Nelly Don't Know Hot

It’s getting hot in here and I’m tempted to take off all my clothes.

It’s finally begun to feel like Spring. I can tell from my itchy, watery, sticky eyes. Oh, and the wicked warm weather.

Now, we all know that during May Long it always rains (sprinkling of raindrops for Sunday and Monday), but I’m okay with that. As long as there is no snow, I’m good to go.

Brand new tent – check.
Booze – check.
Up till 12:00 a.m., last night, to ensure that the majority of things are packed so that we can head out camping after work – check.

The last time we “went” camping was the long weekend of September last year. Except, we didn’t go. It’s like this – we stayed up late to pack everything up so that we (Future Mister and I) could get up early and head out to the mountains. Prior to this, FM had been having gut issues and his gut issues wouldn’t subside. After much nagging on my part (I was worried he had appendicitis, even though he didn’t display any of the symptoms) and after much resistance on his part, he finally agreed to make a quick stop at the doctors before we rush home to pack up the vehicle and leave.

Yeah. We never made it home.

Guess who was right? Guess who’s nagging paid off? And guess who demanded a bouquet of flowers for saving a life?

Me.

Despite having zero symptoms, it turns out he did have appendicitis.

Without going into a whole lot of detail on the events to follow (it still saddens me to think that we could have been in the middle of nowhere and God only knows what would have happened if his appendix had burst), let’s just say that FM laid on a waiting room bed for 8 hours while 3 doctors poked and prodded him trying to determine if it really was appendicitis (again, zero symptoms). The doctors finally decided to get him scanned and half an hour later he was rushed to the operating room to remove his appendix.

During his prep, FM must have gone through shock because he suddenly went pale. He asked to go to the washroom and after 5 minutes in there I knocked on the door to see if he was okay.

Actually, you know what, I don’t even want to type it out because I don’t feel like tearing up at the thought of that day/night/the days after, etc.

All in all, it was a horrendous experience. I realize it was a simple appendicitis that needed to be removed, but with the waiting times in hospitals in Calgary and the events that followed during his prep, I was almost certain that his appendix would have/had burst.

One day I’ll write out the whole tale of FM’s appendix experience; including the amazing changes in our lives because it happened (Like finding his biological father! Through facebook of all places!).

Until then, I’m going to continue counting down the hours till I’m off work so we can go CAMPING!@#$

Skivvie Thief

Well, how awesome is it that after God-knows-how-long I finally type a post and then that’s it. I sicken myself. I also noticed that I really need to update that thing called flickr.

What’s even more sickening is that I’ve been ill with a cold for over a week, stressed to the max with work, averaging about 2 hours of sleep a night since Saturday of last week and to top this sundae with a cherry? I’m PMSing. That, folks, is never a good combination.

And just to make things even more exciting and turn things even more sickening, I’m back with another infamous AJ story!

The Tale of the Skivvie Thief. Because that’s just what the world needs more of.

Back over a year ago, while I was still living in the apartment downtown (What? Oh, yeah, I moved away from that apartment a while back. I know. I know! Update more often.), I got to experience my first laundry thief.

I was one of those people who went down (all 18 floors) to the laundry room, left their laundry in the washer/dryer and went back up to the apartment. Trusting in the “goodness” of man-kind, I never bothered worrying that my laundry would be rifled through. I would like to also add that I was never one of those pricks who would leave their clothes in the washer and/or dryer half an hour after the cycle was done just because I felt like I was King or Queen of the g’damn world.

Once my clothes were finished with the wash, I dumped everything in the dryer and left to go upstairs till the clothes were done.

After my alarm went off to let me know that time was up, I went downstairs to pick up my clothes.

As soon as I looked at the dryer, I noticed that a sock was stuck in the door. I figured that I was in a rush and didn’t realize that a sock tried to escape. No worries, just retrieve the sock, dump the rest of the laundry in the basket and head back upstairs.

A few days later, I was rifling through the laundry basket looking for a particular pair of skivvies that I had washed earlier. (Yeah, you read right. Looking for skivvies in the laundry basket. A few days later. Because I hate folding laundry. OKAY?)

And that’s when I noticed I had no skivvies in that basket. None. Nada. Zilch. The eight or so pairs I had washed were gone. A SKIVVIE-MOTHEREFFIN-THIEF. They left my socks. My shirts. My pants. They just wanted my clean undies that had been in the wash and thrown in the dryer.

I was so distraught that I had to go out that night and buy eight more pairs of skivvies just to make up for the loss. To be honest, it was probably for the best. Because, really, who needs about 25 pairs of skimpy skivvies? Apparently, I do.

What I don’t get is why would the Thief wait until they were in the dryer? I mean, if you’re really into that “thing”, wouldn’t you want them pre-wash?

Needless to say, I spent the next while keeping a close eye on my clothes in the laundry room after that ordeal.

Dreams

When I moved to Calgary, it was just prior to starting the eight grade. The junior high I went to only went up to the eight grade as opposed to the ninth grade. Now that I wrote that out, I’m realizing that it was rather pointless; moving on.

As grade eight was coming to an end, the entire grade went on a retreat out somewhere in the middle of… well, somewhere (I can’t recall where, apparently).

There were about four yellow buses taking the students to the retreat. I sat beside my friend and we were chatting about anything and everything.

As we were getting closer to our destination, the buses took a turn down a dirt road. Suddenly, I say to my friend, “Whoa. This looks familiar. This road is a place that I’ve dreamt about before and I dreamt that we were going down the road in a bus too.” My friend looked at me with surprise. “Eh. Whatever. Probably nothing. Besides, in my dream the bus broke down suddenly, but I’m sure that’s not going to happen.”

