Muse. Ramble. Rant. Repeat


Moving is fun. Reason #2

We’re in the process of moving (into the finally completed flat! Boo-ya!) and I’m on a tight deadline so this one will be quick.

Moving brings out the worst in CJ and me. Normally a happy couple; moving causes us stress and issues we can ignore (his hoarding tendencies, my controlling nature) come into the light and demand attention.

Half of the furniture I own was once my sister’s. She is 9 years older than me and fairly established in her life with very nice furniture. However, taking care of three girls apparently isn’t enough work for her because she often redecorates. Her husband doesn’t like the hassle of reselling furniture so they always call me to see if I want it. A few weeks ago she called me up and asked me if I wanted her dining room table (which is bar height and seats 8) because she doesn’t like it anymore. Now, I already have a really nice kitchen table that we paid good money for but it only seats four. So I thought about it for three minutes decided to make that table into a desk and store the extra chairs until we move into a house; the new table will become our main table. I talked this over with CJ at the time and he agreed. Last night, in the new place I saw him taking the table and moving it to the back door.

Me: Honey, what are you doing?

CJ: I’m throwing* this out. Aren’t we getting the new table tomorrow?

Me: Yes, but I’m still keeping the old one!

CJ: For what? Where are you going to put it?

Me: In the office – remember? And I’m going to use the desk for a vanity in the bedroom and we’re throwing* out the old vanity.

CJ: Well then I’m throwing out the other three chairs!

Me: No you aren’t! We might need those someday if we get a house with a breakfast nook and dining room!

CJ: You are impossible! Why do you want to hold onto this stuff?! You can just buy something new when we move!

Me: You wanted to keep the empty texas mickey bottle because it was the first one you ever had and you’re saying I’m impossible because I want to keep the $500 kitchen table? ARE YOU *&#*$)!?
(I may have said an offensive term then that I don’t condone the use of but rhymes with batarded)

CJ: That has sentimental value! This table is not sentimental!

At this point I stormed off to the kitchen to unpack the glasses and CJ put the table and chairs back in the office.

Ahhh, love.

*We don’t throw out – we donate to families who aren’t so ridiculous or fortunate to be able argue over what to do with two dining tables but would be rather happy to just have one.

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18% of Statistics are Made Up

I’m a nerd. No shock there. But to make it worse, I’m a nerd with a speciality in numbers. I like numbers, I get numbers, and numbers make me happy the way chocolate makes most women happy. When I’m having a stressful day creating a spreadsheet calculating something, anything will calm me down.

Numbers don’t lie. They are always the same. There are rules and order to numbers.

To the rest of the world I know that is strange. I’m that girl in the grocery store muttering to herself – “62 plus 6 less 1.50 coupon”. At the checkout I know how much my purchase is going to be. I am that annoying person who gives you odds amounts of change so I get whole dollars back. When I tip at a restaurant I always round-up the tip so it’s an even number that I’m paying.

I know everyone else out there isn’t like this. For the most part I forgive you just as you forgive me on the whole grammar/punctuation/spelling thing – but there are a few instances when I can’t forgive. Times like when the mathematical errors are so great or misleading that I become distracted by them.

Let me give you a few examples:

Example 1:

Some time ago I was in a presentation where it was VERY IMPORTANT THAT I PAID ATTENTION. The subject was VERY IMPORTANT. The speaker was VERY IMPORTANT. I listened intently for the first 20 minutes or so – then the speaker said something along the following:

“10% of this does that, 35% of that does this, and 45% does this and that.”

Everyone else in the room nodded and continued to listen to the presentation. Me? I started obsessing about the missing 10%. Clearly, not the point of the presentation. Clearly she meant 20% instead of 10%. But to me and my warped mind? The rest of the 40 minutes were lost because I became obsessed with that missing 10% – I couldn’t concentrate on anything else she said.

 

Example 2:

It’s monopoly time at McDonald’s. CJ won a free muffin. I was running late this morning so I stole the free muffin coupon and headed to McDonald’s. In order to redeem my free muffin I was handed a little release form with a skill testing question on it and a pen.

