Family Bondy...

So I'm going to Disney World with the family in less than 3 weeks. My Dad and Step mom are paying for everyone to go and be all family-bondy.

Me? I'm thrilled. A free trip to Florida where I'm confident there's no snow. I will have just finished up with my first big event at this job, and believe me, I can already use the break.

The families will break off into little grouplets and I can hang with whichever one I choose. If one gets old, I can take off and hang with another. Such is the beauty of Disney shuttles and cell phones. All I have to pay for is the odd meal and any shopping I want to do (and really? How many Mickey ears does a girl really need?)

And the best part? Guess who I get to see when I'm down there?! Britt and Hilly have graciously agreed to meet me on the Sunday. How lucky am I? (insert excited *squee* here).

The only problem so far has been my darling brother. He's trying really hard to make the best of it, but well...he sucks at it.

First he was upset because our father wouldn't pay for his girlfriend and daughter to come too. He was all outraged that Dad seemed to differentiate between "married" and "not married" couples. Perhaps it's because we meet a new woman every year or so? And guess what? They've broken up. My Dad? Genius. My brother? Kinda clueless.

(Thank God - because he was threatening to have her and the daughter come anyways, and stay in the room with us. Hell no. Like I want to sleep with some random 9 year old).

Then he was upset because he wanted to go golfing with the other boys, but the BiL's weren't into it. So he threw a little hissy about that. Fine.

But the things that annoys me the most? The parts that actually amuse me, because they annoy me the most? Are the facts that a) he was so traumatized that when I told him that I was leaving for a few hours to meet Britt and Hilly (translation in his mind: scary people from the internet) and b) he wants to leave the resort and go to an outlet mall and for some reason I have to go with him.

Now I know that I've portrayed myself as all girly girl on here- but hanging with my brother in an outlet mall? I think I'd rather slit my wrists. Apparently though, because I'm the other "single" one on this trip, it means I'm his little beck and call girl. Seriously? In what kind of bizarro world is the brother forcing the sister to go shopping?

The main issue with my brother is that he feels that he's being forced to go on a vacation that is not one of his choosing. His happy vacation is on a resort in Mexico. He thinks that since he doesn't have kids, Disney is a ridiculous place for him to go. (What's my excuse exactly?)

Me? I have NO interest in Mexico. I don't think they have enough Mayan ruins and day trips to keep me amused. Disney isn't my first choice, but I'm cool with it. Had I unlimited funds and time? Off to Europe I would go. First to England/Ireland/Scotland, then to Russia and Norway and Turkey, then off to France and Italy....

So this is my poll to you, my darling readers - what would be your preferred vacay: a hot resort sitting on a beach having drinks served to you OR less hot, lots of activity, touring around, seeing things, etc etc.

Ahh to be rich. Le sigh.

Guess where I am today?
Partying over at the coast with one of the other Canadian Princesses!
Why don'tcha stop by???

The Meek Simply Vanish Into Nothingness...

You know people are kind of funny. It's so easy to get angry at someone for a perceived slight, yet so difficult to show compassion when you see that same person in pain.

If you get angry at someone for something they've said, it implies to me that on some level, you actually care about what that person thinks. Yet, if you care so much- why can't you reach out when you see that they could maybe use it?

It's inevitable that if someone approaches you and tells you that they're upset that you'll deal with it accordingly. Yes, it's kind, but it's also easy and temporary. Taking that extra step to check up on them and approach them when they're not directly in front of you? That's what being a friend is. It means that you actually think about them when you don't have to.

This blog has gotten me into trouble more than once. Once I had legal action threatened against me, and I unposted all of my archives. I could probably start re-posting the less inflammatory ones, but who wants to take the time to go through a year and a half of archives to do so?

Once I had an ex-boyfriend essentially call me a whore because of something I posted and stop speaking to me. It was quite hurtful and the final straw in an on-again off-again so-called friendship. He tried to apologise to me later but he had hurt me so much that time that there was nothing he could do to get my good opinion back. The best he can expect from me now is cordiality.

And then there were the friends that I lost just this past year. I wrote about how they had hurt me and how I reacted to it. They didn't know how much they had hurt me, and when they caught wind of the post, they decided to stop talking to me. I apologised, told them I understood their anger and tried my best to gracefully let them go.