Just as I finished my sentence, the bus ahead of us broke down and was sitting at the side of the road.

My friend and I were silent after that.

Déjà vu?

Coincidence?

Or just plain nutty.

I’m thinking nutty.

That wasn’t the only incident I’ve had regarding my nutty dreams come real. But after last night, I certainly hope it’ll never happen again.

I woke up this morning in a cold sweat.

I had a horrible dream.

Far worse than any dreams I’ve had regarding my teeth falling out. Far worse than my OhmyGod My Boyfriend is Cheating on Me dreams. Far worse than my AJ in Wonderland dreams. The dream I had last night… I can’t even write or talk about it.

I have a terrible gut-wrenching feeling about it, but I’m going to ignore it and hope that the dream was just my sub-conscious telling me that I’m a worry-wart freak.

Snooze Buttons and Traffic

I don’t quite have a specific purpose for this particular post other than recalling what happened five years ago. I realize that there are a lot of tributes and memorials happening today, and some may be growing tired of it, but I’m going to write out what I’ve got to say anyway just because it’s on my mind and has been each passing year.

I have a friend who lives in New York and worked across the street from the WTC. My friend’s father worked in the WTC.

When my alarm clock went off, five years ago, I heard on the radio news that a plane flew into a building. Still in a daze, I hit the snooze button on my alarm and slept a little longer before heading to work. When my alarm went off again, I woke up recalling a dream I had about a plane flying into a building.

“Pshaw. What a fucked up dream.” Yeah, okay AJ, just a dream. As I continued to get ready for work, the radio news kept repeating a story of two planes flying into the WTC in New York. As soon as it clicked in, WTC-New York-Dylan, I panicked. Knowing that my friend would have been at work during the attack, I quickly picked up my phone and starting dialling his cell phone.

Busy tone.

Okay, try his work phone.

Busy tone.

Damnit. Try his home phone.

Busy tone.

I kept up this routine for an hour until I got to work.

When I got to work, and after many failed attempts to get a hold of my friend Dylan, I called up another friend to find out if she knew of Dylan’s father’s phone number. She did not know of the phone number but she, too, had been trying to get a hold of our friend. No luck, whatsoever, between the two of us.

Two days passed by and still no luck getting through to any of his phone numbers. Finally, I had received an email from him. He mentioned to me that he was okay and so was his dad. He did not have enough time to write a long email, but mentioned that he would call me as soon as he could and to let everyone else know that he was okay.

About a week later, I finally get a phone call from him. He survived because, like me, he decided to hit the snooze button on his alarm clock. My friend Dylan has an outstanding record for always being on time and being prompt with his work; but on that day he decided to be a lazy bastard and for that I am grateful. His building was destroyed on September 11. Dylan’s father survived too. Thankfully, his father was running late for work because of traffic. I don’t remember which floor of the WTC his dad worked on, but had he been at work on time, he would not have survived.

Today, I am grateful for snooze buttons on alarm clocks and shitty traffic.

The Moral

Okay, I got one now.

Haaaaa!

‘Kay, this is going to be good.

Ready?

The moral of the story is: Always keep your fingernails cut short. You’ll never know when your finger may end up in someone’s eye.

Teeheeee.

Alright, that one sucked too.

Living the Pirate Dream: The True Story

At nineteen years of age, I had lived out the dream of many young children and porn stars. I was a pirate that then converted to getting cum shots in the eye.

For real.

Okay, not quite.

Before you all get excited at the thought of pirate porn and go skimming through this post to get to the good part (seriously, I was totally kidding about the pirate porn) I’d like to start off by writing that my feet, my precious, pretty feet, are extremely sensitive and I will act out in a violent rage if you try to touch them. With this being said, let’s move on to Living the Pirate Dream: The True Story.

One evening, back when I was 19 years old, I was hanging out in Fucktard’s (aka Jason #2) room. He was a cruel man with cruel intentions for that evening. Being well aware of my Do Not Touch My Feet or Die Rule, he decided that it was all a bluff and felt the need to test out this rule. He attacked. Like a lion to its prey.

I immediately panicked and started screaming bloody murder. You would think that he would have stopped after I started to throw punches to his head and proceeded to aim for his balls, but no, he had a goal and that was to torture me.

Finally, after about 10 minutes of this, I managed to kick my feet away from his grubby hands and I wrapped my right arm around his neck (also referred to as The Super Choke-Hold) and used my left hand to grab his arms to hold them back.

This backfired on me.

As he was trying to escape my death grip, he swung his left hand around hoping to pull my right arm away from his neck. This resulted in him missing my arm and landing his finger in my eye.

Instantly I pulled away, started screaming profanities and whimpered, a lot.

The pain I felt was not the typical, “Ouch. I just accidentally poked my finger in my eye. Oh wait… okay, it feels better now.” Rather, this pain was much sharper and did not subside.

After the eye stabbing happened, I tried for hours to open my eye. It watered constantly and the pain had become unbearable.

I was unable to sleep that night and still my eye refused to open. The pain, my God, the pain. Instead of falling asleep, I was up all night crying because I could not imagine what the hell was wrong and why it hurt so much to the point that I wanted to rip my eye out.

Because I couldn’t sleep, I was able the see a doctor early in the morning. By this point, my left eye (the victim) was swollen shut. The doctor’s office was about a 15 minute walk from my house but because I couldn’t see out of one eye and horribly enough it started to affect my good eye (my good eye had begun to swell slightly and I was only able to open that eye a minimal amount) it took me 30 minutes to get to there. What I should have done is gotten a ride to the doctor’s office. Thankfully for me, I was not hit by any vehicles especially considering I was walking around blindly.

