Muse. Ramble. Rant. Repeat

Why don’t you go google that?

Google is fantastic.

For the record, if I had to choose between losing a kidney or losing Google, I would totally lose a kidney. My addiction for useless information is known by all; Google and his good friend Wikipedia are my pushers.

I am old enough to remember a time before the internet when my father would patiently look up information with me in an encyclopedia or take me to a library to find a book on it. While I still like finding things out; it is much simpler to Google my question and get an answer than to trot down to the library. I do have a point… I swear… it’s coming…

I’ve googled some strange things before. I once googled if dulse* effects breast milk (my sister was breastfeeding at the time, we really needed to know). In the last 5 days alone I have asked google to find me black wedding dresses; mango sushi recipes, and what happens to you when you don’t finish your antibiotics. My point (I told you it was coming) is that I’m familiar with weird and wonderful google searches. I support one’s right to ask a strange question and find an answer.

Anyways, this morning when I logged into wordpress and checked my stats, comments etc. I discovered that someone had found my blog by googling actress “hair washed”.

Interesting. I feel bad for this person who asked about the hair washing of actresses and came up with nada. So, let me answer your question (if you are still here):

My stance on hair washing: don’t do it. Ok, well do it once every few days. Once upon a time I worked for a large beauty company – and let me tell you – those people never wash their hair. And I can guarantee you actresses rarely wash their hair too. They let their natural oils make their hair shiny and healthy. Then they use fancy products and hot tools to style it into submission. It’s true. And a little disgusting but your hair will look fantastic. I personally wash my hair every third of fourth day – I always get compliments after not washing it for a few days. Also – hair is easier to style when you have already styled it. Plus – dry shampoo takes the ick factor out of not washing your hair.

Now you know (cue shooting star).

*Dulse – a type of seaweed that is very salty and healthy. If you don’t know what it is, don’t ever try it. It’s like the vegemite** of Nova Scotia.

**Ummm, you want me to be more specific? Like vegemite, no one likes dulse unless they grew up with it. You can’t acquire a taste for dulse; it needs to have been ingrained as a childhood memory in order for you to like it. If you are still confused perhaps you should go Google for more information.

PS. I may be a bit sleep deprived from the move. Just so ya’ know.

PPS. Yes, powerful Google, I know how upset you are that people refer to searching as “googling”. I get that it ruins your branding but seriously no one tells someone to google something and then goes to Yahoo.


Moving is Fun: Reason #1

A conversation between two lovers:

Me: Honey, why is this thing* packed in this box?
(*the thing could have been anything – from a high school cap to a strobe light to an empty texas mickey)
CJ: Because I want to keep it.
Me: (with thing in hand over garbage bag) But what are you going to use it for?
CJ: I might need it.
Me: When might you need it?
CJ: At some point.
Me: Give me a specific example of when you are going to need to use this thing again
CJ: ~Details to some outrageous scenario involving use of thing~ Don’t throw it out. You already made me throw out other thing**
(**other things involve years old textbooks, ugly shirts and old shoes)
Me: You are impossible! We don’t need this thing in our smaller (but more awesome) apartment! We won’t have room for this thing
CJ: ~audible sigh~

We have had this conversation about 163 times so far today. We’re not done yet either.
Weeeee… moving is fun.

Moving and Songworms

I’m moving this weekend.

Kind of.

We’re moving into CJ’s brother’s apartment while we wait for our new place to be ready. I hate moving. I especially hate the thought that I need to move twice in a month – but that’s the price you pay for awesome apartments.

I’ll be packing all weekend (with some help from good friends and copious amounts of alcohol) … so … my weekend is hopefully not going to suck too much. We’ll see.

I’ll leave you with Serena Ryder. She’s amazing and you should go look up several other of her songs. This is the one that I’ve been singing lately so enjoy.

Just a general note: I, unlike talented and thoughtful bloggers, do not have any significant meaning behind my musical selections. They are songs that get stuck in my head. I then end up singing them in the office, at home, walking down the street. At this point I realize I like the song and usually want to share it with other people. I sometimes don’t even get the meaning of the song – at least not in the sense of wanting to give a deeper meaning to it. So don’t read anything in to it, mmkay?