I accept responsibility for my actions. I've mentioned before how I am constantly monitoring what I do, and say and how I behave. I constantly gauge how people are feeling and how they might react to what I have to say before I say it. I rarely say something that I regret because I think too much. But this constant monitoring? It's also a constant reminder that one day I AM going to screw it up. One day I'm going ot miss a cue that tells me that I shouldn't be doind or saying something, and it's going to blow up in my face.

People lose friends all the time. People stop speaking with their exes. People do things that cause them to get sued. I am hardly unique in this.

But the frustrating part is how easy it was for those people to let me go.

How easy it was for my ex-manager to go from thinking that I'm an awesome employee to thinking that I'm the root of all evil. To not caring that her actions caused me to leave a job after seven years and not once try to ask me why.

How easy it was for my now married-with-child ex boyfriend to accuse me of being a whore and simply stop speaking to me because what I was doing was so hurtful to him.

How those friends who didn't like what I said about them on this blog, because I was hurt, to just let the friendship die. It meant so little that I was upset and made an error in judgement by posting something about them when no one in the world knows who they are.

When I've posted about things that make me sad, and how I don't think living is worth the effort - something like this isn't worth reaching out for, except by complete strangers who don't even know me.

I wonder if I haven't done it to myself. I can be too mild and accommodating. I can be too obedient and independent. Surely someone like me doesn't need anyone.

Why is it so easy to get hurt and angry about something so little? Do people perceive themselves as being so perfect? Does my track record not mean anyting?

People go out of their way to help some friends who are constantly in a state of crisis, or are truly heinous human beings. But someone who is typically good and responsible and caring seems to be measured on a different scale. Something that I would do that is maybe not stellar, could be considered positively angelic if done by your drugged out unemployed friend.

It's just disappointing to come to realize that my existence in some people's lives meant so little that I can be so easily dismissed. Perhaps I should find some way to being a more dynamic, demanding presence. That way people would find it more noticable if I were gone.

Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep...

I've been having some weird nights lately.
Not kinky or any kind of fun like that weird, just weird.

Like I'm itchy. Everywhere. I wake up scratching constantly. What the eff? I'm going to wake up one morning and think I killed someone when I find blood all over my hands and sheets cause I've scratched myself raw.

And then there's the weird ass machine thing that my upstairs neighbour has. Now I know he's a strapping single lad, so I'm pretty sure that it's not a life support machine of any kind, but whatever it is, it's annoying. It'll come on at the most random times, and it's loud enough to vibrate my floor. It only goes for less than 10 seconds, but it stops with a weird thumpy sound. The other day it was going on every 10 minutes, then every five, then every three. Was it in labour? Should I run up there and offer to boil some water and practice breathing with it?

And then there's the dreams. Seriously - can I just shut them off please? Do they really serve any purpose? Why can't I have sex with Jensen Ackles dreams? Or eating chocolate cheesecake dreams? No, I have to re-live either the most mundane parts of my day, or have the same conversation with my ex-boss or other ex-people over and over again. For the love of God, I really don't want to have to go to therapy and talk about this.

And for some reason? I can't seem to get comfortable anymore. I don't know how I've managed to sleep for the 33 years prior to this, but now? I can't seem to lay in any way that doesn't make my arm fall asleep (while I'm NOT asleep) or prevent me from breathing. It's really a good thing that I sleep alone, cause the tossing and turning? WAY cliché and irritating.

And then there's the whole white noise issue. I've slept with a fan since I was - well as long as I can remember. With the same fan the whole time. It's old. And it developed a rattle. So I used to sleep with it on the lowest setting. But when the rattle began, I found that going up to the next setting helped. Eventually I was on the coldest setting. Could I buy a new fan? Maybe. But of course I'd rather spend that money on shiny things and just find myself curled up in the foetal position, bundled up under all my blankets when I wake up every morning. Scratching.

Should going to bed really be this much of an adventure?

xo

I Wanna Re-Set My Biological Clock

March and April are the big birthday months in my family. The past two weekends have been all about parties for "the boys" since two of them turned 40, and well, you couldn't ignore the other one.

Next up is me. 3 weeks from yesterday I will be 34. Not a terribly momentous age, but still it gives me pause every time I think about it. You see, 35 is a magic number. It's that number that means that you're entering the danger zone if you ever want to have children.

And yes, if any of you have some quizzical glances at your screen because of that comment, I don't blame you. I'm sure I've indicated more than once on here that I don't want children. And I mean it. But you know, being told that it's risky to have one in a little more than a year? Well, I'd be stupid not to ponder that just a little bit.