The girl behind the counter informed me that the answer to the question was 44. Just as I was about to write down 44 in the blank I read the question:

42-(6+8) =

I looked at the girl behind the counter with a cocked eyebrow and wrote “28” in the blank. She told me that was wrong. I (as gently as possible) explained that the answer was 28 due to the brackets. She gave me a funny look. I then held up the line and explained to her the brief rules of BEDMAS (brackets, exponents, division, multiplication, addition, subtraction). She, clearly getting inpatient with me, said “Oh, I guess I didn’t learn that before I dropped out” and gave me my free muffin.

Example 3:

*Disclaimer: I am not now nor have I ever claimed to be informed about all the political dealings in Canada/Middle East/Universe. While I do not support war, military efforts, etc. I am not against anyone in the military nor the actions they may or may not have to take on behalf of this country or any other country. The below story is to illustrate my full on crazy and not meant as a political statement. Let’s just say I’m a giant fence-sitter on the entire issue, mkay?

Yesterday morning, while driving CJ to work, the 6am newscast came on CBC. It’s the national report so you get the brief rundown of what’s happening in the country with a few special interest news reports. One thing I generally enjoy about Canada is that (for the most part) our media outlets attempt to give a balanced and fair report about a story (I said for the most part!). Unlike some (nameless) networks in the States we don’t really have a right-wing or left-wing news channel… they all kind of report the same. Now, there is a decent amount of liberal bias but they really do try to hide it. Until yesterday.

Canada, as you may or may not know, has troops stationed in Afghanistan. They have been there for 8 years. During that time 131 Canadian troops have been killed in action. These are facts.

CBC reported this morning that the odds of a Canadian dying in Afghanistan were 62 per 1000 troops. In fact, they reported that it is more deadly to serve in Afghanistan then it was in some other long ago war mission (the exact one escapes me). I’m sure there was other information thrown in there but in the 2 minute story that is the main point I got from it. That number didn’t sit right with me because I knew that 131 Canadians have died in Afghanistan and based on the fact that 62 out of 1000 would die that would mean that we only sent about 2000 troops to Afghanistan… and… fuck… how did stats work again? I know that probabilities aren’t as straightforward as that but …

So I dropped CJ off and went home and immediately started googling. I wanted to see this report that was filed and to reread it. Unfortunately, despite my best efforts, it didn’t seem to be posted anywhere. I did however find out that more than 10,000 troops (some sites state it at 16,000 troops) have served in Afghanistan so the probability of dying is really only about 13.1 per 1000 and not the reported 62. My math may be wrong here (it’s been a really long time since I took stats) but the point is the news report was wrong. It just seemed to have such a horrible liberal bias to it. Why didn’t they just report the truth? And not make it sensational? The truth is awful enough, that fact that anyone is dying serving their country is a tragedy. To make matters worse, when I talked to CJ about the news story last night he remembered the as being “1 in every 62 Canadians die in Afghanistan”.

This is a blatant abuse of math. To use numbers in such a way to manipulate someone and then have that person potentially repeat the error to others drives me up the wall. The reason I love numbers is that numbers don’t lie; math is simple. However, math can be manipulated in such ways that serve an agenda. It drives me insane and it’s all I can focus on for hours. I could rant about this issue for days. However, I’ll stop now. And this concludes your daily quota of nerd rant.


Irrational Conversation with a Rational 5 year old.

I’m planning to my bachelorette party for Las Vegas. I’m not sure who’s going to be able to go with me (it’s quite expensive to fly across the country) but I do know that my sister is coming with me. She, unbelievably excited at the thought of a long weekend away from her three children under the age of 5 (5yo, 3yo, 4mo), is already planning the details of the May trip. I was over at her house for lunch yesterday and we were talking about the trip when we were interrupted by her 5 year old daughter.

5yo: Mama, what do you mean Vegas? Where’s that?

Sis: Las Vegas. It’s in the United States and to get there we have to fly to the other side of the country and to the south. It’s far away from here. (more talking between us about various hotels)

5yo: So, how long are you going for?

 Sis: A long weekend.

5yo: How many sleeps?

 Sis: (holds up three fingers)

5yo: (getting excited) Cool! When are we going?

Sis: No sweetie, just mommy and Martina are going, you girls are going to stay at home.

5yo: (clearly disappointed) And who exactly is going to take care of us?

Sis: Who do you think?

5yo: Dad?

Sis: Yes, dad.

3yo: I like playing with Daddy!