As I sat in the doctor’s office, with one hand clutching my left eye and the other eye barely open, I hoped that I would not be deemed blind; otherwise, Fucktard was going to be fucked.

The doctor finally came and he had to pry my left eye open. He took one look at it and said that I needed to see a specialist, immediately. The doctor phoned my dad and my dad was on his way to pick me up.

When I got to the eye specialist’s office, they had all been prepared to take me in right away. The eye doctor was a very nice gentleman and asked me a lot of questions regarding what happened. I was a little uneasy to tell him the story because seriously, “Yeah. My boyfriend stabbed me in the eye with his finger and apparently he doesn’t know how to cut his fingernails, or something.” After I told the eye doctor a not-so-detailed version of what happened, he was very sympathetic and abruptly told me to never let my boyfriend live this one down. I agreed.

Because my eye was swollen shut, the eye doctor forced it open and put in these magical, eye numbing drops. In a second, I was able to open my eye and everything was wonderful. Until he examined my eye and told me what was wrong.

Doctor: Oh… It seems that when your boyfriend poked your eye, his fingernail must have ripped your cornea.
Me: RIPPED?!
Doctor: In fact, every time you blink, there is a piece of your cornea that is still left intact and it is flapping up and down.
Me: *trying not to cry hysterically*
Doctor: What happens, when the cornea is damaged, it causes the eye to swell to the point that it is unable to open; basically, what happened to you.
Me: *trying to push aside the thought of ripping Fucktard’s cornea out of his eye*

In order to allow the eye to heal, I was given an eye patch that was plastered to my face with medical tape. (Side Note: I’m allergic to medical tape. After the patch came off, I was left with a temporary scar on my forehead and the side of my face) The eye patch was to remain on for a week and at which point I was to return to the eye doctor’s office to have the eye re-examined.

Having the eye patch was incredibly embarrassing. Every where I went, I got strange looks from people. It was also difficult to do regular things because my vision was completely thrown off.

When I saw Fucktard that night, his mom freaked out at him. She took one look at me and was concerned.

The mom: Oh my God!! What happened??
Me: *re-tells the story*
The mom: *look of shock and disgust*
The mom: JASON *MIDDLE NAME* *LAST NAME*! WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?!?!?!$#$%^*&

A few days later, I decided to get drunk. This was a very, VERY bad idea.

In the drunken stupor, we (friends, etc.) figured that it’d be cool to draw an eye on the eye patch. Now, picture this for a second: Eye patch. Drunken idiots. Black, yellow and red felt markers.

The outcome of this was a round eyeball, coloured in yellow, with red veins. It was the freakiest thing ever.

When I got home, my sister took one look at me and ran away screaming. She couldn’t look at me for days. I’m not even going to get into the reaction of my parents, strangers and the eye doctor.

After a week, the eye doctor took off the pirate patch, examined my eye and told me that it had fully healed.

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.

But.

During this process, my eye had dried out.

He wrote down the name of a cream, that I could purchase, that would help with this problem.

Firstly, this cream, for a tiny tube, was fucking expensive. Me = NOT impressed. Secondly, this cream (please note: cream; not eye drop) was to be put in my eye every hour that I was awake. This routine was to be kept for two months. At that point I would have to go in for another check-up with the eye doctor and I continued this routine for a year.

Every time I went to put the cream in my eye, I had to wait a minute before wiping the excess cream away. Because I had to do this every hour, every day, for nearly a year, it became known as AJ Going for the Cum Shot. Because in all honesty, that’s what it looked like.

Years later, my eye is still doing fine. There are days, however, when I would still get a sudden pang of pain in that eye, but I’m going to assume that it’s normal.

The moral of this story: If you want to live out the dream of a pirate turned porn star, just touch the feet of someone who has specifically told you not to.

What the hell, that wasn’t even a moral, but it sure is useful information to give out on career day at school.

The Demotion

There are quite a few things I recall, when growing up, that really shaped the person that I am today.

Back in the 80s, when The Beastie Boys released Fight for Your Right, I would run around the house screaming the words. My parents despised The Beastie Boys after that. I still love them. Then there was Faith No More. I was quite intrigued by this genre of music and all I ever wanted to do was rock it like there was no tomorrow.

I’ll spare you the details of my punk rock, grunge and goth days. But I would like to point out that sometimes, flannel should be worn only on lumber jacks or at home with no one around. And sometimes, fishnet stockings shouldn’t be worn on your arms. And maybe, dating a guy with liberty spikes that have been dyed every colour imaginable was cool at the time, but not when you realize that “every colour imaginable” included snot green. (What the hell was going through my mind during these years?)

I constantly have friends and strangers ask me, “How is it that you have all these piercings and tattoos when you’re afraid of needles?” To be honest, I’m not sure of the answer myself. I am horribly afraid of needles and to this day, I still cry when I get a flu shot. But, I do know when my admiration of piercings came into play.

When I was 11 years old, a tiny sixth-grader, I was at the mall with my family when I saw Him. He was without a doubt older than me, probably in his 20s, but it was lust at first sight. But what caught my eye was this piece of metal attached to his lip.

“My God!” I thought. “Who hast bestowed this gorgeous creature amongst us?!” (Hah. Okay, it was more like, “OoooOooH! Pretty boy!”)

That piece of metal, attached to his lip, was a lip piercing. And I felled in love.

At that point, I only had my ear lobes pierced, but now I wanted more… More… MORE! Throughout the years, after He with Hot Lip, I continuously asked my parents if I could get another piercing, even if it was only another ear piercing. They always replied with a no. My mom firmly believes that people with piercings and tattoos are part of a gang and that they only mean trouble. My dad is beyond religious and firmly believes that the human body is not meant to be tampered with. I believed that it’s my body and if I wanna make it pretty with piercings then g’damnit I will do so! But not until I was of legal age at 18 years old.

