Accidental hypocrisy

So, Wednesday, as you may know, was Pink Shirt Anti-Bullying Day, so I wore a pink t-shirt.

On Wednesday, I also donated blood for the first time.

As the nurse pierced my skin with the needle, a burst of my blood spurted out all over my shirt.

Yes, there were blood stains on my anti-bullying pink t-shirt. In other words, I looked the biggest hypocrite in the world. 

What money can't buy

It never occurred to me until recently that my parents didn't have a lot of money.

It wasn't that we were ever poor, per se. We always had food on the table and clothes on our back. My dad always worked full-time, and my mom almost always was working most days of the week. In fact, my parents, in what I come to realize more and more each year is amazing kindness, often were offering support to those friends of our even worse off than us-- like how they bought my best friend her prom dress after her father handed her a $20 bill.

This holiday, the Duke and his brother drove me back to my home town on their way back to see their family, stopping to spend the night at my family home. It is not that I wasn't aware that we grew up differently on the surface, they in a residential suburb of a big city, in a home with a big garage and soft carpets, me in a small town and smaller home filled with random antiques and curiosities. But, still, we'd grown up with the same morals, and the same sense of needing to work for your accomplishments, so the contrast never really stood out to me.

On their continued drive, the Duke's brother remarked to him that he had a newfound respect for me, seeing that I had accomplished so much coming from such a different environment. At first, this seemed a little absurd to me. My parents were always wonderfully supportive of me, always believed in me. How was I at all disadvantaged? But, with a little thought, I realized that, unlike a good chunk of my peers in graduate school, I came from a family in which no one went to graduate school. In fact, no one in my family went to college.

This same revelation hit me again while flipping through the program of the conference I recently attended. In the first section, there were several pages dedicated to the winners of the prestigious diversity awards, an award I had never considered applying to, since, as a Caucasian heterosexual woman of European background, I had never considered myself as fitting into the category of "population typically underrepresented in graduate school". I then noticed that "first generation college student" was also lumped into this category. I think I actually commented to my friend about how I found this odd and incongruent for me, as despite technically fitting into this category, I didn't feel as though I matcged the label of "underrepresented population". She told me that I should give myself more credit.

The thing is, I never thought of myself as having to bear a burden to go to university (well, except for financially, as I have paid for all nine years of university without help from anyone except scholarships, grants, and some student loans). It was just something I always wanted to do, and I did it. Nothing about my parents' lack of university diplomas felt like it slowed me down at all.

The other day, I was reminiscing with the Duke about how, at around the age of 9, I had desperately wanted to go to an autograph session with one of my favourite hockey players in a city an hour away on the weekend. I had been heartbroken when my parents had flat-out refused. The Duke asked me why they had declined, and I told them that this question had perplexed me greatly for years to come, as it seemed so out of character, and I was never really given a point blank answer.

Suddenly, I had a bit of an epiphany-- they didn't have the money to take me there. Then, all the pieces started to fall into place. The truck that was always breaking down when I was little. My mom's telling me that if I wanted Calvin Klein jeans, she couldn't buy me any back to school apparel. The girl who asked if I was poor because of my clothing. My sadness at not being able to participate in the summer theatre programs due to the triple-figured fees required, and the fact that, at the age of 12, I knew better than to ask. My paying rent for living at home in my first two years of college. Having to leave our rental house behind, in part because it was being torn down for subdivisions. My mom coming home, distraught, saying she'd been laid off.

The fact that I only realized this at 27, to me, testifies to me the important aspect of all this, though-- that it didn't matter at all. My parents loved me unconditionally, supported even my most ridiculous phases, and made for a beautifully memorable childhood and adolescence. On top of that, they took in troubled foster kids, and let friends live in our basement or even in a tent in our backyard in tough times. They taught my about morality, kindness, empathy and self-sufficiency. All of these are infinitely more valuable than a college fund or those designer jeans.

Confessions of a desperate approval seeker

I've never quite understood those people who make such broad claims as "I am who I am, and anyone who doesn't like it can screw off."

I am more of the type to say "... and anyone who doesn't like it, I will desperately try to win over all the same."