Enough Makeup to Satisfy Drag Queens

It’s Monday morning and I still haven’t completely recovered from Saturday night. In the days of yore this would have meant I hadn’t stopped partying until last night some time; nowadays this means that I’m getting old and can’t handle going out like I used to. I know it’s hard to take someone seriously when they complain about getting old when they are only 24; but my ability to go without sleep is dwindling at an alarming rate every year. I used to go to work without sleeping – usually still in the clothing I had worn the night before but with a sweater thrown on top of it. Now I can barley function the next day and refuse to leave the house. I’m not sure what is happening to my youth but nothing ages me faster than going out.

The entire night was a success. I had planned to go out dancing and we did. After a mediocre dinner (I can say that because I cooked it) we consumed three bottles of wine and a little vodka. We then applied enough makeup to satisfy drag queens (I can say that because I wore the most) and slipped on our heels, which I won’t refer to as dancing shoes because clearly I ended up walking part of the way home barefoot.

The bar we went to was a little hipster joint that plays awesome music if you can contend with all of egotistical mess going on around you (please don’t get me started on hipsters). Dancing has always held a special place in my heart – I’m not particularly good at it, but dancing my drunk off is perhaps one of my favorite activities. Being able to sing at the top of your lungs while jerking your body about to a rhythm is fantastical. Anyone who says they don’t like to dance has clearly never been drunk enough.

At the end of the night, KF and I left the bar and began our slow walk up the hill (Lady, had left earlier – her tolerance for drunken hipsters is lower than mine). Halifax, for better or for worse, was chosen because of its harbour and ability to defend itself from attackers. Three hundred years later all this means is that most of the bars are on the waterfront at the bottom of a big hill and most of the late night restaurants are up this giant hill. In order for me to get pizza I need to climb said hill, in heels, while drunk. You’d be surprised at the cardiovascular workout one gets at such a late hour. KF and I made it up halfway before we found a ledge (which I swear wasn’t a gutter), sat down and took a break. We then supplied colour commentary to the passerbys.

(“NO! Don’t go home with him! He’s wearing a popped collar!”)

At this point my night gets a little foggy, but I ended up in our car with a big slice and listening to CJ lecture me on how horrible the cabs in this city are.

CJ, always the knight in shining armor, will be my designated driver when we go downtown. He’s done it for years for fear of my safety; the one time I told him not to worry about picking me up; I ended up getting five girls kicked out of a cab on the sketchiest corner in Halifax. (Look, don’t try to mess with me cabbies, I know this city like the back of my hand and I’m the cheapest person you’ll ever meet, drunk or not, you are not going to rip me off). Since then, he’s been weary of me going downtown and so will come and rescue me (and whatever girlfriends I have with me). He gets a lot of benefit from this arrangement – he has been met every single time with praise for picking us up and has even had songs composed about his awesomeness. Albeit, drunken songs that had no tune, but songs! Is your boyfriend not getting along with your friends? This is a surefire way to make them love him. And if your boyfriend won’t pick you up… well perhaps you should listen to your friends…

Anyways, I woke up Sunday morning, fully clothed, makeup smeared across my face and a big slice with three bites out of it on my bedside table. After changing and trying to wash my face (I seriously had a lot of makeup on, it didn’t finish coming off until this morning in the shower) I crawled back into bed. There I stayed for the entire day. This morning I had trouble getting up.

Thankfully, my office has a great coffee machine because I’m going to need the entire pot today.

Friday Happy Dance!

It’s Friday!

I’m doing a little happy dance right now. Seriously. Well I didn’t get up out of my chair but I did wave my arms around like I just don’t care.

Tomorrow I’m having some of my favorite partners in crime over for dinner and wine. The official plan is that we are going to work out our Halloween costumes – this always requires some serious planning as we go over board. How many nights a year can someone dress up as whatever they want and go dancing? (One) So you need to take advantage of it. I need to top last year’s costume of a peacock styled flapper. My current thoughts for a costume is to go as a Parisian Vagabond (I don’t know what that means yet), and no doubt will involve a decent amount of eye makeup, glitter glue, high hells, netting, feathers, etc. But I digress.