A month after I turned 18, I told my parents that I was going to get a piercing and that there was nothing they could say or do to stop me. Within three months, I had gotten 5 piercings and I still wanted more. My parents were not impressed.

Before you knew it, my 20th birthday was approaching. I wanted to do one last “young and stupid” thing and I was thinking that a tattoo would do the trick. Prior to this time, I had never wanted a tattoo. They were so permanent and the idea of a tattoo machine dragging across my skin made me want to cry. But, what the hell, I was going to be 20 soon and I may as well do something dumb like get a tattoo.

So I did. And ohmygod. It hurt. Like a bitch.

The tattoo only took 25 minutes to do and that’s with a 5 minute break between the outline and the colouring, but it was somewhere within those 25 minutes that I swore I would never, ever get another tattoo again. Maybe it was the fact that I started to tear up at the end, or maybe it was the fingernail marks that were ingrained in my arm, but whatever it was, all I knew was that it was far too painful to go through again.

We all know how this story goes: AJ manages to continue to get piercings and sometimes goes crazy enough to stretch them herself (Ew, you don’t want to know the story. I’ll give you a hint: it involves being bored and stupid, bruising, puss and blood!) and managed to get two more (with two more in the next few months) tattoos.

Over time (about a years worth of time), I forgot the pain of the tattoo, loved how it looked and went to get another one. Since then, I basically threw out the ‘never again’ and said gimmegimme more.

I hope that one day, when I’m 80+ years old, I will be lying in my coffin with all my piercings and tattoos still intact. I have no intention of ever permanently removing any piercings or tattoos. That is, until now.

*deep sigh*

There has been this one helix (cartilage) piercing, on my left ear, that I got when I was 19 years old, that I have always had problems with. It almost seems as if it never fully healed and has had its ups and downs with being okay or being infected. Because of this, it is the only piercing I slightly despise.

Yesterday morning, while getting ready for work, I felt compelled to take a look at this particular piercing. As I gently flipped the top of my ear over to get a glance at the backside, I was horrified at what I saw; the disgusting signals of a badly infected piercing.

GEEZUS GODDAMN MOTHEREFFIN PIECE OF FUCKING SHIT.

For the first time ever, I am seriously considering removing the piercing; demoting myself in my number of non-natural holes. But, demoting? I don’t think I could do it. I would have to get another piercing, maybe two, just to make up for this one loss. To be honest, I think I’ve grown tired of getting piercings.

So, I’m going to attempt a different option before I remove said piercing and be mentally forced to get one or two more to make up for the loss.

Last night I bought every item needed to try out every remedy I knew of to heal an infection/any scar tissue/swelling/etc.

I’ve got the sea salt, the chamomile teabags, the Vitamin E and tree tea oil.

Tonight, I enter my ear into my Boot Camp of Insane Horrors and hopefully one of these treatments work.

My poor ear… my poor, poor ear… Damn you pretty, lip-ringed boy…

Screw Stella. How AJ Got Her Groove Back.

Ohmygod. I’m a total wreck. I just escaped the horrid tentacle grip of these bizarre life-forms that beamed me up (all Scottie-like) and deemed me as their new Master of All That is Lazy. And Mentally Not-All-There. And well, Et Cetera. For those who would like to head to up Canada to beat my ass: Do it. Doooo it. Please knock some sense in me. Seriously, though. We could sit back, have a beer. Screw bringing your own booze. Believe me. I have more than enough in my fridge. It has to go. (Side Thought: I should take a photo of the innards of said fridge. Beeeeeer. But food? Quite possibly non-existent.)

So here’s the lo-down. The month of August has been tinkering with my brain. It has made me a little… insane. Where to start…

I have been busting my ass at work. I’m trying to get all my work done so that I can take some vacation time without worrying too much about coming back to the office only to find 50 emails in my inbox and about 30 unheard messages on my phone. It has happened before. I may have peed my pants a little. Let’s imagine that it never happened. The crappy part of this “busting my ass” is that I busted too early. It turns out that I am unable to take holidays until the last week of August. What I should have done is try to relax a little at the beginning of August and slowly work my way up to Bust It Hardcore During the Last Week. So in turn, because all my work is done on the computer, I have been so very turned off by this piece of technology. So very, very turned off. So turned off that DIE COMPUTER DIE I HATE YOU. You see? My mind = GONE. Which in turn has guided me away from the Internet. BUT! That’s only part of it.

I, AJ, officially the LAZIEST person on earth (you’d all be disgusted with how lazy I can be) has done the unthinkable. This is how it went:

*Enter AJ into a sport-type-thingy store*
Sales Person: Hi, is there anything I can help you out with?
AJ: Yeah… I’m looking for running shoes.
Sales Person: Okay, do you have an idea of what you have in mind?
AJ: *blank stare* *deer caught in headlights* *trying to not run out of the store in a panic*

After a while of trying to figure out what the hell I am to say, I did try on a pair of New Balance shoes.

Sales Person: How do those feel?
AJ: Err… I think okay… They’re going to take some time to get used to.
Sales Person: Oh? Are they uncomfortable?
AJ: No… they’re comfortable, but I’m more accustomed to shoes like these.
AJ: *holds up worn in DC shoes that have clearly been through a rough time*
Sales Person: Oh, okay. Well, take a short jog around the store to see how they feel in action.
AJ: Say whaaa? *trying not to laugh at the idea of me jogging*

So there you have it. I bought my first pair of non-skate shoes. Only took me 23 years, but I did it. Of course my friends now believe that aliens have kidnapped my mind and switched it with someone else’s… but that’s alright! So I’ve begun to go running a few times a week and taking advantage of the exercise room that is available in my building. Lastly, my God folks, you have no idea how useful your suggestions were in finding running shoes. New Balance = super and reasonably priced. A shoe size larger = brilliant. However, this whole running and exercise deal has come with an embarrassing price and another new low for me.