You see, I am really bad about the idea of not being liked.
I don't care if I actually can't stand the thought of being around you. I still want you to find me a kind and worthwhile person.

I remember once having a conversation with my mother. She was chastising me for something along the veins of doing something I didn't want to do because I had promised a friend. It came down to a fundamental disagreement, in which she asserted boldly that it didn't matter what people think of you.

I replied to her that this notion was bullshit. It's just a cliche we all say to our kids  in some half-hearted attempt at building self-esteem. The truth is, to a good proportion of us, it does matter what others think of us. To say otherwise seems like a touch self-deluding to me, despite how nice it would be to not need this approval.

This weekend, I met someone new, a friend of my boyfriend's. There was a bit of nervous anticipation, as we had both heard a lot about one another. Although I didn't get much of a chance in the midst of a busy party to connect with her, I did like her, and I thought we managed a good conversation-- despite my girlfriends chattering and hovering about me, asking me "Who's that girl? Why is she talking to your boyfriend so much?".

Then, yesterday, when chatting with her, the Duke says "So my girlfriend really liked you!", to which she replies "Oh yeah."
Then nothing.

Stupidly, this hurts my feelings... the fact that she couldn't even muster up an "Oh yeah, she seemed sweet" or even a "It was nice to finally meet her."

Even, perhaps even more moronically, I begin to feel some sort of moral outrage. "She's not allowed not to like me!" my indignant mind shouts. "I was nice to her! I offered her drinks and snacks! I asked her about her research and sat by her when she didn't know anyone else at the party!"

And, perhaps most telling, my mind then declares, "I liked her-- she has to like me!"

Of course, she doesn't. She has the right to dislike me or be completely apathetic about me or just have nothing to say about me, no matter whether I deem it irrational or unfair.

But, damn it, it doesn't mean I need to like it.

Like good Canadians do

As good Canadians do, the Duke and I decided to show our wholehearted dedication to all things hockey by hosting a Hockey Day in Canada party.

For those of you not familiar with said tradition, one Saturday a year, all six Canadian teams play each other at times staggered throughout the day. It is an epic opportunity to revive old rivalries, drink before 5pm and engage in some serious trash talk.

A few things observed on this occasion:

Even when you give people a six hour window to show up, and trying for an open house format, the hosts will be sitting around for the first three hours surrounded by untouched serving plates full of appetizers. Then, as if by magic, your apartment buzzer will nearly short circuit itself by everyone showing up at the exact same time (1st intermission of the second game).

Everyone will bring chips to such a party. Everyone. 

Now my fridge has been emptied of veggies, dip, pitas, and other such foods, but my cupboard is full of twist-tied bags of chips.

A lot of people do not come to a hockey party to watch hockey. It is a dangerous thing when the hockey and anti-hockey people collide during overtime.

Flavoured vodka makes me happy.

I look cute in my hockey jersey.

It is awesome when your team wins. It is more awesome when there are opposing team fans trash talking you when their team was winning. It is infinitely more awesome when, due to his team's defeat, your six foot tall guy friend squeezes into your 5 foot 3 self's hockey jersey for punishment and ridicule.

It is awkward when one of your good friend's and her boyfriend finally have that knock-down argument about his lack of a Valentine's Day gift for her two years in a row in your entrance. It is more awkward when it moves to the only apartment bathroom for 45 minutes. It is infinitely more awkward when, after he leaves the bathroom, you try to go comfort your friend who is still in there, and a guy yells across the entire party "Princess, why are you harassing the poor person trying to pee?"

It is also awkward when a drunk lesbian tells my boyfriend she is going to go kiss me, and then just ends up getting a mouthful of my hair as I unknowingly am chatting away with someone else. (I didn't have any idea what her intentions were until later... I was just like "Uh, why did you just bite my hair?") It wasn't exactly the girl-on-girl scene anyone was looking for.

Cleaning up after "adult" parties is infinitely better than cleaning up after teenage and college parties. You just collect the bottles, which most people have kindly gathered in one or two locations, rinse of the plates, put the leftovers away, and you are off to bed. The messiest thing was a pile of damp cloths from when people cleaned up their spill themselves. It is a far cry from the cleaning up of mysteriously sticky liquids and garbage of the parties of my youth.