5yo: Not daaaaad. You can’t leave me! Why do you need to go?*

*I should take a moment to explain my brother-in-law is perhaps the world’s greatest father and all three of his girls think he is the sun and the moon. They normally choose to play with him over any activity including ice cream.

Sis: (brief explanation of what a bachelorette party is) and Mommy really wants to go have fun with Martina because she is my sister. And you know how much fun you have with your sisters?

5yo: (head shake yes)

Sis: Then you can understand why I want to go have fun.

5yo: If it’s so much fun you should take us.

3yo: Ya! You should take us!

Sis: No, Mommy needs a vacation and besides you have to be at least 21 years old to go.

5yo: (Finger pointing at me) You aren’t 21! That’s really old! You can’t go so Mom can’t go!

Me: No, silly I’m 24 I can go.

5yo: Well mom, you just can’t go.

Sis: Why not?

5yo: Because who’s going to take care of us?

Sis: Dad.

5yo: He can’t do it. He doesn’t know how to.

Sis: Remember how Mommy and Martina went away last year and Dad took care of you? It’s the same this time except we’re not going away for as long.

5yo: But there is thrrreeeee of ussss now. Dad doesn’t know how to take care of the baby!

4mo: (coos because she somehow knows she was just mentioned in the conversation)

Sis: He does know how to take care of a baby – do you think I’m the only one who can take care of you around here?

Now, my sister is a stay at home mom and the primary care giver but again, my brother-in-law is very capable of taking care of the girls.

5yo: And besides you don’t need to go away to have fun. You have plenty of fun here.

Sis: When was the last time I had fun?

5yo: When we went to Alex’s birthday party last week, that was super fun.

Sis: Sweetie that was fun for you. And yes I have so much fun playing with you and your sisters but sometimes Mommy needs to do big girl stuff with other big girls.

5yo: You tell me I’m a big girl all the time!

Sis: You are; I mean adults.

5yo: Adult things are not fun to do.

Sis: Well not for you, but they are for adults.

5yo: *a skeptical look crosses her face*

3yo: Can we have a present if you go?

Sis: Yes. I’ll bring you each back something very special.

3yo: (starts blabbing about the various dolls she wants)

5yo: Martina, CJ can go with you. You don’t need to take my Mommy away.

Me: Only girls are allowed to go.

5yo: Look, Mom, I’ve thought about it and you just can’t go.

Sis: Ok, sweetie, we’ll talk about it later.

5yo: (stomping off) But I said you couldn’t go! Gaw!

3yo: (bursting into tears) But I want a present!

4mo: (bursts into tears because of all the commotion)

Sis: (to me) This is why I need a vacation.


Passive Aggressive Note Writing.

Perhaps it’s because I’m in such a cranky mood lately but I wish that I could write a letter and those little annoying things in life would stop happending.

Dear Guy who Drives CJ to work:

                Look, I appreciate that you and CJ carpool every day. I’m happy that CJ doesn’t have to take our one and only car leaving me stranded in the apartment all day with only the bus to get me from point A to point B. I really appreciate it, I really do. I know how much it must suck to have to drive an hour to get to the job site, work for 10 hours and then drive another hour home. I get it. I really do. But this ridiculous rule you have about not being able to drive five minutes out of your way to pick CJ up in the morning and drop him off at night? I am really starting to get annoyed at it. The fact that I need to crawl out of bed at 5:20am to drive my boyfriend to your house so that you two can leave at 5:25am really pisses me off. I’m a girl who enjoys her sleep and cannot fall back asleep once she has woken up and gotten out of bed.

Would it really kill you to leave your house 5 minutes earlier and pick CJ up? And then at the end of the day drop him off back at home? I just can’t understand what type of selfish asshole you are – your mileage is being paid for by the company so really there is no excuse for you not to get CJ.

And so help me god, if this continues when we live a mere 3 minutes from your house I will lose it.
On you.  Probably at the next company function. Be warned.

Sincerely,
Martina

 

Dear Checkout Chick who works in the store at my office:

                You’re always so friendly and helpful, with a constant smile on your face. I know how hard it is to work in retail. I myself did it for years – but do you mind doing just two tiny things for me?
1. Please memorize the following: When I give you $2 for an item that costs $1.45 you should give me back $0.55. Not $0.65 or $0.45 but $0.55. Diet coke isn’t a commodity with changing prices; the price is the same every day. I’m tired of having to correct you – especially since the cash register is telling you the amount of change to give back to me.