One word: Lululemon. People. Oh.my.word. Never, EVER in my life would I have imagined that I’d be a Lululemon wearing psycho-freak. Because, you know, I’m too hardcore for that shit. Or something like that. Well, that and Jamie… and my sister… CharCammiGarrettStephen and anyone that I am friends with, would start calling me a yuppie if I purchased anything from that store. Alas, I have already purchased this, that and this. Totalling about $230.00. Oi… But in my defence, my ass had never looked so good before. The pants are amazing. It’s like magic!

Lululemon Pants: I dub thee the power of HOTT ass!

Now are you starting to understand the Mentally Not-All-There?

Also, I started eating healthier! I no longer snack on chips for breakfast! No wait… I still have a nibble here and there… But aside from that, major improvement every where else. Except for the beer thing. I’m sorry. But I draw the line there. That will be my carb intake. So all in all, I’m about 5 or so pounds away from my desired weight. Next topic.

HAH. Shit, this is post is going to take half an hour to read.

My friend, my bestest friend Jamie, has left me. He packed his bags and said, SEE YA BITCH, I DON’T CARE IF I LEAVE YOU. Well, he didn’t say that, but I bet he was thinking it. Months prior to August, Jamie had been planning a trip to Vietnam. Deep down, in the depths of my soul, I had ignored his planning in hopes that he’ll change his mind and stay. Before you knew it, he had purchased his ticket and all the begging and guilt trips that I brought on were pointless. He was going to leave for Vietnam for six months and there was nothing I could do about it. Seriously. What the hell does Vietnam have on me? NOTHING. Sure I’m not a beach… and I think eating meat other than chicken, cow or pig is wrong… But I skateboard. And play guitar and bass. And have no problems running around in the streets drunk. Can these people say the same for them? Didn’t think so. Anyway. The day before his flight we spent it together hanging out and enjoying ourselves.

See! Food! I basically said screw eating healthy, let’s go all out!

The one thing Jamie left for me was this dino. We used to shove plastic animals in each others pants. What the fuck? Yeah, I know.

The most difficult part of the day had arrived. The day I had to say good-bye. And I cried like a sissy.

I hate that bastard. Okay, only slightly hate.

Aside from all that, I’ve seen a lot of my family lately. My dad had a barbeque over the long-weekend, my mom’s birthday was on August 9 and my dad’s birthday was on August 13. It was good to see my family so much during the last while.

HAH! I found this label that my sister stuck on my dad's water bottle.

Teehee. My dad accidently dropped the delicious meat.

Last, but not least (or at least I think this is it… who knows… I forget easily… maybe there’s more… anyway…) my birthday that took place on August 11! Folks, I am officially 24 years old with zero cavities/fillings. Why did I mention that? Because my teeth are rocking with age.

And may I just say? I partied as if it were 1982. HAH. Geddit? 1982. Year I was born. HAAAAAA. So clever.

I had decided to take a vacation day for my birthday and I loved it. I slept in, went for lunch with my dad, went for a run then to the exercise room, watched a DVD and prepped myself for a night out on the town. I had gathered all my friends and we were heading to a rock club so that we can get wasted and dance like there was no tomorrow (in my case there thankfully was a tomorrow).

Beeeeeeeer!

Number of beers drank: Lost count
Number of shots drank: 1, 2, 3… Lost count
Number of people I met that night that shared the same birthday as me: 2
Number of times my sister had to pull my drunken ass away from hot rocker boys trying to pick me up and/or snag a kiss: 8
Number of minutes I argued with my sister regarding pulling me away after the hot mohawk guy after he asked me to dance with him: 15 minutes, give or take
Number of my friends (number count including me) dancing on top of the speaker like we were the latest item in a strip club: 7
Number of times I thought to myself, “what the g’damn fuck was I thinking/doing last night?”: 1,000,000,000,000,000

When you're smiling like this, you know that it's going to be a good drunken night. And a painful morning.

No Food for You! NEXT!

I’M STARVING.

I went out for lunch, as per usual, and decided to go to the downtown Subway. As soon as I turned around the corner, after getting off the train, I spot police tape everywhere. Up and down the block, zigging and zagging through the streets – police tape, police men and women, police vehicles, all had taken over. And all I could think of was “must make it to Subway.”

I managed to make my way through the large crowd of people, slither under a row of tape and step into the point of destination. I had waited in line for about 10 minutes (yeah, it gets busy during the lunch rush) when I noticed the police folk directing people away from the tape. And that’s when it happened.

A policewoman stepped into Subway and grabbed our attention: “I know you’re all here to grab some lunch before heading back to work, but I’m going to have to ask all of you to please leave and head down the street. We have found a suspicious package and if it is a bomb we don’t want to see any of you injured.

CRAP. SHIT. MUTHAEFFIN’. NOOOOOOOO. FOOOOOOD.

As I started to walk away from my intended point of destination, I realized that I would not have enough time to hit another restaurant and decided that I would head towards the train station.

Now I’m stuck with a dinky bag of chips for lunch. REGULAR flavour nonetheless. Ugh.

***To the idiot that left said mystery package downtown: I hope you starve.

In My Prime

When I was 18 years old I was down at the clubs. A lot. I was legal to drink and drink I did. My friends and I would be dancing till the venue turned on the lights and kicked us out.