The unofficial plan for tomorrow night is that I am going to get my ladies drunk and take them dancing. They just don’t know it yet.
(well they do now – HI KF AND LADY! – make sure to bring some fake lashes tomorrow night!).

The amount of excitement I have over this “sneaky” plan is sad and says something about the state of my current social life (neglected due to work).

Enjoy the weekend everyone!

A love story of sorts.

We’re moving at the end of the month so I’ve been doing a lot of cleaning lately. A few days ago I found my journals – a time capsule of me from 13-20. It’s scary and also interesting to reread.

 Nineteen year old me was a sight to be seen. I partied with the best of them; I was a bar star in my own right. I would do the outrageous. I was fun. I was young. I had a serious drinking problem. Single and in complete control of everything I did; I was a vision of self confidence and sex appeal. So I have it twisted in my head six years later. My journals, undecipherable in places due to tear stains, tell another story. They tell of someone who was insecure, on edge, uncomfortable with herself.

 Looking back, I’m not sure why I was in some many fiery relationships. I sought them out but it was too much. The constant arguing, the crying, the mistrust, the yelling; took a toll on me. After each of these relationships I would take a downward spiral into alcohol and self-pity. I literally have read pages and pages obsessing about why my high school boyfriend cheated on me. Surely something was wrong with me that made these boys treat me like this. I was used. And then I used. The relationships always self destructed in the worse possible way.

 When I met CJ my guard was completely down. Freshly out (as in still basically in) of a dramatic relationship I had no intentions of dating anyone. I had a cycle of drinking and self loathing that I needed to complete before I would go on the hunt again. We met at a toga party – a party that I almost hadn’t gone to. We sat next to each other and talked for hours. That first night ended with an exchange of email addresses; not even a phone number. I thought nothing of it.

 A few days later we talked on instant messenger. He was so nervous it took him an hour to ask me out on a date. Still, at this point I still didn’t think much of him. I knew he was cute, funny and friendly but surely he was too nice of a guy for me.

 We went on our first date, and I agreed to see him again. And again. And again. Our dates became marathons of talking. We couldn’t stop; we had so much in common, so much to discuss. He didn’t play by the rules – he would ask me out two nights in a row. He wouldn’t blow me off. CJ once called to tell me he couldn’t call me when he had said he would because he had made plans with his friends. We had a great connection, amazing chemistry, that spark they talk about in romance novels. He had everything a girl could ask for but for me it was just too easy. I thought there had to be a catch. No guy was ever this perfect, no relationship was this easy. And there was a catch.

 We were having our first fight. In a calm, rational tone, he called me out for flirting with his friend; he did not like it. It was disrespectful and inappropriate. I was ready for this fight, had somewhat initiated it; I wanted the drama. I craved it, was so used to it. I wanted to test him. I wanted to know what was wrong with him. Furthermore I wanted him to see what was wrong with me. You see, up until this point in our young relationship I had been Ms. Perfect. You know, that girl one pretends to be before you really get to know the guy you’re dating. I, twisted as it is, wanted to test him; I wanted him to not like me. To deem me too crazy, too much, too put together, too into commitment, too whatever – because that’s what I had been deemed by every other guy I’d dated to this point.

 So I screamed. I yelled. I cried. I was cruel. He, calm, rational, thoughtful, listened to what I had to say. When I was done (I yelled “WELL WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY?”) he told me that I was wrong, he was right and requested that I not flirt with his friends. He then bid me goodnight and told me he would see me the next day.

 I left that night in tears; I was ready to call it quits with him. How dare he challenge me like that? Didn’t he know that I was supposed to win that fight? That he was either supposed to reject me or passive aggressively apologize to me? While fuming, throwing things about my room, I realized something – I was completely wrong. I was wrong to flirt with his friends, wrong to pick a fight over it, wrong to make this tiny issue into a huge issue. He was right and he knew it. He had called me on my drama and told me he wasn’t going to put up with it. I went back to him and admitted my wrong doing. He accepted my apology and then forgave me. We haven’t talked of that fight since, except a few minutes ago when I told him I was writing about it.