For as much as I've been kinda whiny on here about my single state, most of the time I really wouldn't have it any other way. I am independent, and kind of eccentric. I like my own space, and I really don't want to ever be accountable to anyone for even one moment of my time.

However, as much as it's quite easy to have a baby without a husband or even a boyfriend, it's just a wee bit gauche to do so. And hard. And since I like my sleep and my money and my time, I'm still pretty sure that I don't want one anyways. I sometimes enjoy my visits to babyville. Other times I don't. So I certainly wouldn't want to live there full-time.

But. What if I change my mind? What if I feel this way mostly because I don't have a vision of anyone helping me with it? Eccentric? Yes. Making up imaginary boyfriends in my head? No.

And I'm sure that this exact same post has been written a million times by a million different other women in their 30's, but you know...whatever- that means it's topical.

And it's not like I don't get it. I do resent that from the women I know who have babies. Even my very best friends have gotten that superior and knowing look on their faces around me. Like I couldn't possibly understand what it's like to be a mother. I can't know what it's like to create life. To give nourishment to another little creature from my breast. To have someone love me unconditionally and be completely dependent on me to keep them happy and safe. To feel the weight of responsibility that falls on a person knowing that they are tasked with the enormous job of making this person a happy, moral bearable member of society. To feel the fear that you might screw it up. The anxiety when they're sick. The longing when they start to grow up and become more independent, yet at the same time, the pride that you've given them the tools to do so. I've obviously never felt that level of exhaustion coupled with inexpressible joy.

Clearly I don't get it at all. Le sigh.

And yes, a part of me does have a biological clock. And while I wouldn't say that it's ticking, it does give a tiny little chirp every once in a while.

So I wonder. Am I being lazy and irresponsible for not actively seeking out a partner? What if I have serious regrets when I hit 40? What if I start beating myself up for not begging everyone I know to set me up with all their single friends? What if I kick myself for not working the internet dating circuit more relentlessly?

Am I being naive for hoping that it happens in a less contrived way? For having faith that somehow if it's meant to be, it will happen? Or is it a case of the universe only helping those who help themselves?

And do I really want to kill myself to do this in order to satisfy some clock? To work at finding a willing sperm donor when I'm still not sure- but based on the idea of "but what if I have regrets?"

Ugh. I kinda resent all men who can keep fathering children until death right now...

xo

Except it Really IS All About Me...

I read a post today that very succinctly summed up something that I've thought a lot about.
But since I'm not nearly as succinct as Poppy, I'm going to wax poetic on the topic for several paragraphs.

What this post reminded me of was quite possibly the greatest advice/statement that anyone has ever bestowed upon me:
"It's not all about you Princess."

On the surface it actually was kind of a rude and flippant thing to say. But since I'm all deep I got kind of introspective about it and really thought about what that statement meant. And I have to say? It has made my life easier ever since.

Before I get into the why's and wherefore's I going to divert a bit and say that I wish I could tell that person just how much that one comment gave me. I mean sure, they probably didn't have the most altrusitic and noble intentions when they said it to me, but it really is one of the things in my life that was attitude-changing. And for that? As Poppy suggested in her post, I should thank him for inspiring me.

Inspiring me in what way?

Because of that one little statement, I never worry that the women in the cubicle next to me are whispering or giggling about me. When I don't get a call from someone when I expect it? I no longer think that it might be intentional- that maybe they don't want to talk to me, or that they're angry, or they're intentionally being difficult. Cause guess what? They have busy, complicated lives and they probably, aren't even thinking about me.

When someone cuts me off in traffic, or doesn't immediately respond to my email? It's not about me. Cause they? Are probably not even thinking about me.

When I read the title of Poppy's post, it immediately struck me as kind of sad (for those of you not inclined to go click: If you knew how often people didn’t think about you, you’d feel even less significant than you already do. But I've actually come to find this knowledge as rather liberating.

I know that I have friends & family who love and adore me. And based on the number of calls, emails and invitations that I get, I assume that they think about me just the right amount. Probably the same amount as I think about them. The same goes for my bloggy friends. I love and adore you all, but when I'm watching Supernatural, or wariting a report for work, or out for lunch with my girlfriends- I'm not thinking about you.

So the inspiration? That one comment inspired me to be more laid-back and less worried about what others are actively saying about me. It's inspired me to consider people's lives more, and rank myself in importance in their life. It's inspired me to laugh at myself a bit more when I do slip and think that people are behaving in a certain way because of me.

