Wednesday, January 28, 2015

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday

Is it yoga if you wear sweatpants all day and then hunch over the kitchen sink as you eat a burrito?


Tuesday, January 27, 2015

An Anniversary of Sorts

Today, January 27th, was the twenty four year anniversary of my first kiss. At fifteen, I was a late bloomer.

I am a girl, so I remember these kinds of things. I remember that I had, after months of chicken-shit debate, made a $5 bet with a friend that I would finally kiss the object of my infatuation. I remember that I planned my outfit carefully: a blue and white shirtdress, my brand-new blue Reebok sneakers, my CoverGirl Lipslicks lip gloss. I remember looking at myself in the mirror before leaving the house with ridiculous gravitas: This, I remember thinking to myself, will change everything.

It wasn't a date, this kiss. It happened at his sisters birthday party. He was younger than me, but cocky for fourteen. We had been flirting steadily for a few months. He made my heart beat really fast.

Now I laugh, but that night I felt like a seductress in my Reeboks and Lipslicks. I remember playing with my food, giving him meaningful looks, twirling my unruly hair. When I was finished eating I put down my fork, looked pointedly at him, and told him I was going upstairs to his room. To this day I have not been so ballsy or breathless.

Up in his room, I waited, looking at his posters. He came upstairs a few minutes later, and we feigned interest in a photograph, making awkward conversation. I expected some dramatic build-up, some slow, movie-perfect moment of our faces moving closer and closer together, but instead he just kissed me, suddenly, mid-sentence. Like so many rites of passage, I barely remember what it felt like, as I was so distracted by the realization that it had finally happened.

I never did kiss that boy again. It turned out he had a girlfriend, and it turned out that I had a lot of growing up to do before I'd be ready for anything more than kissing. At the time, I felt painfully inexperienced, but now I can appreciate a nice, slow bloom.


Do you remember your first kiss?




Thursday, January 22, 2015

I Like You Not

Ahhhhhhhhhhhh! In case you didn’t know, that’s the sound of me screaming in terror. No, I wasn’t being chased by a masked serial killer or hunted for sport by a group of scientifically altered super monkeys. It’s so much worse - I saw a roach! It’s the second I’ve seen at the mall actually. It’s as if they know when I’m the most vulnerable and they strike and scare the crap out of me. Literally.

I am deathly afraid of (some) bugs, especially ones that I feel could take me in a fight. They’re gross, they’re creepy and I feel they bear me ill will. Now I know some of you may be thinking, "What’s the big deal? Bugs are important to our planet’s eco-system. We can all co-habitate peacefully together if we respect each other’s place in this world." Well, I say back to you..."You are a dirty hippie and no one wants to come to your house."

For those of you like myself who find even Jiminy Cricket to be threatening (a bug is even more terrifying when dressed in a top hat and dinner jacket), here is what you can do when you encounter a big-ass, scary ol’ bug:


Step One
Upon seeing the horrid creature, scream as if to wake the dead. If possible, continue to scream through the next six steps.


Step Two
Run from room where said horrid creature was spotted. Remember to shut and lock the door behind you. Careful, it is not scientifically proven* that roaches don’t have opposable thumbs with which to open doors *By “not scientifically proven”, I mean I haven’t Googled it yet but I’m pretty sure I’m right.


Step Three
Abandon your workplace/house/apartment and everything in it forever. Why prolong this terror any longer? If this is not possible for reasons I can’t imagine, proceed to step four.


Step Four
Slowly open door to the room where the bug lays in wait (I hope you’re still screaming). Throw something at it, like a loofah or a Tampax Pearl slender regular. Watch as it scurries to a corner of the room. Good, now you have him exactly where you want him. Ha! The predator is suddenly the predator-ee. That’s a word, right?


Step Five
Go get the bug spray. If you are like me and forgot to buy it at the store as you got distracted by the free samples of cookies, other sprays will suffice. My special formula includes a random mash-up of Finesse hair spray, tile cleaner, shaving gel and half a can of sunless tanning mist. The roach will still die, only he’ll move on to the next world with silky hair and a coppery but natural looking tan.


Step Six
Find someone  (guy or girl it doesn't matter) to pick up the deceased (but now oddly pretty) roach. Don’t try to do this yourself. If experience has taught me anything, you will only waste an entire roll of paper towels trying to pick it up and end up dropping it as you gag and scream. Call a boyfriend, husband, father, brother or creepy neighbour to do it for you. I’m as much a feminist as the next girl but I’d sooner give up my rights to vote than pick up a big ol’ roach carcass. All in all, it’ll take about three hours and cost you upwards of $60 bucks in beauty supplies, but it will be worth it because in the end...said like that little old lady from the movie Poltergeist...“Your house is cleaned.”



Copper Roach by Metal by Martin via Etsy
 
 What about you...are you afraid of bugs?


Wednesday, January 7, 2015

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday

You'd think that atoms bonding would mean they're being friendly to each other, but instead they steal each others electrons. How ionic.


Atomic Atom Molecule Art Print by Walkslee via Etsy

Monday, January 5, 2015

You May Not Be Able To Tell...But...

I am working very hard. Can't You tell?

If you were here, you could hear the churning and whirring coming from the dishwasher.
That, my friends, is the equivalent of me standing by the sink elbow deep in hot suds with an aching back, blowing wisps of hair out of my eyes.

If it weren't for the modern marvel of the dishwasher, I would be battling dried tomato sauce or chocolate syrup or whatever stubbornly clings to a cup, saucer or bowl. The fact that the dishwasher is doing it for me doesn't negate my efforts because the job is getting done...and I am, therefore, entitled - guilt free - to sit down here, in my jammies, tapping away to you.

Next, a load of clothes will enter the washing machine dirty and emerge clean and fresh, ready to be popped into dryer from which they will reappear dry and, if folded quickly, nearly wrinkle-free. This is, obviously, the equivalent of two hours (at least) of back-breaking labour. The kind once done by my grandma in the deep tub of our kitchen sink. She actually had one of those old-fashioned wringers that would squeeze out the water and would then hang each item on a line in the backyard.Grandma's ancestors would beat laundry against the rocks of the stream that ran behind the hut...therefore, I am actually doing this very work while I sit back with my foot up.

Take this to heart, women who feel you must accomplish other things while your appliances are plugged in and doing their jobs. That is pure nonsense. Put up those feet, pop a bon bon, grab that copy of Cosmo, put a fresh topcoat on your pedicure or just tilt your head like a bird and stare out the window to your hearts content - you are hard at work and don't let anyone tell you different!

Vintage Rustic Washboard Print by Miss P Photography via Etsy

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