Things I do that may or may not be really odd

Yelling at my boyfriend while I'm sleeping.

So a few nights ago, I got home rather late from a concert, and the Duke was hard at work studying for the GREs. He wanted a little tutoring on some of the math concepts, so we chatted for about an hour. When I crawled into bed, I cursed in my head a little, because I realized I was going to less sleep than I had planned before my early morning and long workday. Not too big of a deal, though, as I have functioned on far less sleep.

... or maybe it was a bigger deal than I realized, as about an hour later, I started sleep-chastising my boyfriend. I apparently sternly told him that he should not keep me up when he knows I have an early morning, because now I was only going to get five hours of sleep. One especially weird things about it-- I was seriously dead asleep, yet when he looked at the clock, at that point, there was exactly five hours until I had to get up.

Being overly concerned about my massage therapist.

Recently, I decided that all the blood, sweat, tears and muscle knots created to submit my internship applications early warranted a little spoiling- a full-body massage, to be exact. As I was booked fairly early in the day, I briefly considered not having a shower, as the copious amounts of aromatherapy oils used tend to leave my hair in need of a second washing when I return home. But then I felt like I would be an asshole if I left my legs unshaven, for my massage therapist would be forced to rub my oiled-up stubble. So I had a shower anyways. It was only later that I realized that two day leg stubble was probably far less offensive than many of the bodies she rubs on a regular basis.

Making up characters when I'm playing computer solitaire.

I make the red Queens and the black Queens yell at each other in my head in different voices. They are actually quite catty. The Kings are generally pretty calm and focused throughout the game, while the Jacks act like frat boys, eager to get up on the Queens.

Talking to inanimate objects as though that is somehow more sane than talking to myself.

"Oh, no, I was just talking to the ketchup!"

Using up valuable brain power contemplating various ridiculous scenarios.

For instance, what would happen if I somehow acquired another person's sense of smell, so I was smelling what they were despite being miles away? Or if a stranger from across the world somehow hacked into my sense of vision, how long would it take them viewing the world through my eyes to figure out what city I lived in?

Cleaning while in the shower.

I keep a Magic Eraser behind my body wash, just in case the urge to clean strikes me whilst nude. I like to pretend it is because I am trying to conserve water by doing multiple tasks at once. Really, it is just because I'm neurotic, and some days I just want the soap scum to be gone.

So, what's the verdict? And what do you do that is equally odd?

Why me pre-coffee and noxious chemicals don't get along

6:42 am.

I'm staring at myself bleary-eyed in the mirror.

I notice the remnants of yesterday's mascara smudged around my eye, so I grab a cotton pad, douse it in liquid, and press it against my right eye.

IT BURNS.

Wincing, I manage to pry open my eye, and splash some water into. I turn my good eye to the counter to see not a small blue bottle of eye make-up remover, but a large pink bottle.

I have just put nail polish remover in my eye.

I've never been so happy to not read "Please avoid contact with eyes" in my life.

And then he told her he loved her in Lord of The Rings

The scene: At a pub with the Duke and a single male friend of his, who we will hereby refer to as Alex. We have just exchanged a few words with two women at the table to the right, one of whom Alex finds rather fetching.

Alex: That girl kind of reminds me of the guy from The Matrix.

The Duke: Who, Keanu Reeves?

Alex: No, the other guy.

Me: Lawrence Fishburne?

Alex: No, you know, the Agent Smith guy.

Me: She reminds you of Hugo Weaving?!?!

Alex: Yeah!

The Duke: Dude, I hope this is something you already know, but seriously, don't ever, ever tell a girl that she looks like Hugo Weaving.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned

Envy is my deadly sin, if we're to be specific.

Now, before I launch into my tale, I want to make a few things clear. First, I know this entire reaction is silly and irrational. I am aware than I have a damn good life, and to imagine something different would be to picture something entirely disingenuous to who I am. I know that given the choice, I would remain wearing the same shoes I am now, as despite them being less shiny than others, they fit me a hell of a lot better.

That being said, what is the purpose of having an anonymous blog if not to write longwinded posts complaining about petty things?

So... I took an impulsive surprise trip to HomeTown for the Easter long weekend. As part of the process of surprising my mom, upon arriving, I went directly to my little sister's house.

By sister's house, I mean the house recently purchased by her new boyfriend. By new boyfriend, I mean her boss, who is 12 years her senior, and who she moved in with after dating for two months.

