need to treat the problem that is making you struggle against the treatment of the problem.”

Because sometimes I stare a little too long at the pair of jeans that fit me fifty pounds ago. Sometimes I get so anxious that when my boyfriend wants to have fun and mash the hard-boiled eggs with a potato masher instead of the knife I always use, I lock myself in the bathroom and five minutes later have no idea why I behaved in such a way. Sometimes I shove commitment as far away from my soul as possible, only to desperately seek out the comfort commitment brings a few hours later.

And there, I’ve made it happen- the real question comes to a head. Isn’t everyone like this? Don’t all girls limit their eating to fit into dresses during their second year of university? Everybody wants to quit their job, right? Do all of those people get a tight feeling in their chest when they think about what the hell else they would do with themselves? Doesn’t everyone just hold it together all day long and attempt to cover up the mess?

Sometimes I wonder about whether or not it’s acceptable for me to believe that my life is hard. I consider depression, binge eating disorder, anxiety disorder, and general listlessness. Then I wonder some more and beat myself up for being so self-absorbed. I wonder, but I sincerely do not know the answer. I am not ashamed.

Monday, March 5, 2012

Selected Entries From My Smartphone User Dictionary