My unsolicited and hypocritical dating advice

I have a bit of a secret-- I've never really dated.

As I've remarked before, my adult dating history has been marked primarily by either being in a relationship, or out of one, with not a lot of time spent in the space in between. Of course, being with the same man from 18 to 24, and then, however ridiculous it may be, finding the man of my dreams soon after that relationship ended sort of takes away much of the possible time in the gray zone.

My first year in college was the only time I tossed around the idea of *just* dating. When a friend I'd known since elementary school and I impulsively kissed one night, I insisted on keeping our label as "seeing each other" for the first month, fearing the effects of too much romantic pressure on our friendship. (Ironically, we did the "exclusive" thing for a month after that, then broke up due to contradictory summer plans, and pretty much never spoke again. Perhaps I should have stuck with "dating" thing a little while longer.)

I also had the one month of "real" dating, aka. seeing more than one person at the same time with no semblance of commitment. Though it was fun, it failed miserably, as college aged guys couldn't seem to comprehend what I meant when I said "I'm not looking for a relationship". One assumed this meant I was an easy lay, and seemed shaken up when I told him "not in a relationship" was not equivalent to booty call. The other couldn't fathom that I wasn't trying to secretly trap him into a relationship, when, truthfully, I wanted nothing of the sort.

So, yes, I may hardly be a dating expert, so you may take my attempts at expertise with a grain of salt.

However, I do have something I would like to say to a number of my female friends:
Dating:You're doing it wrong!!


I can only speak of the members of my own gender, but I can't help but be surprised when I see the same seemingly evident errors being made repeatedly.

So, please ladies, take a lesson from this wholly unqualified lady.
(Ed. note: I have not read any of the following: The Rules, He's Just not That Into You, anything by Dr. Phil, aka. the Devil, or, in fact, any self-help book ever. It is against my psychologist's pride. As such, any similarities or contradictions are completely accidental.)


If you are looking for a relationship, do not sleep with the guy before you have seen him in the light of day.
I am not anti-booty call or friends-with-benefits. If that is what you are looking for, this may be a good first step. I'm also not one of those people who thinks sleeping together on the first date is necessarily a make or break thing.

However, if you meet him at a party/the bar, and have yet to meet him sometime during daylight hours, banging him that first night is not the best of steps if you are thinking/hoping it could turn into something resembling an exclusive relationship. At least wait until breakfast, and the fact that you know he is at least willing to have a real date with you, and then jump him.

I am not saying it can't happen-- one of my best friends is marrying a guy she met at a club. However, she jokes as much as anyone that she fully expected it to be a one-night stand. She didn't go home with him assuming a second encounter, let alone to spend the rest of her life with him.

I am just shocked by the fact that I see friends actually get hurt by the fact that this guy does not call them back. How's he to know you want something more than a one night stand? How do you know he wants something more than that?

If you have a FWB/ booty call situations, you can't expect it to transition into a relationship simply because you want it to.
You started with an exclusive no strings attached stipulation. This doesn't mean that you may not fall madly in love and discover you want to be formally together. However, by entering into such a NSA agreement, you have kind of expressed that you are okay with doing the naughty sans relationship.

If your feelings are getting in the way, by all means, express them-- but don't call him a real jerk if he doesn't reciprocate. And, for heaven's sake, if that is the case, get out before your feelings get too raw and the whole situation explodes.

(If he sleeps with you while pretending to want to be in a relationship with you, and then says he isn't in a relationship mindset, however, then he is a deceitful douchebag.)

If you meet a guy on the weekend, and you get along really well, don't delete your online dating profile and cut loose all the boys you have within the next week.
That is wayyy too much pressure to put on one person, and on yourself, to make it work. At least give it a few weeks to make sure you are both going in remotely the same direction!

If you are already unhappy in the first month of dating, end it.
There are lots of issues you can work through once you have a solid foundation. But, in the first month, you should all be on your best, shiniest behavior. If the problems are coming up before you've grazed the honeymoon stage, you are missing out on the whole fun of being besotted in the first place.