By house, I mean something a lot more glamourous than anything we lived in growing up. I mean three bathrooms, jacuzzi tub, amazing view, so many extra bedrooms that they can spare a "studio" for their brand new hobby of painting on top of the usual spare bedrooms and office-- plus shiny new non-Ikea real furniture. On top of this, they have jumped full speed into responsible homeowner's mode, speaking of replacing hardwood floors, knocking down walls, landscaping, putting in a hot tub. My sister speaks in confident tones, making statements such as "Well, I certainly don't want to sell anytime in the near future" and "I'm not sure if I like his idea of building a suite in the garage, although it would help with the mortgage."

In other words, my sister jumped from broke and moving back in with the parents to a half million dollar home (in a town where that actually buys a lot)-- all in one fell swoop.

And me? Well, since graduating high school, I suppose you could describe my trajectory as consistent... upwards and mediocre paced. I've done all the practical things... multiple degrees, paying off my credit card balance, putting off buying a car, working while going to school, keeping separate bank accounts, waiting the appropriate amount of time to take the next relationship step. And, well, to show for it... I'm living in the nicest one-bedroom I've ever lived in. And while it does have a dishwasher, a substantial lack of spiders, and actually room to move, it certainly doesn't have a backyard, and guests get to sleep on the (admittedly comfy) couch.

So, yes, although I will only admit this in whispers through gritted teeth or with several beverages in me-- I'm a little jealous. I'm almost too much of the poster child for making sound decisions, and my sister is anything but-- and she is the one living the high life as we speak.

I know what comes out of everyone else's mouth when I do admit this. "But you'll be better off in the long term".

I might snap if I hear the words "long term" one more time. I have been thinking in terms of the future since I started university nearly ten years ago. Almost everything in my life is decided for with the "long term" in mind. Anytime I describe plans for the future, it has twelve steps in between.
"Well, first I will finish my dissertation, then I have to move for my year internship, then we go to the city where the Duke is finishing his PhD and I will get registered and hopefully find a job, then we probably move once he's finished to a place with a good university for him to work at... and then we can relax! That or it is time for me to take my maternity leave."

More than anything, I am probably envious of how simple it all seems to be for her right now. In the middle of a never ending to do list, I yearn for that simplicity. Even though I know this is probably just a clear case of grass-is-greener-on-the-other-side syndrome, of wanting what you can't have. As the Duke points out to me, I would be horrible at living a quiet life. I need to bust my butt to get what I want. It's in my basic chemistry. 

The truth is, she's happy. I see it in her eyes when she's with him. And so am I. In my life, and for her. Just because I'm envious doesn't mean she doesn't deserve this happiness. So I probably owe a few hail marys for this one.

Popcorn FAIL

Hi folks! This guest post comes from one of the sweetest bloggers I've had the fortune to get to know, Gemma of Closets are for Clothes (aka. the blogger formerly known as Libby).

***

Great. One month in to my new job and already I’ve got an incident under my belt that I’m not going to live down anytime soon.

I burnt the popcorn. As in smoked it. As in smoke literally ballooning up in greyish clouds when I opened the microwave door and wafting out the kitchenette doors. As is my eyes were watering and I was coughing.

NOT. COOL. I wanted to melt into the ground, I was so embarrassed.

I mean, it’s not like it’s never been done before, right?! It happens all the time! I mean, it’s practically a fact of life I tell you. But it never fails that no matter how common a boo-boo it is…everyone and their mother will comment about it (my internal retorts to each comment in parentheses):

“WHAT is that SMELL?” (Do I really have to tell you?)

“WHO burned popcorn?” (It was meee ok? IT WAS ME!)

“GAWD can someone open a DOOR or something?” (I don’t even KNOW, I’ve been here a month, if there is one please, do the honours and open it)

“You KNOW that smell is gonna stick to everything in here for, like, a WEEK” (Yeah, thanks for rubbing it in)

“Stop bringing popcorn here, ok?” (UMMM, pretty sure the dozen other times I’ve brought it and popped it perfectly, you were ALL salivating and more than happy to take some.)