For years upon years, I had a Grade A ass. Derriere. Butt. And that’s not just me saying it, because God only knows that I’ve always had a slight dislike for my buttocks, but all my friends believed so. They found it to be quite the grab-able commodity.

One night, while at a club in the south of the city, there was an ass contest. Think: wet t-shirt contest… only with ass; minus the wet.

My friends were pushing me to enter and since I was drunk (haaaah hah) I went for it. There were ten girls in total (all who were in great shape and rightfully deserved a spot in this challenge) and five judges (all males, one being a friend I was with).

It was a simple contest. Girls: stand there; let male cop a feel. Guys: cop a feel; judge.

Out of these ten girls, I won.

Who the hell would have thought?

Sadly, that was one of the highlights of my early, ridiculous adulthood.

That was six years ago. Now, I realize six years is a long time but during those six years my ass has lost its touch. Along with my legs. And the belly. And so forth.

About three months ago I had encouraged myself to get back in shape, start (attempting) to eat better and look good in a friggin’ bikini by the summer. Since April, I have made progress. Definitely eating better, getting exercise and I look decent in bikini. OH! And, my proudest moment of it all? Fitting into shorts that I couldn’t squeeze into four years ago. Still haven’t given up beer, though. But I don’t think I’m quite ready for that yet.

Anyway. Right now I’m looking into building some form of muscle in certain areas of my body (thighs, obtain Grade A ass again, lower abs) and get some cardio going to burn off the fat in those areas.

Here’s where I need help. I, AJ, have never owned a pair of err… running-type-shoes. The shoes I have always owned were skate shoes or docs or anything of that variation.

They will not do any justice in running.

Now, I know that there are runners reading this. Ahem.

Help me. Believe me. I need it.

What are good brands? Good for running, jogging, speed walking (ha ha. You all should see me speed walk. I overly exaggerate it. It makes people laugh. Possibly at me. Not with me…). Oh, and nothing that would burn a massive hole in the pocket that holds my money.

Suddenly I have George’s voice in my head: “I declare this! The summer of George!”

Move aside Georgey-boy, this is the summer of AJ!

*insert maniacal laughter*

They're After Me

OH MY FUCKING GAWWWWWWWWWD.

Now I am damn paranoid!@#$%&*

I saw something come at me while I was sitting at my desk.

I was all, “WHOA.”

I took out a compact mirror and checked myself out. There was something in my hair. I took my pen and flicked it off.

I thought I was safe.

Until.

The insect came back, full force.

I got a good look at it.

IT WAS A MOSQUITO COMING TO SUCK MY BLOOOOOOD.

I have enough mosquito bites. I don’t need more. I need my blood. I don’t need West Nile Virus.

I freaked out. COMPLETELY FREAKED OUT. (I’m a sissy, I know.)

I GRABBED MY PEN AND STARTED SWINGING IT AROUND LIKE A MAD WOMAN.

That’s right. I tried to fight off a mosquito WITH A PEN.

WHAT THE FUCK.

It wasn’t working (obviously). The Devil Blood Sucking Mosquito kept trying to get to my face.

I threw the pen and ran.

Literally.

I also screamed. A little.

I hope no one saw or heard.

Now my skin is crawling and I’m all shifty-eyed.

"It was her!"

If anyone comes asking you folks if you have seen the white chocolate macadamia nut cookie, I DID NOT take it…

and/or

If I suddenly come down with food poisoning or am dead, it was the white chocolate macadamia nut cookie…




Damn. Maybe I shouldn’t have eaten the tempting cookie that was just sitting there in the staff lunch room… I hope it didn’t belong to someone else…

I mean. What cookie?

Maybe I Don't Want to Remember

Occasionally I’ll read through my archives to remember some of the things I’ve done/felt in the past. I like holding on to memories, hence why I usually write of the weirdest stories sometimes. Last night, lounging around with a few friends, I recalled two things that have happened in the past that I hope I will never forget because they are so darn funny.

One of the reasons why I watch hockey rather than playing is because I would sit in the penalty box more than I would be on the ice. When I was in grade 7, I was kicked out (not literally kicked) of gym class during floor hockey. There was this one girl in my class, that no one could tolerate, who said to me that I wouldn’t have the guts to physically hurt someone during a game of hockey. I scoffed at her words! The second she and I were on the floor together, and the ball was by her, I took the hockey stick (plastic hockey stick that was provided through the school) and slashed the back of her leg. This sent her crying and me telling her, “I told you so.”

HAHAHAHA. Oh geez. Maybe that isn’t a memory I want to remember. I honestly am not that vicious of a person. I don’t think.

The second memory I recall involves Jason #2, aka Fucktard. Back the first time around, when we dated, he was all into Star Trek (gag – sorry). Star Trek was on Tuesday nights and during this time he was not to be disturbed. Well, I made the unfortunate <-insert eyes rolling counter-clockwise-> mistake of phoning him during a Tuesday viewing of Star Trek.

Him: Hi?
Me: Hey, how’s it going?
Him: Uh, what are you doing?
Me: Um… just wanted to call and see what was up…
Him: Do you know what today is?
Me: Err… Tuesday?
Him: No. It’s Star Trek night. I’ll talk to you later. Bye.
Phone: *CLICK*
Me: !@#$$#%!&#$%

Classic. Right there, classic. Although at the time I was slightly slighted, I find it fairly hilarious now and it certainly makes for a laugh when I tell my friends today.

End of the Line

I had a happy childhood. It was filled with so much laughter, fun, family and friends. Every weekend my dad would wake my sister and me up with the aroma of cooked sausage on the frying pan; the one thing that would get us up from sleeping-in too much. There would be pancakes, bacon, eggs and toast – the works. Every Christmas my mom would decorate the house from top to bottom! Our household contained every colour you could find in a crayon box. My mom would bake delicious goodies and created gorgeous floral arrangements. She would make chocolate lollipops and I indulged. Each night, before going to bed, my family would tell each other ‘I love you’.