Don't rush "the talk", but don't avoid it completely, either.
I've seen bitter extremes on this one. Some women want to know within the first week if "this is going somewhere", which is a surefire way to bring overanalysis to every stage of the getting-to- know-you process.

On the flip side, if you've been seeing each other regularly for months and you still are afraid of freaking him out by using the word "boyfriend", plus you don't know if he's sleeping with others-- I think it might be time for a chat.

This is the one I know has been rehashed in dating guide after dating guide, but, seriously, a little hard to get doesn't hurt.
I'm not saying you need to be systematic about it, like never calling him, ending the calls first, counting days, and so forth. In fact, I hate any quantitative rule like that.

However, don't throw your all into a budding relationship. Keep on making plans like you would if he wasn't around. Even if you would rather spend Saturday night with him, it doesn't do you any good to hold it free "just in case" if you haven't heard from him and there is a great party going on. It will do him some good to see that you still have an active social life and he isn't the only thing on your priority list. Well-rounded is an attractive trait, after all.

I hope these all seem reasonably self-evident, but then again, over the past few weeks I've witnessed several occasions in which these needed to be reiterated.

Are there any ones I've missed? Any you can think of for the men? Guys, what do you think?

Quote of the day (or the one in which I realize I am nearing spinsterhood)

"You should stop this nonsense and get yourself married."

- Comment with regards to my professional life heard today

Polygamy

My father had six wives and I have forty-seven brothers and sisters. My oldest daughter is my aunt and I am her grandmother. When I was assigned to marry my first husband, I became my own step-grandmother since my father was already married to two daughters of my new husband. According to the eternal laws of the polygamous group I grew up with, I will be a step-grandmother to many of my siblings for ‘all time and eternity'.

 - Debbie Palmer, in her book "Keep Sweet: Children of Polygamy"

Despite growing up not terribly far away from Bountiful, people never spoke about about it much. I remember being surprised to find that, unlike the infamous colonies in Utah that people joked about with ease, I had unknowingly driven by the turn-off to a small village of around 1000 people that is also known as the polygamy capital of Canada.

I started paying attention, then, to people's whispered tales of the teenaged girls dressed out of the 19th century married to men old enough to be their fathers, grandfathers, to rumours of adolescents being smuggled across the border to serve as dutiful plural wives. It seemed altogether too surreal that this was occurring, ignored, just down the road from the highway to Alberta, where thousands of motorists flew by a day.

Bountiful has been in the news a lot more lately. Warren Jeffs, the president of the Fundementalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (hugely separated from the standard Mormon Church, despite many jokes to the contrary), was rumoured to have fled there to avoid prosecution on Utah State charges of being an accomplice to rape. It also has close ties to the YFZ ranch in Texas, raided in 2008 by child protective services. In 2004, Debbie Palmer published Keep Sweet: Children of Polygamy, an autobiography of her experiences in Bountiful as a teenager, including, at 15, becoming the 6th wife of Bountiful's then 55-year old leader. Most recently, after years of speculation, the town's current bishop, Winston Blackmore, rumoured to have 19 wives and 120 children, and another Bountiful resident, have been formally charged with polygamy, a charge which, up until now, has never actually been used due to fears of infringing on people's religious freedoms.

I find the case of Bountiful to present a huge moral quandary. In and off itself, involving consenting adults, I have no problem with polygamy in principle. However, the problem is that it often does not involve multiple consenting adults. Instead, at least as described by Debbie Palmer in her book, there is manipulation, violence, sexual abuse, statutory rape, and blurring of family boundaries. While many focus on the exploitation of the girls in the community, there has also been a recent focus on the plight of the young men, as multiple women for one man means that many males get left out in the cold, and are often exiled from the community for perceived slights with few skills and education for the world outside of Bountiful. I don't know necessarily that this is inherent in polygamy per se, but it certainly appears, from an observer's point of view, that they are inherent in its manifestation in Bountiful.