_____________________________________________

So yeah, I get it. I’m sure I would have reacted in a similar way if someone else had burned their afternoon snack. I’m extremely embarrassed, but, as I relive it in writing this post, I’m a little indignant as well. Seriously, it was no worse than a “I was just sitting around the campfire” smell. But I apologized. I cleaned the microwave. And now, all we need to do is give time some time and the smell will be gone on its own. I’m crossing my fingers such a trivial incident won’t void the headway I’ve made in terms of working to earn the respect of these people I have to work with. Maybe it’s silly of me, but the worry is really there. So as not to dwell on that, here are some of the ‘positives’ of my popcorn FAIL:

• I have the day off tomorrow so I don’t have to deal with people still harping about it until they’ve hopefully cooled off and the smell has hopefully dissipated by Monday.
• I’m super grateful to the guys who (in my mind, anyway) seemed to get that I was already embarrassed beyond measure and who played the incident off with jokes of their own (i.e. when asked “how can you stand to go IN [the smoky kitchen]?”, responding “because I’m a MAN.”; or when people were exclaiming WHAT IS THAT SMELL, saying “Oh that? It was me,” rather than singling me out)
• My boss had already left when in the incident happened, and may still be absent tomorrow. This is the best case scenario so that he doesn’t smell the strong odour tomorrow. If he IS in…well, at least I’m not, HOWEVER, this also means I won’t be there to be on rumour patrol about me ‘intentionally’ setting the timer to 21:00 minutes…(bugger.)
• At least the popcorn didn’t catch fire/blow up/set off any alarms with the smoke. THAT would have been disastrous.

All in all, I’ve learned my lesson.

Notes to self:

• TRIPLE-CHECK that the timer on the microwave says 2:10 and not 21:00 minutes before you turn your back on it. Better yet, don’t turn your back on it.
• When a tiny voice at the back of your head wonders “Shouldn’t the timer have gone off by now?”, LISTEN TO IT. Do not (I repeat, do NOT) wait until the acrid smell starts to permeate the air. It will be too late.

This truly is the first time this has ever happened to me to this extreme extent when popping popcorn. I think I’m going to stop bringing it to work, or get my own microwave or something. I’ve still got half a giant Costco box to go…

I'm hopping on the TMI train...

You can find me discussing sexual mishaps here. Come visit and tell me your own embarrassing tales, so I'm not left as Umm Now What's resident pervert!

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. 

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.

The worst boyfriend ever

I have a theory that everyone needs a horrible romantic relationship at same point in their life. I'm not talking about abusive here, but rather someone who takes you for granted, is too jealous, is unreliable, even unfaithful. 

The reason for this? To find your boundaries. 

We are all a little clueless when we first start dating. If you were like me, your role models were your "mature" friends who had boyfriends from 13 onwards (when I was still in the awkward caterpillar eyebrow and twelve sizes too big t-shirt phase), sitcoms, or Sweet Valley High. We are told it is supposed to a perfectly smooth ride, with talking on the phone all night every night and slow dances. We have no idea how to react when he doesn't like our friends or he doesn't want to go to the school dance with you. We don't know which of his quirks we think are adorable and idiosyncratic, and which are just plain mean. We have no idea how we are supposed to be treated. 

As harsh as it may seem, being treated like a doormat, for most of us, will show us exactly how we don't want to be treated. 

As such, even though I can say that my first serious boyfriend, Logan, who I dated for 10 months in Grade 10, is still one of the great dirt bags to walk the earth, he taught me a hell of a lot. Logan is the only guy who will ever treat me as miserably as that, because after him, I could see his traits in other guys from a mile away, and would avoid them like the bubonic plague. And if anyone ever started on any of his style trips on me? I have the faith that even my 16 year old self could have walked out the door.

Logan was probably everything a desperately insecure 15 year old girl should not have been kissing. Judgmental, angry, jealous, controlling, though mighty cute, funny, and seemingly dedicated. 

He decided he liked me the way I was, and thus, I was forbidden to change. He would turn around and walk away from me, shaking his head in disgust, if he didn't like the clothes I was wearing. He would grumble angrily if my new CD didn't meet his approval. I even hid my class projects from him for fear of his disapproval, such as the time I did a biography on Drew Barrymore, as I knew he thought she was a "slut".

He was insanely jealous, and would try to fight any guy who was friendly towards me. When I tried to stop him, he would accuse me of wanting to be with them, so I learned to just stare at the ground as he shouted and shook his fists. He would also wildly confront anyone who expressed concern for me. He never hit anyone, but that was more to do with their skills at backing away and negotiating than a flattening of his temper.

I made the mistake of letting him be my first everything, losing my virginity on my bedroom floor. He then believed he had the right to me at anytime, as though sex was solely his decision, and I was merely an accessory to it. I distinctly remember sleeping in the same room as a friend, and him chastising me to tears because I wouldn't have sex with him there. I actually tried to curl up and sleep on the bathroom floor, as though the cold tiles were more peaceful than lying beside him.