2. Please stop commenting on how much Diet Coke I purchase. I know I have a problem. I’ve been aware of it for years. I really don’t need you to make the same lame joke every time I purchase a bottle.  “This stuff will give you cancer! Ahahaha” isn’t funny. In fact, in order for aspartame to be cancerous you need to consume something like 1000 cans of diet coke a day. (You know how I know this? My friend did a paper on it for grade 11 biology because she too was concerned about my diet coke intake). So please stop with the joke. Besides I know for a fact you smoke. Bitch.

Thank you,
Martina

 

Dear Diet Coke Stealing Doctor:

You drive a freaking Lexus. I drive a Hyundai. Based on this, I’m going to assume that you can afford to purchase more diet coke than I can. Please cease and desist. If something is labelled “MARTINA” in the fridge you should use those doctor smarts of yours and assume that Martina wants to drink said item sometime later in the day.

Fuck off,
Martina

Passive aggressive note writing does make me feel better.


A Pep Talk to Myself.

I’m in a funk.

For a variety of reasons but the main ones being my laptop blew up on Friday (and about 40 hours of client files that need to be recreated this week on top of my normal 50 hour workload); we need new tires; and we still haven’t moved into the new place.

Winter is creeping into the city and I find myself depressed at the constant grey skies. I wake up every morning with good intentions and find myself at the end of the day sitting on the sofa, head in CJ’s lap in near tears over life. I know this is irrational – my problems aren’t really problems. Oh, woo is me, the beautiful flat we are moving into needs another week of custom woodworking on it. Poor me, my laptop blew up and this is stressful because I am self employed and need to work extra hard for one week. At least I’m still employed and have job security, in comparison to so many others.  And winter! What a horrible thing, this living in a place with seasons. I would complain far more if I didn’t get to see the leaves change,  witness the first snow fall, smell the air of spring, feel the breeze on a summer day.  I have no reason to complain about my life – it’s so good in so many ways and yet here I am, sighing heavily at the thought of dealing with another hour of it.

My phone rings, I pick it up and screen the call. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I consistently bailed on my plans this past weekend. I blatantly ignored text messages. It’s taking all my willpower not to cancel every plan I made for this coming week. I don’t want to be around people celebrating, drinking, laughing, living life. I want to curl up into a ball and cry about the world. But I have commitments. Meetings, deadlines, people to please. I hate them all. I sat in a meeting this morning and I’m pretty sure I didn’t take away one ounce of information. I want to escape all my current problems and forget that they exist. Basically I want to run away and stop being me.  

It’s a funny thing, us humans and our obsession with being happy. It is socially unacceptable to feel sorry for yourself. You are expected to always put on a happy face and pretend that everything is ok (You want to debate that? Go ahead, I have antidepressant sales to back me up). To sit and be in a mood, a funk, depressed state is just not ok. We, myself included, are always telling each other it’s going to be ok. That we will get through whatever we are facing. That at some point in the future the sun will come out and shine down on us. Many of us need religion* to tell us this exact message. That unexpected bumps mean something.

*I’m agnostic. So, not so much with the organized religion but I believe in universal karma and will tell anyone who asks that everything evens out in life.

It’s bullshit. Sometimes the flat tire just means the flat tire. Sometimes the feeling bad about life is justified because life has thrown you some bad things. Sometimes, no matter what you do or how much good you’ve tried to give things just break down and life sucks.

There are two things when you realize you are in this position. You can accept defeat and cry about it or you can do something about it. That bullshit that is spewed – lemons and lemonade and whatnot– actually works.

Perhaps tomorrow – or maybe the next day – even the day after that – I will wake up and the weight on my mind will have shifted. I don’t stay in self pity mode for very long. I take time to process, hate it, cry about it and then I start doing something about it. I know that I can get through this if I try hard enough. That no matter the problem I will fix it. I will return my phone calls and make a delicious dinner for those I snubbed. I will be extra nice to the clients I currently hate and go out of my way for them.  I’ve clawed back 5 hours of the 40 I lost. I’ve been price comparing winter tires. I’m badgering our landlords to let us in to the new place. I’ve googled voodoo weather dances to ward off the snow.