With all these allegations of abuse and neglect, I find it odd that the prosecutors have chosen to go after these men on charges of polygamy, rather than more straightforward charges, like done with Warren Jeffs, such as statutory rape. This leaves open a debate on the nature of religious freedoms. In fact, Blackmore's lawyer plans to argue that the legality of gay marriage in Canada provides a precedent for the allowing of polygamy. Perhaps it is the simple fact that polygamy is technically against the law, and the citizens of Bountiful have been flouting this for decades. 

Still, I find it more disconcerting that we are concerned with the will of consenting adults, rather than following up on the more upsetting claims that underaged girls are unwillingly being smuggled over the border to serve as the tenth wives of a man 40 years their senior, or that teenaged boys are being abandoned and neglected. Or are these charges of polygamy supposed to be an indirect way of stopping these abuses of power?

From the worst blogger Valentine of all time

Yes, I know, I'm a bad, bad bloggie Princess. 

Will a ridiculously costumed doggie Cupid help in the forgiveness process?

Perhaps, if you are looking for a little karma for my lack of love pointed your way, it may help you feel better to know that I am very far from the world's sexiest Valentine right now. Unless cough drop breath and red crusty noses are your thing. You could woe me with Neocitron and noodle soup, if you were so inclined.

Yes, the world, in all her mighty cruelty, again decided that after already taking a week off for a conference, I deserve to be cursed with a blasted cold. Unfortunately, this means that my guilt is far outweighing my sense of self-preservation, and I have been suffering through work with a very raspy voice.

My boyfriend also thought it was comical to give me a hickey, as though the constant honking of my nose isn't already detracting from my professionalism.

Anyways, I just wanted to take the time to spread a little love and a few half-hearted promises your way, before I curl up on the couch for a day of passionate hockey watching and take-out. Swoon!

(And if you want to read something slightly more profound about my thoughts on this day in particular, you can find them here and here.)

My secret internet bubble

I'm starting to worry a little bit about when this bubble is going to burst.

I have been blogging anonymously for over two years now. When I initially began, I protected my namelessness with utter intensity. There was no email contact in sight on my page. It took me about a month of humming and hawing about giving my email address to a fellow blogger with whom I'd been having a dialogue for months. I was afraid that a single person being able to identify me might lead to a fatal crashing down of my facade.

Gradually, though, I began to realize that blogging might not solely be about the writing aspect, and may have a social element, as I started emailing and chatting with a few more people. I then met a blogger, then a few more. I started adding bloggers to my Facebook. An element of paranoia still remained, though, as I found myself de-tagging pictures on me on Facebook in albums entitled "Blogger Meet-Up", and I had to monitor the comments left on my wall lest they be too bloggy in nature.

Now, the secrecy is almost automatic. I don't check my gmail around certain people for fear of blog comments catching their eye. I turn off my Google Notifier when anyone is over. I have my back-up stories about the nature of my now real-life relationships with blog friends. I took my blog off Google search so I wouldn't have to scour my SiteMeter stats just in case.

But, still, I wonder, am I bound for an epic reveal??

Certainly, when I started, I never imagined that I would become a slightly (and I cringe to say this word) popular blogger. I kind of expected my comments would trickle in, crossing my fingers they could actually end up in the double digits on occasion. Yeah, I'm no Dooce, or even a Brandy or SO@24, but my writing has become more, well, public than I expected, with a few 20something blogger award nominations, and now two (TWO!) features in the Printed Blog (find #2 here). I actually got approached to do an interview with PBS about the Printed Blog, (though that seems to have disappeared).

As I was contemplating the interview, I started wondering about the possibility of someone recognized my voice. Okay, the reality is that the number of  readers I have is exceedingly miniscule when you consider all the people in the whole wide world. Then again, six degrees of separation isn't very far. In fact, upon a fellow blogger adding me on Facebook, it was discovered we had a real life friend in common-- despite the fact that we live on separate coasts in different countries. I know others have quirky tales of discovering real life connecting lines between themselves and other bloggers. It makes me think of how easy it would be for an errant click to lead someone to my recognizable style of writing. And I have been assured that someday someone will accidentally discover this little corner of the internet.