My sister was stronger than me in all of this. Despite being all of 12 years old, one time after he had berated me over the phone, I left to walk to his house, she called him, this big 16-year old, and told him to stop being so cruel to me. 

I actually set to my reminiscing about Logan yesterday over dinner, when my friend, after laughing at her distress at her first time being dumped, asked me what my most horrendous "dumped" story was.

I started laughing hysterically at how truly awful it was.

And I told her about how, in French 10, we did a fashion show. My friends asked me to be their model for a pair of shorts and a tank top. I asked them if I could wear a jacket with it. They said yes, but ended up giving away the jacket to another catwalker, so I strutted my stuff anyhow. I didn't tell Logan, but someone else reported back to him.

He asked me to meet him on the street, and proceeded to call me every name on the book. Slut, whore, tramp, you name it. In the midst of these slew of words, I was told he never wanted to see me again. The cherry on top was when I ran away, crying, he threw snowballs at my head.

I fell asleep in my parents bed, clutching my stuffed bunny. 

And I took him back the next day. 

One of the conditions of us getting back together is that I had to ask my french teacher to delete the video of me in the fashion show.

He dumped me four times in total. The fourth time, I didn't accept his pleas to come back. These pleas proceeded to bended knees, to tears, to persuading friends to knock on my door, to 3am drunken visits that began with poetry and ended with him storming off with vows to kill himself.

I still said no.

Perhaps a better victory would have been to say no the first time he broke up with me, or the first time he called me names. 

But I'm still proud the final answer was no.

As painful and unfair as it was to go through so young, I am infinitely glad I went through it at age 15, rather than at 18, 20, 25, like I see friends going through now. It is almost like one of those diseases, like the chicken pox. At least if you get it when you are young, you are immune to its later, more dangerous adult form.

And, small town that it is, that was not the last I saw of Logan. Later that summer, his poor heart apparently recovered enough to sleep with a visiting friend of mine in my bed. On my 19th birthday, he was coincidentally at the same bar, trying to fight the ex-boyfriend I'd dated after him, still holding a grudge years later. 

And just as I was wondering if I was holding onto my grudge a little too fiercely, I saw him at a friend's birthday party around five years ago in UndergradCity. He began hitting on my friend, but when he heard how we knew each other (she had dated the Ex's friend for a year-- a guy who was a bit of a ladies man in high school), he said to her "Well, if you dated him, I hope you got yourself checked"... as in STDs. He accused a girl he just met, and was trying to seduce, of having STDs.

Some things never change.

Even Freud thinks my slips are painful

The Scene: A brunch spot at around noon on Saturday, with around seven hungover friends after HomeTown's annual Boxing Day debacles.

I am discussing wine tastings with two others (including my theory that no one really thinks wines have hints of chocolate or a full bouquet, but rather than no one else wants to call them out on their pretentiousness).

Him: My band played at a wine tasting a while back, and, as part of it, we got to participate in the tasting. I got completely wasted.

Her: You do know that you are supposed to spit the wine out at fancy wine tastings?

Me: But who doesn't swallow, right?

Pause.

As I (and they apparently, too, despite my attempts to play it cool), realize what I have just said to my friend and her boyfriend (C and TG, for anyone who may remember back to the last holiday season), who is coincidentally my ex-boyfriend, and got his very first, um, occasion when someone would need to swallow for non-nutritional reasons from yours truly. 

Me: So, uh, moving along...

Her: Naw, let's just stay and simmer in the awkwardness for a little while longer.

Reasons I can't always act as if I am at least 10 years younger

I am in no-cell phone land, up a mountain driveway encased by snow draped trees. I may look a little rounder than usual, being layered in the eternally unflattering beige polyester of snow pants, but I am feeling pretty idyllic as I sit on the back of a snowmobile, wind sneaking through my scarf, the outstretched branches sparkling and contrasting to the gradually dimming sky. In fact, as I trudge up a hill, crazy carpet in hand, I think that I could perhaps write part two of the post below, sprinkling a few new ways I've remained in touch with my inner kid over the past few days.

I unroll the crazy carpet, and plop myself down on my stomach on top. With a quick kick and a little elbow work, I start hurtling down the hill just quick enough to get a slight twinge of a rush in my belly.

All the sudden,  I am slowing down.

And choking.

I gasp, dig my heels into the snow, and look down simultaneously, to see my scarf, still as securely connected to my neck as moments ago, but also entangled with the hand holes in the plastic below. It takes me a few moments to unweave myself from the contraption, as the people at the bottom of the hill looked at me quizzically as I stand up with my new crazy carpet necklace.