Cause you know what? It's pretty often that people just aren't thinking about me.

Except right now. You're all totally thinking about me and how awesome I am. And my hair. Right?

xo

You'll Have to Call Back, I'm Eating M & M's Right Now..

So I have a list of foods that I've decided that I have to give up for, you know, ever.
I figure since I'm a slack ass, and just won't become a gym-goer, I better do something else, in the spirit of attempting to be all healthier and stuff...

So I'm thinking, what would I actually give up? I mean if I said that I would never eat chocolate again, that would just be laughable. I mean who would even say something like that? You may as well say that you're never going to eat bread or cheese again. Or try to convince me to only wear one type of mascara, cause that ONE is good enough. I mean obviously that's not true. Have my eyelashes ever looked like that supermodel's on TV? I mean really, who are they kidding?! It's a giant conspiracy of the cosmetics companies...

Wait, what were we talking about? Oh yeah.

So OBVIOUSLY something else had to go. Now I? Am a sweets person. If you were to tell me that I had to give up potato chips and pretzels and things like that? No problem. In fact I've probably already done it without any conscious thought.

So that's not really giving things up. Nor is it any kind of sacrifice. Same thing with something like coffee or alcohol. But is that going to stop me from adding those items to the list so it looks even more impressive? Not at all. It's all about psychologically tricking yourself people.

Things I will never eat and/or drink again:
- Coffee and it's associates- expresso, lattés, anything ending in "ccino"
- Beer, tequila
- potato chips

OK, now onto the hard stuff:
- french fries
- burgers and it's associates (that means you my beloved meatball sub)
- chicken fingers
- pizza

Now I've been telling a few people about this plan. My boss (an ex-Olympic athlete) simply found me amusing. My Dear Anon? Well, I could hear her rolling her eyes over the phone.

However it did lead to a discussion about what we could and couldn't give up. Apparently chocolate wouldn't be a problem for her. (Seriously? Why am I friends with her? Oh yeah, cause that means I don't have to share.) However, potato chips? Yeah. Non-negotiable. They are a staple of her diet. (Did I ever tell you guys about the time that My Dear Anon made her boyfriend call her back later, cause she was "busy eating chips"??) Her potato chips mean a lot to her.

We're both kind of on the fence about pop. I suspect I could give it up - but I would really miss ordering my Diet Pepsi with lots of cherries whenever I'm in a restaurant. Perhaps I'll put some guidelines around it - pop only when I'm at a restaurant, and only fountain pop. (I can justify anything if I really try)

I am curious though - about YOU. Chips or chocolate? Pop or coffee? What could you absolutely NEVER give up?

Purging My Childhood...

My mother died when I was 11, and for 7 years after that, I lived with my Dad and brother. At age 18, my father bought a house with my soon-to-be stepmother, and my brother bought my childhood home from my father. Those seven years were both homey and sad.

I was always Daddy's little girl, so us getting on after my mother was gone was never a question. My relationship with my brother was a bit more iffy. He was 12 years older than me, so I always viewed him as more of a parental figure than a sibling and an equal.

11 - 18 are pretty formative years. It's only in retrospect that I've realized how much a lack of mother really had an affect on me in that way. For as much as I may have since questioned the "happiness" of my childhood - I never doubted that I was loved. And that knowledge carried me through those years. I wasn't part of the "popular" crowd in school, nor was I ostracized and tormented. I happily existed somewhere in the middle, probably where it is safest to be.

I had already moved onto public school when I was 10 and fortunately had a group of friends living close by. I went through the expected teenage awkwardness of dressing poorly, not getting my hair cut, and feeling "different" somehow. But doesn't everyone?

Home life was OK, but I was unsatisfied with it. My brother was "bossy" and my father, though kind and fair was not very expressive. He would find me crying and want to know what was wrong, but I couldn't explain to him what I was unhappy about. It was something undefined. Looking back, it doesn't seem to me anything more mysterious than missing having a mother figure around - but at the time that seemed to predictable, surely it must have been something else.

It's fortunate that I was always relatively serious and mature. I took on the role of cook at a fairly young age. (Not that I was a culinary genius by ANY stretch of the imagination). Although the role of housekeeper/cleaner I dove into with significantly less enthusiasm. At least things were relatively democratic in the house and I wasn't expected to do ALL the "girl jobs." Although, the fact that I never had to shovel or mow a lawn implies that perhaps I really didn't even do the half that was my share.