Ok, I lied about that last one. I know there is no way to stop the snow from coming but if I thought it would help I would totally dance naked for it.

It will get better. I know this. I just need to make it better.


It’s a Nice Day for a White Wedding

White.

Why of all colours was white chosen for wedding dresses?

Ok, I actually know this answer – (thanks Google) – during the Victorian era only those who were very wealthy could afford to buy a new dress for their wedding day. If they got a dress that could never be worn again (do you know how hard it is to clean white?) they were seen as particularly well off. Clearly, laundering has changed and now anyone can afford some type of white dress.

A white dress was then warped into a symbol for purity and virginity. Ahem. Those brides who make it down the aisle still virgins are rare. So rare in fact, that most of them would be wearing black to symbolize how impure they are. However, I’ve been informed that black is a completely unacceptable colour for a wedding dress. Not that I didn’t put in the good fight for it. I tried really hard to work out someway in which it would be acceptable to those involved that a black cocktail dress would be the best option for me.

After being lectured by my mother, told by my future husband it symbolizes a funeral, and generally given that “You are crazy” look by all of my close friends I was forced decided to give in and get a white dress.

White/Ivory/Cream – all the same on a tall, pale, curvy girl. It’s just not a flattering colour. As it is, I’m the whitest white one can be. Put me in a giant white dress and I become completely washed out. Then we have the problem with the length. I’m already a giant at 5’10 – a long white dress makes me look taller. Normally, I would also get the added effect of looking leaner, but nooooo – white makes sure that every bump, curve and problem area is accentuated. Then I have the problem that almost every wedding dress is meant to enhance the chest… and well… with a chest like mine I really don’t need it to be enhanced, it does fine on its own.

Wedding dress shopping is its own separate hell which I will detail later. I will say that at one point I was in near tears surrounded by a pile of wedding dresses that made me look tall, fat and pale. It was not a fun, magical experience for me. At no point did I feel like a princess, all special and gooey inside because I got to wear a white dress. But, then again, I’m not one to have those feelings anyways so perhaps I was never going to feel like that.

My point of this post is that this notion of a white wedding dress is outdated. I didn’t really want one but found that when I explored other avenues it wasn’t accepted (In North America) to wear anything but. There were three exceptions to this rule: Elopement, second weddings and being the “groom” at a lesbian wedding but since I’m part of none of those it wasn’t ok. This of course crosses into a bigger issue about weddings and how brides are supposed to act – which will be the subject of my next post.

 Oh, by the way I’ve chosen my wedding dress and lemme tell you – I do look fantastic in it. I was able to find something that corrected all my issues – well I won’t be able to breathe the day of my wedding but really that seems to be an overrated vital function anyways.


Wedding Nonsense

I am the centre of the universe.

While I’ve always suspected that my awesomeness made the world turn, I now have absolute proof. I’m planning a wedding and the world revolves around me and my decisions. Type of dress, flavor of cake, amount of food, colours, schemes, themes, venues, etc. all comes down to one very simple question:

“Well, what does the bride want?”

I can see how easy it would be for someone to get so caught up in this that your relatives start calling you bridezilla behind your back. Especially when given an awesome venue (hello, rich relatives with their pretty country estate) and unlimited funds (thanks Daddy!) the world seems to open up and bow to your every command.

In theory, I like it. I like it a lot.

You see, I’m the type that could easily and happily take charge of many situations. When I ask you “Well what do you think?” or “Where do you want to go?” I’m only doing it because society has taught me that “We think this” and “We are doing that” is impolite. I always know where I want to eat. I always know where I want to go. I am a girl who knows.

That all being said, as much as I enjoy calling all the shots I’m also getting really sick of having to deal with the details. Thinking back, I’m not entirely sure I understood what a wedding was when I agreed to get married.

The day after I was engaged – officially engaged with a ring and whatnot because we had known for years we’d some day get married; and then I knew for a few months before he proposed that the engagement ring fund was at an adequate level for my extravagant tastes (Canadian extravagant is like American moderate – just so ya’ know) – I purchased a wedding planning book. This book details every.possible.detail. one might need for their wedding. It was during the first reading of this book I realized I wasn’t exactly bride material. As much as I like being the centre of attention and making decisions I hate all of these ridiculous traditions brides are supposed to sign up for. What’s worse is that EVERYONE knows the formula for a wedding and has been asking me repetitively about such things.