The next round, I decide, would be better completed sitting. It takes me a few seconds longer to gain momentum with my arms higher off the ground, but soon I am hurtling down the hill, backwards, laughing.

From my backwards perspective, I notice the german shepherd rapidly bolting down the slope behind me. At first, I think he is just chasing me, and I giggle at his excitement. Then, his frantic barking reaches my ears. He soon follows, and he is biting at my arm. I'm sure he is just trying to stop what he sees as my uncontrolled tumble down the hill, but his teeth don't just get my jacket on the second nip, and he pinches my arm through the fabric. He keeps pace with me, barking, as I fly down the hill, and I am trying to negotiate with him, calm him down, slow him down, anything.

And, suddenly, I slam into something very solid from behind. The dog dashes away. It turns out, that in my attempts to bargain with the dog, I have neglected to twirl myself back to facing frontwards, and have collided with a parked car. I roll off the crazy cart of doom into the snow, and wincing, stare up at the dusky sky above.

Perhaps the universe is trying to tell me something.

(But, achy as I was, I still went for one more run, just to spite it.)

Things I've done in the past 3 days that make me feel at least 10 years younger

Had cookie dough jammed into every hand crevice and fingernail.

Calling my dad at midnight asking him to pick me up from my friend's house, and then asking him when he arrives if he can also drive my friend home in the minivan.

Sitting crosslegged on the floor playing board games.

Calling my competitors names while playing said board games.

Sleeping until eleven.

Asking my dad to open a pickle jar for me.

Wearing pink kitty cat socks to my birthday dinner.

Making fun of my parents for their random hippie ways, like their eschewing of a microwave and rinsing out of eggshells.

Tapping my sister on the shoulder whenever a goofy looking guy walks by, and whispering "That's your new boyfriend!"

Having whipped cream on my nose.

Putting on my old ugly Sorels to go Christmas tree hunting.

Talking to my boyfriend on the phone in hushed tones in my bedroom.

Staying in the bath until my fingers get wrinkly.

Falling asleep, curled up in the backseat of a car, with a suitcase as a pillow.

Licking egg beaters.

Observations after cutting loose on a Friday night

For the first time in months and months, I decided to go bar-hopping with a few of my single, party animal girl friends. As one would expect by the title, a few hijinks may have ensued, and a few observations were made. (Is it bad that I try frantically to memorize such instances when they occur due to the possibility of a good blog anecdote?)

***

It is always a better idea to wait in line for 15 minutes for a bacon cheese potato in principle than in reality.

Especially when your friend runs into a former one-night stand in said line-up.

***

Best text message sent to a boyfriend ever? "Jagerbombs + Journey = Best Drunken Night Ever".

Yes, I mean that Journey.
I actually heard "Don't Stop Believing" two times last night, and, for some reason, was thrilled about this.

***

My friends are far bigger style mavens than I. The lessons I received from them whilst gussying me up for the evening included "never put your bangles on the same arm as your biggest ring". 

***

Best accessory ever?

Gangsta' rings, bee-otch!

***

Pretending you are someone you are very obviously not is grand fun. 

Example:

Cheesy guy: So how old are you ladies?

Friend: How old do you think we are?

Cheesy guy: Around 22. You seem too young to know Journey so well.

Me: I'm actually 45.

Cheesy guy: Shut up.

Me: No, I really am. I'm actually here for my son's 19th birthday party. He's at the bar getting some beers.

***

Gatorade is very possibly the nectar of the Gods.

***

How is it that I despise Womanizer when sober, but it becomes my new favourite song when drunk?

***

My friends, along with being big stylistas, are also far too adept at playing the bar star.

Despite my attempt to convince Cheesy Guy of my middle agedness, my girl friends decided to take him up on his offer to buy us Jagerbombs. They then talked to him for the appropriate five to ten minutes, and quite obviously were not feeling him (though I may have been too into lip syncing "Return of the Mack" to notice). Instead of simply making an excuse to leave, they had a far more histrionic plan- pretending to have an argument. 

I was confused as anything at first, looking at the two of them wide-eyed, whispering plaintively "Why are you fighting?" It was only after one winked at me that I realized this was a well-honed act on their part. Cheesy Guy looked especially distraught at the dramatic turn of events, and let us leave without protest. It was only when we got a sufficient distance away that they broke into peals of laughter.

Perhaps it says how boring that I am that I would rather not take the drink, and therefore not have to talk to Cheesy Guy and not fake a fight. But, then again, what do I know?

Scaredy-cat

I don't entirely understand those who enjoy being scared. 