All things considered, it's actually somewhat surprising that I have such little faith or trust in men if you look at the fact that I was raised by two of them. My father was the most caring and wonderful man in the world and has never done anything to let me down. And my brother? Well, no one's perfect right? I actually didn't realize most of his faults until I was much older and became more emotionally mature than him. We're definitely closer now than we were in that era, since the age difference doesn't mean much as adults.

My grandmother moved down the street from us when I was 14, after she had a small stroke. This perhaps added more family to my neighbourhood, but added a burden to my father. His mother went from being an independent and vibrant member of her community to a needy woman with a gift for guilt trips. The second I turned 16 she was on me to get my license so that I could drive her places. In the meantime, my grandfather on my mother's side had moved into a rest home. Him and my father would occasionally take trips to Vegas where my grandfather would play Keno. My father was a saint to both of them. (In my eyes anyways)

Then, just as my father's father and my mother's mother died when I was 9 - the same thing happened when I was 17. Both my remaining grandparents passed away. By the summer of age 17 I had one parent and no grandparents.

I had a hard time letting my father out of my sight for anything other than work in those years - even before the grandparents passed away. I was terrified that something would happen to him. This didn't disappear until he re-married when I was 18.

It took a long time before I would her my friends criticize their parents with equanimity. It seemed like such an immature way yo behave when we should be cherishing their existence and everything they do for us. Looking back, I wonder if I wasn't really the immature and attention-seeking one.

It's odd to think back on those years. In some respects it seems like I was no more than a normal teenage girl. In others, I wonder just how troubled I really was and if I ever really did recover from the loss of a mother at such a young age.

The One Where I Get All Existential or Whatever

So back in the summer before I began first year University I thought myself very deep. I would go around asking people what they considered to be the meaning of life, writing down their answers and having long conversations with everyone I ever met about the various responses.

Some responses were as simple as "to be happy." Some were "to make a difference in the world." Some were "to be the best person you can be." Many responses of "42." (Le sigh, no that's the answer to the Ultimate Question, not the meaning of life. Don't you read??) I'm sure there were more, but it's not like I kept any of that crap.

In retrospect, I'm impressed with how surprisingly willing people were to have that conversation with me. And I asked EVERYone. From my hairstylist to random people upon first meeting.

Sometimes in my more depressed days, I consider my life, and think that since I'm really not making any great contribution to the world - why bother? (No, this isn't going to be another post where I get dozens of emails "gently" nudging me to therapy. Things aren't that dark today). Thoughts like that though make me wonder- what am I doing here? What is the meaning to my life? And really, I don't think most of us can really answer the question at any level better than that.

What am I doing to make the world a better place? What can I do to be happy? Am I in fact being the best person that I can be? The answer to the last is of course no. We can always do better. The day that anyone thinks that they are the paragon of everything that they can be, is the day that they should in fact be prepared to leave this world. Because what else is there to do once you've reached that state of actualization? But I digress.

My darling Glamour Puss meets with a friend once a month to set goals. For without goals, where are we in life but restless and stagnant? I've told her on more than one occasion that I think this is an amazing idea, and that I should do the same. How can we improve our lives and outlook and happiness if we sit and do nothing. Whatever deity you believe in is not simply going to hand it down to you like a gift. Or at least not without a little work to prove that you earned it.

So, I've decided that I shall set some goals. Some may be small and personal, and may result in better nails and new shoes. Some will be practical such as paying off debt and being more diligent about dusting. And some, should be more lofty. Maybe spiritual. Maybe creating an ambitious-yet-totally-doable plan to end world hunger.

In that, I will have found my own life's worth and meaning. When reviewing my diaries (cause trust me, the most depressing and alarming thoughts in my little head are not posted up for the world to see) the main theme I see is restlessness. I'm hoping this will conquer that.

However, I am curious - what do you think is the meaning of life? Perhaps I'll publish your ideas in my memoirs.

xo

The Divine Miss B

So remember how I'm a single girl and all? And how I rarely get sex?
So I entered this contest to win a mini vibrator.

And remember how I was looking for my thing?
And one of my ideas was to do a feature on some blogs that I love? How about on a site that has just launched and that needs some lovin' from teh internetz?

Of course, it's a site by the phenomenal Miss Britt, so really, who am I kidding? As if she needs the promotion. However, the thought occurs to me that by some weird alignment of the stars, I may just have one or two readers that she doesn't. So just in case, I'm totally sending you over there.