 It was in the aftermath of that fight I fell in love with him. I knew I had found someone special; a balance to my outrageous personality. I respect that my quiet, well-mannered boyfriend will fight for what he believes in. He has a backbone stronger than anyone else I know. You need to when you live with me. It can be frustrating to be with someone who calls you on your bullshit; I don’t like it in the heat of the moment. But, when the dust settles from a fight, I appreciate that he cares enough to fight with me, for me, for us. When one person rules a relationship, it stops being an equal partnership and becomes a dictatorship. Another lesson learned from that fight was that he accepted me as is – crazy, outgoing, temperamental, and all. He didn’t expect me to change but demanded I treat him with respect. He, in turn, would do the same.

 What I discovered, is that with him, I did change. I calmed down. I’m less quick to anger, easier going. I’m still me, but I’m just the best me I can be. Look, I’m not going all Jerry Maguire on you here; I just wanted to express how easy it all becomes when you meet the right person. It stops being difficult because they want you to be you. Things fall into place and it’s comfortable – but the chemistry still remains. Maybe you don’t have butterflies anymore but you get excited to see that person and you are able to write pages and pages about how awesome they are*.

 Within two months of that fight we moved in together. Which is another story for another time but involves a lot of poor, a lot of kraft dinner, and quite a few insane roommates.


*I will rant later about CJ’s faults – there are many that drive me insane; I have just learned to live with them – the good outweighs the bad.

The One in which I’m Irrationally Angry.

I don’t know everything about the situation. I only know her side of it; and even then I know she isn’t telling me all. I know I’m wrong about a lot, but again, I don’t have to be right, this is my forum to speak. You had your say, now I will have mine.

You think you know her so well. And you are wrong. I can tell from how you speak of her that you don’t actually know my friend. You’ve done that thing that every boy does when he is around a pretty girl – romanticized her, made her into your image of beauty and stopped seeing her.

When I first met her, I too was stricken by her. She has that magnetic personality that so many of us wish we had; people gravitate towards her. Her attention makes you feel special.

We met at a going away party for a mutual friend. Over vodka-crans we vowed to become best friends when our friend moved away. Usually these are drunken vows that are forgotten the next morning – but we recognized a connection and became drinking friends. Our first text messages to each other are literally “You’re AWESOME!” and “I LOVE YOU!”

Nights out on the town quickly turned into movie nights. We both have this soft spot for rom-coms and laughing at inappropriate times. Somewhere between movies and drinking we bared our souls to each other. I have seen her at her highest highs and lowest lows. She has been there for mine too – held me when I felt there was no hope and squealed with joy when there was. I love throughout it all. But then again, I knew we had chemistry the minute we met.

When you found her, you must have known she was hurting. You know her through her writing – beautiful and sorrowful – she bares truth I dare not. I could never write as honestly as she does. As you wooed her, struck a connection, talked, you gave her the attention she needed. You lifted her up a little – I won’t deny this. There was even a chance it might work out between you two… but…. but…

She blames herself for this mess. You do too. It’s arrogant to believe that because you want her it’s enough. Chemistry is a funny thing. You can have a connection of with someone – but without that spark it won’t work. Both need to feel it. Two to tango, Romeo and Juliet, clichés indeed but always in a pair. Sometimes the stars align, the moon, sun, sunshine and puppies. But…but… most of the time it’s heartache, tears and pain. It was a chance you both took and I applaud the courage to do so.

Nearly everyone falls in love with her. I’m offended you think you are the only one who knows her, gets her. If you ever knew her, you would know that to force her into something that only you believed in was ridiculous. She doesn’t have to give it more time because she knows her heart. Have some faith in her; know that perhaps she knows what is best in this situation.

Once upon a time, I too thought myself broken. I blamed myself for all the wrongs and took each failure in love as a personal loss. What took me so long to learn was that when the right one comes around it doesn’t matter. The struggle inside yourself ceases and you fall in love. Without hesitation, without boundaries.

When that happens – and I believe everyone has the chance to have this happen – all of this heartache and struggle will be well worth it. I promise.