Perhaps my nervous system is just oversensitive, but I find any substantial thrill seeking a little unbearable.  Don't get me wrong-- I'm not a total wimp. I'm open to adventure and going off the beaten path... but you will never find me skydiving, let alone on a particularly treacherous rollercoaster.

I'm also not a huge fan of horror films, as you can imagine. I trace this to the the shift from cheesy teen slasher films, a la Scream and I Know What You Did Last Summer, or plot driven scary flicks, like Stephen King films, to the torture porn trend of Hostel and Saw. Frankly, the notion of watching really gruesome scenes makes me cringe. I've already written about my neurotic need to read about the plots of these hideous films once they come out, for fear of being ambushed by the movie in some situation and being surprised by the unblinking cameras detailing a slow, but creative, murder scene. It somehow makes me feel more at ease, as though I am psychologically preparing myself... just in case. (It makes sense in my head)

With this in mind, it may make sense that I haven't seen a horror film in years-- until the Duke talked me into one this week. 

And I somehow agreed to watch it, in the dark, late at night.

It is funny, knowing the cycle of anxiety disorders at a rote level, to notice how badly I worked myself up. It was probably both my continued emphasis of the fact that I simply don't do scary movies, as well as the rotating thoughts of "I know they're going to die. I just don't know how horrible and nightmare inducing its going to be" that started me off. Midway through the film, I was a ball of nerves, sweaty palmed, with a sick, heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach that weighed me down to the bed. Through clenched teeth, I told the Duke that I had vetoed any sudden taps on the shoulder or rapid movements. The only physical contact was to be my iron tight fingers gripping his arm.

It was only towards the end, when I realized the primary deaths were relatively mundane (how sad is it that I call vicious stabbings mundane?) that my lungs began to feel like they were taking in oxygen again. 

As the credits rolled, and my toes unclenched, we flicked through the channels a little, in an attempt to inject some happier thoughts into my brain before I went to sleep for an early morning of work. One film came on, a truck rolling through a deserted landscape. We only settled for a matter of moments until bold letters announcing "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" stamped themselves to the screen.

Back to flicking. Suddenly, an elephant on the screen, then Robin Williams.

Great, it's Jumanji. I can do this.

Haha, he's melting into the floor! 

Waiting, what's that crawling through the window?

GIANT SPIDERS?!?!?!

(Ahem. Huge arachniphobe here.)

At this point, I pressed the off button with enough force to leave an imprint in my finger, declared the mass media to be conspiring against me, and accepted that the night would probably be rife with dreams of masked intruders and foreboding children singing in the background. 

I'll see you in court!

Okay, so maybe that was not the exact message I received when I check my voicemail yesterday morning. However, when the words "subpoena" reached my ears, I may have let out an involuntary yelp.

That's right, folks, I've been subpoenaed.

Yours truly has been called as an eyewitness in a criminal court case.

I'm reluctant to speak of the details here, but I do want to clarify a little. Contrary to popular perceptions, I am not, in fact, an international spy or a gang member. Rather, this summer, while on our way to a movie, the Duke and I witnessed a crime in progress at a train station. Remembering all the research on the bystander effect (and there were actually people just walking on by), I was a good little bystander, and called the police, while the Duke attempted to stop the incident from progressing any further. I gave descriptions, the police came, handcuffed the suspect, we provided formal statements, etc, etc. We missed our movie, but had a good story to tell.

Fast forward several months, to yesterday to be exact. The two of us are called by the prosecutor to inform us that a subpoena is on its way and that we will need to make an appearance in court in December. Oddly enough, this comes right after a lengthy discussion in my psychology and law class regarding the flaws in eyewitness testimony.

I'm a little scared, to be honest. I'm pretty confident with public speaking, but the idea of swearing an oath in front of a courtroom and being cross-examined is a little petrifying. Sure, the likelihood of the court case going through is slim, and it is hardly a murder case, so the questions will likely exclusively relate to my written statement. I still can't help but picture being called out on my general credibility or being caught in a mistake.

"Your Honour, how can we trust this woman? I know for a fact that when she was 16, she was in a car full of adolescents pulled over for speeding... and unopened alcohol was found in the trunk of the car!"

*cue collective gasp from the jury*

"And she said the defendent was a man in his twenties, when she in fact was a woman in her 80s with one leg!"

*cue angry pitchforked mob chasing me*

Have any of you ever been to court before? Care to reassure me or frighten me further?

Edit: And, yes, Mister Ant (in comments) is correct. I don't intend to speak of this matter in any more detail-- I'm sure you all can understand why.