For some reason, that all ended shortly after my 13th birthday.


When I was 12 years old, my dad sat my sister and me down and explained that we were moving from Edmonton to Calgary because he was being transferred there for work. I still remember the shock and disbelief I felt. We were to move just days before my 13th birthday.

My sister, who was 10 years old at the time, and I had devised a plan to somehow stay in Edmonton.

We figured that if we could somehow get enough money we could give it to our dad and we could afford to stay in the only place we knew as home. We created a Secret Fund jar out of and old peanut butter jar and put all our allowance in it. We needed more money. My sister and I then took out the construction paper and made holiday/whatever-just-cause-we-can cards. We made cards that said ‘I love you’; cards that said ‘You’re the best’; cards that said ‘Good job’ and the list when on. We charged a quarter for each card and each quarter went to our Secret Fund jar.

A couple of months before we had to move, my sister and I sat our parents down and showed them the money we had saved. All 120-some dollars. We explained to our parents that see! lots of money! Now we don’t have to move! I guess I don’t have to tell you folks that the Secret Fund jar didn’t quite work. In the end, my parents were proud of my sister and me and decided that we should split the money and put it in our savings account.

On August 1, 1995, my family and I took our belongings and left home; but not until I had carved in ‘I was here 1995’ into the wall siding, near the bottom, behind the door.

Leaving Edmonton was emotionally heart-wrenching for me. I vividly remember the drive from the NW down through to south Edmonton. Staring out the car window, looking at all the trees pass by, wondering if things would stay the same. As we were about to leave the Edmonton city limits, my eyes filled up with tears as I stared at downtown Edmonton getting smaller. To this day I still cannot listen to I Will Remember You by Sarah McLachlan – the song that played on the radio as downtown kept shrinking – without crying. I took one last look at the welcoming sign to Edmonton: Welcome to Edmonton – The City of Champions.

Living in Calgary had changed my family. My dad no longer enticed my sister and me out of bed with the aroma of sausage. My mom waited until December 21 to decorate the house and decorate with the bare minimum. There were no more baked goodies. No more floral arrangements or chocolate lollipops. We stopped saying ‘I love you’ before going to bed each night. My sister was no longer the sweet, innocent girl I once knew. I became drawn in, angry, violent, and bitter and had zero friends for the first three months living in Calgary.

Although over time I have grown to not be so bitter, angry, etc. I still miss Edmonton and still consider it my home.

The one thing that kept me partially sane over the years was the hockey that I could watch on television. My family and extended family were hockey fanatics. In the family, you either watched hockey or you played hockey – mom, dad, sister, aunts, uncles, cousins and my grandmother. The Edmonton Oilers were a part of The City of Champions and that is who we cheered for. Living in Calgary and being an Oiler fan has NOT been easy.

Firstly, there is the Battle of Alberta. Edmonton doesn’t like Calgary and Calgary doesn’t like Edmonton. Can you imagine the harassment I got for my team? Insane. Any chance I got, if I saw someone wearing Oiler paraphernalia, I’d try to make friends with them. Now although the Oilers are not the greatest hockey team around since they lost all their great players (Gretzky, Messier, Fuhr, etc.) I have always believed that they are the best and have never in my life cheered any less for them, not even when they were losing 7 games in a row. I do not jump on the bandwagon and I will be a die-hard Oiler fan till the day I die.

When the Edmonton Oilers made it into the Playoffs this season I was so damn happy. They were struggling to gain the eight spot and they managed to pull through and jump over Vancouver to get it. I was determined to not let anything get in my way of me missing a playoff game; even if it meant giving myself food poisoning.

First up, Detriot Red Wings. No one would have thought that the eighth-seeded team could kick out the top team. Even I was afraid.

Next up the San Jose Sharks. At first, Edmonton was down 2-0 in the series. But guess what? The Oilers came back and came back hard. They took the series with winning four games in a row.

After that, the Anaheim Ducks. I had a feeling this was going to be easy considering the regular season statistics. I was right. The Oilers ate the Ducks.

Then it was the big finale. Edmonton vs. Carolina. By this point, I had only one thing on my mind. WIN THE CUP. The Oilers were the true underdogs and had come a long way. The last time they made it this far was back in 1992 and I was ready to relive it in 2006.

The Oilers had a rough start after losing their star goalie, Roli. But, the Oilers fought hard and after proving to the world that they are hard workers and will not go down easy, they managed to tie the series 3-3 after being down 2-0 and 3-1.

Last night was game 7. It was officially the most important hockey game I have watched in my entire life. I was living it and breathing it. As like every other game, I went down to the bar on a popular strip and sat myself down with the same person that has been watching the games with me.

Last night it all came to an end.

I was furious. I cried. I felt an emotion that I had never felt before.

In the last short while, I have never seen so much blue. There are blue Oiler jerseys, blue Oiler caps, blue Oiler car flags and so much more everywhere I went. In the pubs, I have heard more people cheering for the Oilers than I have in years. During last night’s game, there was a loud roar of GO OILERS GO and LETS GO OILERS, LETS GO. It was a constant chant that did not let down, not even with it was certain that the Oilers were not going to win and when it was down to the last 30 seconds. I did not let down either. And even after the last second came and went, the crowd was still cheering GO OILERS GO and I was there, with tears in my eyes, chanting along with everyone else.

And at that point, though crushed beyond repair, I had never in the last 11 years of my life, felt as happy as I was at that moment. My team had come so far and worked so damn hard to even get to a game 7 in THE Stanley Cup final. I couldn’t have asked for anything more.