So in honor of this, I have decided to start a series (along with my regular incoherent rambling) detailing what bothers me about weddings.

Tag: Wedding Nonsense

I promise to post my first rant tomorrow.


Weekend update with Se… uh, me.

Rundown of my weekend. In point form. Since all my good words were exhausted on the previous post.

 –         Shopping. Little black dress with a zipper down the back. More than I wanted to spend, not so much it hurt me but enough to lie to CJ about it.
“This dress? This old thing? Totally got it on sale a million years ago… only $50, I swear”

 –         I broke B’s bed this weekend. I’m not sure if it was the bribing cleaning sex (oh, please like you’ve never done it) or the three drunk girls flopping on it during the 10-minutes-before-we-absolutely-have-to-leave-the-house-in-order-to-make-an-appearance-at-this-party to touch up their makeup. However, it’s broken and I’m tasking CJ to fix it tonight.

 –         Hot Pink Lips and Electric Blue Tights. Similarly – L’Enfant sported teal eyeliner with matching teal tights. LBDs and cleavage abound. We were the picture of a hot mess on Saturday night.

 –         I’m all for saving money but Metro Transit? Last bus of the night*? From my part of the hood? Never.Again.
*Here in teeny tiny city buses stop running at midnight. Then your only ways home are expensive cabs (cost more here than in the big cities!), walking (like we can do that in these shoes), and designated drivers (the preferred method).

 –         Couldn’t find the party we were supposed to be going too. We were given the wrong address. We suspect it was a few houses down from where it was supposed to be since that is where the cop cars were. For some reason, we decided to skip the party to go to an acquaintance’s house.

 –         Acquaintance had Duck Tales on DVD. Must find me a copy.

 –         A pirate! On stilts! In the middle of downtown! Much amusement. Almost knocked over. Scariest job ever?

 –         Bar: Bad DJ (kept yelling “And ya’ sure to remember this one!”. I was clearly the oldest one there. We didn’t remember those songs at all)     Tequila shots! Hipsters! Balding older men! This city has clearly gone to hell.

 –         Home: chair destroyed; cat molested; too much KD consumed.

 –         Sunday: hungover. Busted on price of dress (damn you online banking!). Realized vodka was inadvertently consumed (will buy you a new bottle KF). Electric blue tights in tact: success.

 –         Mad Men. Faneffingtastic.

  And really, that’s all I have to say about the weekend.


(no) Cheating! (no) Lies! (no) Scandal!

I answer my phone with the happy annoying greeting I reserve just for her
“L’Enfant! How’s my youngin’ doing today?”
(you see, my friend is a few years younger than me – she calls me Grams, I call her a child, it’s love).
Silence at the other end. I then hear a sniffle.
Telling her I’ll be there in 5, I grab the keys and go get her.

I’ve known this was coming. It’s been working up to this point for months now. They had already broken up once; this was the second go around. A new relationship this time, it would be different, it would be better.

The problem with second chances is that people don’t change. Who you are is set in stone. I think people can make mistakes, learn from those mistakes and modify their behaviors but they can’t change. In the case of this relationship – they both wanted change. They wanted to make it work but are simply at different stages of their lives.

He wants to get married, buy a house and have babies. This thought gave her panic attacks. She wants fun, adventure, companionship. That thought made him demand that she settle down. But they did/do love each other and were trying to work through the issues.

The problem with grownup relationships is that they often end for grownup reasons. When we were young, relationships ended on a much more sensationalist note.

Cheating! Lies! Scandal!

Oh, how fun those breakups are: the celebration at the end of the relationship of being free of the manwhore, the dead weight, the man-child.

Now, relationships end because two people want different things out of life. I think it is harder to end a relationship without scandal because you have to focus on the faults within yourself and the person you love. There is often no one to blame. It’s hard to explain to your friends why you broke up because there is no reason. It just didn’t work out. Oh sure, the reasons start to flood out after the fact: he played world of warcraft all day, the sex just wasn’t good enough, they snored in their sleep – but those things were ok when you were going out. It’s just hard to accept that sometimes no matter how hard two people try they just aren’t meant to spend the rest of their lives together.