Mrs. Neocitran

One of my favourite critiques of same-sex marriages is that it will open the door to all sorts of heathen unions, such as people marrying their pet iguanas or their dead uncle. At the moment, I am wondering about the legality of marrying, or at least entering into a platonic life bond, with Neocitran.

Googling this delicious nectar informed me that it is apparently a Canadian exclusive. In a nutshell, it is medication for pretty much any possibly linked cold symptom in a tangy pseudo-lemon flavoured beverage. It is warm and makes you feel fuzzy and perhaps a little loopy.

But I swear the loopiness has nothing to do with the wedding proposal.

So, yes, your Princess is hermitting tonight. The rapsy throat, stuffiness, and heavy head have reared their ugly faces, and I know from experience that more usually follows. It probably didn't help that my job is woefully understaffed and I have been running around far too similarly to a madwoman for something that is only *supposed* to take up 12 hours of my week. Oh, and the lack of sleep thing.

If there's one thing that illness brings on in me other than pressured temples, it is short-term future-based anxiety. All I can think is "This cancellation of my Friday plans must have appeased you, cold demon, as I really, really need you out of my system by Monday, because I have that morning assessment, and Tuesday we are finally training new staff and appointments are backed up for months so I don't know what they would do if I call in sick, and I have to make the decision to call in sick a few days before when I don't know if I will be better or worse by then and... and... and..."

*cue my head exploding*

Ruminating is good for your health, yes?

As hopefully is cold pizza in bed. 

Two stories to prove my classiness

In an attempt to verse my mother in big-city multicultural life, I took her to an all-you-can-eat sushi restaurant around the corner from my place. With the menus placed in front of us, I may have went a little crazy with the checklist, ordering us a cornucopia of rolls, noodles and other dishes. As the first appetizers arrived, we ate at a frenzied pace; however, as the trays continued docking, we gradually slowed, until our eating tempo halted completely... with an array of full dishes still in front of us.

Bolded letters on the menu reminded us that "Wasted food will be charged on the bill at regular prices."

And this is where I had the opportunity to demonstrate to my mother the true skills I learned in the city. In stealth fashion, each time a server turned the corner away from us, I would drop a piece of sushi into the napkin spread in my lap. After a few pieces, the napkin was wrapped around the random pieces of food, and I shuttled them to the bathroom garbage, where I gathered more paper towel for wrapping purposes. There is no greater display of class than smuggling paper towel wrapped sushi out of a restaurant in your purse with your mother.

***

Last night, as a large group of us sat around my friend's living room in a turkey induced daze, a fellow dashed into the room with a purple egg shaped electronic device in hand.

"This thing is amazing!" he proclaimed. "You pick any item, and it asks you twenty yes or no questions about it. It will seriously figure it out. It actually got poutine!"

Sure enough, this device had some serious psychic powers. As we grew more astonished by its powers, we also grew more dirty (note- many, many glasses of wine were had at this point). After it guessed "panties" correctly, it was decided that we would determine whether it could identify a certain part of the female anatomy.

We giggled while replying to its questions, such as "Is it usually exposed outdoors?"

After twenty questions, the red letters flashed on the screen-- "I know what it is!"

We all peer over the holder's shoulders expectantly.

"You are thinking of pussy!"

Seriously.

The children's toy said pussy.

The Twenty Questions Electronics Game by Mattel-- keeping drunken perverts entertained for decades.

To catch a mouse

A side note... if you are looking for more Princess today, you can find me here (on the topic of friend break-ups) and here (as a part of Lauren's testament series).

***

Last week, an exterminator came by to discuss our furry apartment visitor. He moved our dishwasher and shone around with his flashlight. Based on our reports of only two sightings in the kitchen and the lack of droppings, he stated that he believed Mr. Mouse to have been merely passing through on a food hunt. He left a little poison and said we would likely not see the fellow again. In fact, all seemed clear on the rodent front when we left for the weekend.

However, apparently the lack of cat slippers lulled Mr. Mouse into a sense of comfort, because when he returned, he had gained run of our entire apartment (although it seems he was not dining here).

The first day back, he emerged beneath the coffee table at the Duke's feet.

The second day back, he did a full scale dash across the living room as three of us sat on the couch chatting.

The third day back, he had abandoned all sense of fear, popping up by my feet as I sat on the couch, scampering by the Duke as he chatted on the phone in the dining room. Even worse-- he made his way to the bedroom somehow, where the Duke busted him chowing down on one of my massage bars at the bottom of my night stand.