What is this new site you may ask, well who better to tell you than Miss B herself:
"See, I’ve decided to launch a review site for women. I’ve seen a lot of mommy review sites around and always wondered “where the hell are the sites for the REST of the shit women spend their money on?” I also thought, “this economy is kicking my freaking ass and I need a better way to whore myself out without exploiting my dear sweet readers at Miss-Britt.”

Oh yeah, did I forget to mention that Miss B uses language? Oops.
So skip on over there and show her some love willya? You might win some free stuff!
xo

Bullets (not the sex toy)

You're getting a bulleted post today because I have a bunch of randoms I want to get out of my head.

• You guys are absolutely awesome for commenting at all on my last post. I woke up the next day thinking that I really must have a hate-on for my readers for putting you through that, but you all came through like rock stars!
  
  
• I threw a baby shower for my person this past Saturday (special thank you guest post from her coming soon!) and realized several things: a) my place really isn't baby-proof b) seafood dip, crackers, cheese dip and fudge are great on day 1, but when you're still eating them 2 and 3 days later? Not good. Over it.
  
  
• Saw The Watchmen on Saturday. I don't care if he was an ass, I still love Jeffrey Dean Morgan. But I do wish I had read ahead of time- can someone please explain a few things to me? Why were they so kick-ass? I thought they were just vigilantes in costumes (except blue guy of course). Do they have superpowers? From where?
  
  
• It is a sad fact about humanity, if you show a man's penis on screen, the men in the audience will react EVERY time it is shown, not just the first time. Annoying. Is it jealousy? Is it homophobia? Either way? Shut up.
  
  
• Yesterday was International Women's Day. My person's DH gave me a pot of daffodils. I almost got teary, and only held back cause I figured it would make him uncomfortable. Love him.
  
  
• My Step BIL has told me that my Facebook statuses (stati?) are boring, and that I need to step it up. So I decided that each day will have a new scandalous status. They have ranged from my never dusting again, to contemplating single motherhood because sex is easier to find than a husband to showering with several both men and women the other day etc. Feel free to offer suggestions, since I'm running out of ideas. I try to make them relative to my life, but my life? Not so scandalous.
  
  
• The cashier at Wal-Mart (AKA "Hell" and does not deserve a link) complimented me for my fabulous Wendy B necklace the other day. It reminded me that my birthday is coming up in a month and perhaps I should buy myself more jewellery? Or perhaps someone would like to buy me the matching ring? Or the Mia Scent locket? PS feel free to peruse my wish list. It's not weird to send princesses gifts at all!
  

And scene. (AKA lunch hour is over)

Can a Person Make a Post About Filing Intersting? Probably Not.

Tonight, as I was watching Lost I filed. I have a bad habit of letting mail that looks boring just pile up, and a few times a year I open them up and file them. I frequently miss notices about investment seminars, and the latest banking fee increases until months after they're either past or already in effect.

I'm good at filing. A filing cabinet was one of the first things I bought when I left the nest 11 years ago. I have letter and legal sized file folders. I have hanging files to hold the folders. I have a pink accordion file to hold bills and such that I have to open in a timely manner before I file them in the cabinet.

It used to be that the cabinet held papers and school work. All that is still sitting in the bottom drawer collecting dust. But now? Now it's all about the top drawer.

Mortgage and insurance info. Bank statements. Investment summaries.
The purpose of tonight's filing frenzy was of course to put together a proper file to do my taxes. I have an accountant. He's lovely. I tried doing my own taxes once. And failed. Epically.

So as I waited for Sawyer to get around to taking his shirt off, I prepared a list of questions. How long do I have to keep old pay stubs, if at all? Same for old bills and credit card statements. I concluded that I probably didn't have to keep them for more than a year, but for interest sake, perhaps I should prepare a spreadsheet so I can compare from year to year before I got rid of them. And since I now only have access to paystubs online I debated about whether I should create a paystub file on my home computer, and how much space that would take up since they're all pdfs.....

Bored yet? Yeah, me too. Suddenly I stopped writing questions down, and began laughing to myself. I was reminded about the conversation I had with My Dear Anon the other day about her tax filing habits, and about someone I know who is getting their wages garnished etc etc.

When did this happen? When did I start to care about taxes in an actual tangible way? And creating spreadsheets to track bill payments? And hoarding paystubs?