What does this mean, then? Is this the time that I start preparing for a possible blog invasion? Would it really be the big deal I am expecting it to be? Most of my writing is not anything that needs to be hidden, in particular. I sometimes wonder if I am more secretive about the entire idea of having this anonymous online life for two years than I am than about any set of expressed thoughts in particular. I wonder if I should proactively take down those few posts that may offend someone... but then I waffle, because some of these are my most authentic words. A little bit of me even wonders if it would be a relief to finally claim these words as my own.

But then I wonder if it is just easier to carry on as always, with a healthy dose of paranoia and denial.

And I reach out and knock on wood.

Tampa, anecdotally

Although I'm sure palm trees in Florida are like pine trees in Canada in their commonality, there is still something about them that screams glamour to me. You could put me in a back alley or some rat ridden ghetto, and if there were palm trees, I would put on my sunglasses and pose for photos. 

However, even I wasn't quite prepared for palm trees paired with icicles. Is that even allowed?

So, yes, as of late last night, I am home from my Tampa adventures. Home to countless unanswered emails, a Google Reader of 1000+, a pile of laundry, and a whole lot of jetlag. Such is this glamourous palm-tree filled life.

***

I think I have too high of expectations for new cities. I always expect a certain level of inherent character through the details, like the billboards, the street names, the architecture. I feel disappointed when the taxi takes me through the exact same stretch of highway on the way to my hotel, no matter what city I am in. I need to remind myself that the business areas of most big cities, as well as hotel rooms, are often ridiculously generic, which doesn't necessarily say anything about the core experience of living in that city. I almost feel as though I owe it to that city to take a cab to some random residential locale so I can really see it, outside the skyscrapers and the Starbucks. Unfortunately, conference trips often mean that my only moment to spare is used checking my email or changing clothes, not gallivanting about trying to find Florida's beaches and neighbourhoods.

However, my favourite billboard, seen on the ride from the airport?

Express Lube: Wednesday Night is Ladies Night

***

Academic conferences are such an odd little slice of life. It is hard to explain to the outsider the constant barrage of aggressive schmoozing, of name-dropping, of professorial rivalries, of learning copious amounts with a hangover. I simultaneously adore them and find them exhausting. The dork in me seriously holds back a squeal when finding out about some novel research findings, while the skeptic in me wants to slap my friend if she starts bragging again about which big names in the field she met last night.

Take poster sessions, for instance. Two hundred graduate students and professors, lined up in alphabetical order, standing by their assorted shiny coloured posters tacked onto bulletin boards. It is like a beauty pageant of sorts, only you are being judged by virtue of the title of your poster, rather than your ability to wear a poster. People avoid eye contact as they walk by you, or even worse, fleetingly pause at your abstract, only to walk away moments later. When I was an Honours student, I wanted no one to notice my poster, due to performance anxiety. Now I want to be the one surrounded by people asking questions, pointing at my graph, theorizing about follow-up studies. Even though I know that I am convinced at the value of the research I am doing, and I always have a number of interesting conversations at these poster sessions, I still want that blue sash declaring me Miss Psychology.

***

Quote of the trip, spoken by a friend doing her post-doc in England:

"Princess, the English take the food we deem fatty in Canada, and somehow force more fat into it."

***

The conference planners somehow had the brilliant notion of planning the conference for the very same weekend as Tampa's Gasparilla Pirate festival. Not to mention the fact that the crux of the event, the docking of the pirate ship and the invasion, take place literally right in front of the convention centre. 

Despite the best intentions of security, this made for random drunken revelers looking confused as they stumbled amidst loads of psychologists in semi-professional gear in the centre's hallways. It also made for a lot of public drinking as I made my way to the conference at 9am, for eye patches and wench costumes, for mechanical parrots, and lots of beads. It was a very odd environment to be sober in, especially when, standing outside of a hotel room door, a man asked me if I was waiting for the elevator doors to open. 

So, of course we had to skip out of at least one session to witness this debauchery first hand. As a friend and I were standing there, a man with a camera comes up, and asks us if we could pose for a photo with a nearby pirate. We happily obliged. He then asks for another favour, specifically whether we will pose for a picture with his son. Assuming his son is around 7 years old, we agree.