The invasion of our bedroom send me into a bit of a tizzy, as I pictured myself waking up with a mouse ominously peering over me on the headboard. The Duke, armed by the power of Google, set up a makeshift trap, constructed of a garbage can, a ramp made out of boardgames and books, and a toilet paper tube filled with peanut butter. Mr Mouse had shown interest, and had knocked over the ramp once, but had not yet fully set off the trap and tumbled into the waste bucket.

We were trying to relax, watching television in the bedroom and waiting for the trap to work its magic, when we heard squeaking and rustling behind us. I froze, while the Duke jumped up, and seized a flashlight. "He's behind the bookshelf! I think we can trap him!"

And thus began a frantic game of cat and mouse. We blocked one side of the bookshelf with a massive painting, and started wedging books beneath it and to the side. Only once we have built a wall surrounding the bookshelf does a cursory flashlighted look reveal that Mr. Mouse is now cowering behind the dresser.

Books were now piled around the dresser. The Duke, for some undisclosed reason, sent me off to get garbage bags. Mr. Mouse fled back to the corner behind the bookshelf. In the frantic hubbub, the Duke pullled the dresser forward rapidly, and a piece of claywork that my aunt made for me as a child toppled to the ground and cracked into two.

I shouted "I told you to be careful with that!" and started to fight back tears at the sheer aggravation of my bedtime being in the destruction of cherished mementos and the rearrangement of our furniture due to a damn mouse-- especially since I didn't have a single clue what do with said mouse once he was cornered.
As my frustration grew, however, The Duke, became even more determined.

The bookshelf became an impenetrable fortress, with books of varying sizes shoved in every possible gap. The Duke peered over the top of the bookshelf again.

"I think he might be dead. Maybe the poison and the shock did him in. He's just curled up in the corner, motionless."

I fetched a long handled mop. A quick jab revealed that Mr. Mouse was only faking it. I squealed and jumped away as Mr. Mouse came back to life.

In a stroke of genius, the Duke grabbed a long poster tube he had been using for the ramp on the latest version of the garbage can trap. We slowly edged the bookshelf away from the wall, and replaced one wall of books with the tube.

I then set to frightening the mouse from his corner. First, I gently knocked on the painting, gradually increasing my force. He wiggled a little.

I then fished into my old piggy bank, and bring out handfuls of pennies, which I dropped behind the bookshelf, first one, then several in succession.

It worked. Mr. Mouse dashed straight into the poster tube, the Duke rapidly stood it up, and clamped a book to the top. Mr. Mouse scratched frantically at the circular walls at first, but gradually grew silent.

We grabbed our house keys, and slipped out into the rainy night, taking turns delicately balancing the tube and book as we marched through puddles. Five or six blocks away, in a back alley, we set the tube on the ground. A light tap on the end sent Mr. Mouse dashing out ike a cannonballs, disappearing into the dark night in a matter of seconds, as we turned back to return to our torn apart, but mouse-free bedroom.

Rodent harnessing skillz? We has 'em.

Another note to self (or the one in which I fail at professional impressions)

If one is to write a post about the frustrations of feeling not taken seriously in their professional career for superficial reasons, it would be best to not show up that week to a case conference with a professor sporting a teeny hickey on one's neck-- especially when one has one's hair up.

(Okay, it was so teeny that I didn't notice it when getting ready in the morning. But it felt huge due to sheer hypocrisy. I also had to rock the 80s mermaid look due to paranoia for the rest of the day-- "yes, I meant to have all my hair swept over my left shoulder, thanks for asking".)

(So we regressed to teenagers to celebrate our anniversary. Don't judge.)

(So this has also maybe happened before. Don't judge.)

Mouse in the house!

A mouse has been spotted in our kitchen.

There is nothing okay about this.

I never realized I had a problem with rodents until I heard I may be sharing residence with one. Now, I can't stop panicking about accidentally stepping on a poor furry critter in the middle of the night.

My usually barefooted self has taken to wearing my infamous cat slippers at all times, and stomping very loudly each time I'm within proximity of the kitchen, shouting "No mouses allowed!" I'm a little hopeful that the kittens on my feet may be mistaken as real felines by his little mouse eyes. As such, I have taken to random meowing or purring to help seal this image.

My boyfriend may or may not think I am crazy.

The acting out of scenes with my feet probably doesn't help.

(EDIT: Exterminator is coming in soon, don't worry, we haven't merely accepted Mr. Mouse as a houseguest! This just seems to be a side effect of old buildings...)