My Dear Anon and I? We used to skip Family Studies classes, and have the teacher find us in the cafeteria asking how our 60 minute flu was (yeah, we were stealthy). A paycheque was something that got me to Europe and paid for tattoos and took me to the bar.

Now My Dear Anon hoards money like she gets to take it with her, and I buy cute little accordion files. Wtf??

After careful thought, I concluded that I do not in fact want to go back to my class-skipping age. I had enough trials and tribulations in that era to be glad that I'm over it. But this? This is the part of adulthood that makes teenagers think that growing up sucks.

It makes me wonder how I learned to care and do all these grown-uppish kind of tasks. How did I ever get to the place where I have a mortgage and automatically renewing condo insurance? How is it possible that I actually get angry that I don't have a drycleaner close to home? Why would I rather buy decorating magazines than a Cosmo, and then don't actually end up buying either of them because magazines are a waste of money?

Who the hell is this person?

Things That I Wonder...

- Where would I be now if I had taken the other job eight years ago?
- What if I hadn't broken up with him before moving out there? Would we be married with kids now, or was a break-up inevitable?
- If my Dad had never gotten re-married, would I ever have moved out?
- If I took my step-mom's advice: "one should protect their credit rating the way they protect their virginity" - would I still be a virgin, or just have a really good portfolio?
- Should I go meet the internet guy who is separated-reconciling-separated-again?
- Can I train myself to crave carrot sticks the way I crave chocolate?
- Why don't people ever read the entire email before responding back with questions that are already answered?
- Am I really selfish because I don't want children?
- Why are some people so completely clueless?
- What should I have for dinner tonight?
xo

Seven Minutes in the Bottle...

I was in grade six. One of those kids who wasn't quite one of the "cool kids" but wasn't a loser either. I was in that delightful category that allowed me to be friendly with everyone, and with a few exceptions most people were pleasant enough back.

It was a comforting way to live. I didn't wake up each morning dreading school more than any other regular 11 year old. There were some days that I would walk home alone and each lunch watching TV. And other days, cute boys and popular girls would be even go out of their way to talk to me. Yet, I didn't have the pressure to perform that they did. For the most part I just did my own thing.

My mother passed away on January 1 of that year. And that month? I was invited to my first real party. One with girls AND boys. An invitation that was significant and momentous. I wouldn't be invited to a party at that boy's house ever again. But for that one shining moment, I was cool enough to be accepted and included. Perhaps because they felt sorry for me? Perhaps because I had thrown a Halloween party that fall and invited almost the whole class? Who knows?

I don't really remember a lot about that night. Perhaps I agonized over what to wear. Perhaps I was terrified. Or perhaps I was still too sad to really get worked up about it. But I went.

But what I do remember about that party? It was the first and only time in my life that I had ever played "spin the bottle." It was the night of my first kiss. I don't even remember being that nervous about it. Although it seems reasonable to me that I would be concerned about the possibility of rejection if the bottle landed on me, and someone reacted with horror.

It seems to me that we went in order. And when it was the turn of the boy next to me, it landed on me. He wasn't someone that I had a crush on or spoke to any more than anyone else. I was remarkably neutral about it. I leaned over and kissed him and that was it. Then it was my turn and it landed on him again. I leaned over again and he pursed his lips that time. I guess I didn't do it for him. It was a very quick second kiss and then it was over.

I'm sure it went around the entire circle, but that's where my memory ends. I do remember being a bit dismayed in junior high when that boy got into a lot of trouble. It seems he fell into a bad crowd. To this day all I really remember about him was him clenching his lips on our second kiss, and the fact that there was a rumour that he set some kid's face on fire in junior high. Lovely.

I even tried googling him just now in the spirit of this post. I found someone with his name in real estate in Winnipeg. But no photo. (Unusual for a realtor). Perhaps he's in jail for the whole face-on-fire thing??

So, I suppose on paper, my first kiss was at a game of spin the bottle at age 11. But really? Does that have to count? I would rather have a memory of my first kiss being something voluntary and exciting. Something that I'd been anticipating and getting all tingly about. But, being that I was a slow-bloomer, that didn't happen until my first boyfriend when I was 17. Six years. That's a long time to wait.

I wonder if the kids still play spin the bottle? Or seven minutes in heaven- does that really happen? Or was it just made up for the movies?

Ok, so ante up people. I wanna hear your first kiss stories. Good? Pursed lips? Was there a bottle or closet involved?

xo