It’s this simple, grownup reason that so many people try to get back together with their ex. They forget why they broke up with the person. They can’t quite remember what the faults were because the faults sometimes didn’t exist. I have a dozen close girlfriends who ended relationships with truly sweet, funny, amazing guys because they wanted different things from life. You can work through the Cheating! Lies! Scandal! – you can’t work through differences in values. If at the end of the day you believe in different things, are seeing your path in life headed in a different direction than his – it’s never going to work. Or it will work at a highly dysfunctional level of passive aggressiveness.

To my darling, darling L’Enfant – I love you so much and wish you all the luck. Just remember the reasons it didn’t work out. Third time is not the charm. Also, drinking is not a healthy happy way to get over someone. You also shouldn’t hop into bed with the first good-looking stranger you see this week.

Now, that I got the formalities out-of-the-way – when are we going drinking? I’m an excellent wing(wo)man.


Of Moving and Bobby Pins.

I’m currently sitting in my brother-in-law’s apartment surrounded by boxes and boxes of stuff. My hair dryer is MIA, my suitcase with all my business clothes is buried under several pieces of furniture that I can’t move. There are little pathways that go from the kitchen to the bedroom to the living room to the bathroom. You can no longer access the laundry room or dining room.

Moving is hell.

It wouldn’t have been that bad if we could have just moved into our new place. However, it’s being renovated (formally a crack house it needed a lot of renovation; Go Go Gentrification!) and they are a teensy bit behind schedule. I’m not that upset by it – the new place is kickass enough that some wait time is ok. However, this meant we needed to move in three phases: first take all of the big furniture to the new place to store. Second: take the remaining items and move them into CJ’s brother’s (B) place since we are staying here until our place is ready. Thankfully, B is away on business for the month so he kindly offered us his apartment free of charge. The third step will be to move our stuff into the new place when it is ready…. At least it’s all packed right?

Living out of suitcases is not ideal. Living in someone else’s space isn’t either. B is a bachelor and his entire apartment shows it. The kitchen is unorganized and filled with fourth-hand mismatched items. The glasses aren’t in a logical place. I can’t figure out where he stores his food (perhaps he eats out every night) – I threw out yogurt that expired in March. His bathroom has been scrubbed three times with bleach and I’m still not happy with it. I’m trying hard not to replace everything he owns with something new (I don’t want to discuss the shower curtain *shudder*). CJ tells me that B wouldn’t appreciate me buying new things for him – that it would be seen as intruding. I’m trying to convince him a little womanly love wouldn’t harm the place.

On the plus side of the apartment: big screen tv, digital cable, queen sized bed (I bleached the sheets before I would sleep in them) and a drawer filled with booby pins and hair elastics. This drawer is clearly a graveyard of girlfriend’s past but I’m enjoying it because I don’t know where my hair products are packed. Actually the drawer reminds me of a story a girlfriend of mine once told me; let’s call her GF (girlfriend) for the time being.

GF had just started seeing a guy and things were going well. They were at that stage of spending loads of time together – sleepovers, movies, date nights etc. but not quite at the stage where you announce your relationship. They hadn’t even discussed if they were exclusive yet. GF, not wanting to talk to the boy about their relationship but wanting to feel out the situation started leaving bobby pins at his place. Her rationale was that a bobby pin is barely noticeable to a boy but another girl would notice. She was passively marking her territory. We laughed at this story at the time – but a year later and they’re still together. He’s fantastic by the way and I’ve been banned from telling this story ever, especially around him.

Anyways, when I look in this bathroom drawer of various hair things all I can think of are the poor girls who were trying to mark their territory. And… well it didn’t go so well for them. Actually looking around the entire apartment (except for where we have our things piled up) it’s completely girl-unfriendly. I would be scared off if I were a potential girlfriend and this is what I walked into. I would theorize it’s on purpose but B doesn’t put that much thought into things.

I’m totally fixing this place up for him. He can argue with me later about it… besides I need something to do while I wait for my new place to be ready.

PS. I’m not ungrateful – B is letting us stay here for free; it’s a nice thing he is doing and I totally appreciate it. I just need the place to be cleaner – and who can argue with that?