We walk over, and a tall boy of about 16 starts blushing, as it become clear we have been brought over by his father as trophies as such. As he puts his arms around us to take the photo, he mutters under his breath "I am so sorry. My dad is such a loser."

The oddest thing about this is the fact that we were literally surrounded by women in wench costumes, or various states of undress, and he chose us, in our conference gear.

***

I sometimes think that, as a Canadian, particularly one from a smaller town, I don't really understand sleaziness. As such, I wasn't quite prepared for the trashyness of the Tampa nightlife.

After a dinner of Cuban food and a flamenco show, a group of us decided to hit some bars in Ybor City. At first, we were looking for a salsa bar, but as we passed a string of barely dressed people on a threadbare red carpet, my companions suddenly got excited. 

"Let's go there!"

I protested, stating that it was clearly horrendously shady. They maintained that this was the perfect reason to go there, as it was an experience we would never get since we wouldn't set foot in such a place in our "real" lives.

And, so we ended up busting a move in a club surrounded by more lycra and exposed skin than I've ever seen.

The bathrooms had no toilet paper, and were covered in garbage.

Instead of grinding with each other, girls were essentially straight up fucking, some of them simulating blow jobs on seated guys as the other girl pretend to hump her from behind.

And, yes, there was a girl fight on the dance floor.

As we exited the club, a bunch of shirtless guys with a pitbull on a rope were hanging out on the corner called us over. Soon after, a man started yelling "Japan!" at my Asian friend. 

It makes waiting for the bus late at night at home seem a bit tamer...

Yo-ho-ho and some weekendly lessons

Sometimes running around with little time to pause and reflect can actually be a positive thing.

After a week of somehow managing both to be run ragged, but still to think too much, one would think I needed a little R&R. That wasn't in the cards, however, with two birthday parties, a Superbowl Party and a Chinese New Year brunch all in the mix. Though I expected myself to resent the lack of breathing time, the hopping about seemed to be just what the doctor ordered, strangely enough (except for the dietary choices involved... no doctor would be impressed by that much salt in one weekend).

So, blatantly ripping off a page from Bayjb of Everyday Adventures in the City wonderful Key Learning series, here are the lessons I learned from this weekend:

• If there is a bacon sandwich on the menu, The Duke will order it. Even after the server tells him "You know there is only bacon in it, right?"
• All sandwiches should, by default, have their crusts cut off.
• It is not a good idea to eat jalapeño poppers when you don't like jalapeños, simply because the cheese filling is so good.
• I can't trust men who tell me "monogamy is an unnatural state" when only metres away from his miles-out-of-his-league-in-hotness fiancee- especially when I ask him if that means she can sleep with other men, and he frantically shakes his head no.
• Football is more enjoyable than expected when accompanied by nachos and drunken shit talking.
• Lion dances done by children are just about the cutest thing ever.
  
• The second cutest thing ever? Children pouting because they have to march in a parade on a rainy day. (which is easy for me to say when I have an umbrella)
  
• It is always appreciated when a room full of people erupts in protests when my boyfriend jokingly calls me high maintenance.
• I am destined to live my life in pants than are several inches too long.
  
• Even nearly 30-year old successful businesswomen have crushes on teenage vampires.
• Halter bras can often double as torture devices.
• The guy who, on your first meeting, drunkenly, blatantly and unsuccessfully hit on you will pretend he doesn't know you on your second meeting.

***

My exciting jetsetting grad student life is continuing, this time with a trip to attend a conference in Tampa, Florida!

(It becomes much less glamourous when you realize it is taking me over a day to travel there, due to our budgets-- and Air Canada's ridiculous fees-- making us fly out of the nearest American airport, and the fact that I am sharing a room -- and a bathroom-- with three other women.)

As you can imagine, all the learning, schmoozing and traveling will leave for very little covert blogging, so my little hiatus from your comment section and my own page will have to be prolonged a little while longer.

There is also a pirate festival in town, so I can't completely reassure you that I won't abandon the grad student lifestyle to further my pirate wench goals...

If you see a petite girl with an eyepatch and a clipboard doing a jig in the convention centre, you'll know it's me.