But the best part of it all? It was the first time in 11 years that I had felt so close to home from so far away and last night, with so many people wearing the team’s colours and screaming the team’s name, it was the truly the happiest moment of my life since living in Calgary.

Mr. Psychic Man

Back however many years ago, possibly three or so, my sister dragged me to a Psychic Fair. What the…? Yes, a Psychic Fair.

My sister is a huge believer in psychics and magic stones and potions and tarot cards and all that errr “interesting” stuff. I’m not quite sure if she is still practicing her tarot skills and such, but I know she still sleeps with these weird stones under her pillow. Personally, I don’t buy any of that stuff and after seeing a psychic myself, I firmly do not believe in the magic of it all.

At the time of this Psychic Fair, I had been a couple months into the relationship with Chad but still frequently thought of Jason #2 (circa after break-up #1). Also, during this time, my sister had wanted me to go to Greece with her for a two week trip before I became employed full-time after finishing post-secondary. My thoughts surrounding these events were: Am I going to be able to “move on” and get over Dipshit (his given name before he upgraded to the current Fucktard)? Will this new guy screw me over like the rest (Hah. I know, I’m a pessimist)? Do I really want to get on a plane and risk losing my life because ohmygod screw physics! should something that large be in mid-air (no, really. should it?!)?!

My sister had decided to go for the full-out reading, which had the asking price of well over $100. Being the sceptic that I am, I only forked out approximately $60-80 which was the mid-range asking price.

During the session, the psychic recorded on cassette the half hour session for me and the hour session for my sister.

The following two points are only a couple of reasons why I don’t believe in psychics:

1. Said psychic told my sister that within the year she would fall in love and be pregnant out of wedlock. Please excuse me while I piss myself from laughing.



Okay. I’m okay. Allow me to explain why this was not only funny but also so not true. My sister doesn’t quite want to fall in love. Back many years ago her heart was broken by the one guy she loved. Since then… Well, let me put it this way. Up here in Canada, there is a statistic, of some sort, regarding the average number of sex partners that a person has. I believe the number is seven. My sister proudly admits that she has surpassed that. By a lot. I mean, A LOT. Just yesterday she told me that she has started going through the alphabet. “Lets see… I’ve got A, B, C, E, F, M, N… Gotta find an O… I have T…” And she went on and on from there. Oh, and she has not become pregnant.

2. For me, the psychic said that I had been battling my emotions between two men. That part was true. But then the psychic took a wrong turn at, “The man you are with now will be the one for you and you can trust him. He will make a mistake, but only once, and from that point he will never harm you again.”

Oh, Psychic Man, you are SOOO funny! Psychic Man apparently failed to read the memo on how Asswipe screwed me over.


Now, I gotta admit. Psychic Man was right on one thing. During my reading he mentioned that he saw “travelling” for me. I was stunned by this because, as mentioned earlier, my sister and I were thinking of going to Greece (well, my sister was thinking about it, I was dreading it). Then Mr. Psychic Man had to open his big mouth and mention, “I am getting the feeling from my sources (his what?!) that you are uncertain of this trip I’m envisioning (envisi-what?!) and that this trip will not occur.”

At that moment, my eyes darted toward my sister and the look she gave me… It was worse than a glare… worse than If Looks Could Kill… it was like, “DIE EVIL SISTER OF MINE, DIIIEEEEE.”


Funny. To this day I still don’t think she has forgiven me for emitting magical rays to the psychics “sources” about how leery I was about the trip.

Best Friends

As per Dawn’s question, to my post regarding losing my fingernail, I shall relive my years growing up with all the best friends that have come and gone.

There are some people in this world that have been fortunate enough to keep the same best friends from their youth all the way into adulthood and maybe into their senior years. Others, like me, have gone through best friends like a person would with socks. Okay, not quite, but you get the point.

Ah yes! Kindergarten. I remember my first best friend ever was a friendly girl named Nadia. She and I were inseparable, from playing in the class to playing in the playground during recess. We only got into an argument once and it only lasted a couple hours; to be honest, I don’t even recall what the argument was about. That friendship only lasted a year because my family and I moved to a different area of Edmonton and I had begun a new school.

In grade 1 I quickly became friends with a lovely boy named Michael. He would also be my first “boyfriend”. We were like “peas and carrots” or so Forrest Gump would say. For some reason, Michael was a bit of a bully so none of the children liked him a whole lot, but he was always wonderful to me. We went through a short period where we were slightly upset with each other. It started because I became friends with another boy named Brandon who lived in the same townhouse complex as me. Once Michael got over it, he and I got married in a snow castle in winter. In fact, I still have the ring he gave me – a beautiful, heart-shaped, plastic pink ring. That marriage lasted 3 years. The only reason it ended was because his parents got divorced, his mom re-married a Hulk Hogan look-a-like and he got sent away with his dad. A couple of years ago I heard that Michael became a Gap model for their commercials.

Then there was Anna. I can’t quite remember how long we were best friends, but I’m thinking it was around four years. We did everything together and even buried a time capsule to open when we were 20-something. That friendship ended a few months after I moved to Calgary. Back in the day before email, we wrote each other quite often until one day she stopped responding. Eh, oh well.

Hah. Then there was Veronica. We were best friends for about a year or so. Then came grade 7 and she went all Commando Bitch.

Hrmm… then there was Brianna. Best friends for about a year. Until I snapped out of it and realized that I no longer liked getting in trouble with the law and ditched her as a friend. Definitely a smart decision on my part.

Then, there was Celine – the friend that caused me to lose a fingernail. She and I were best friends like there were no other. We were all, woooh yah! bbf 4 evah! We did everything together and were stuck like glue. You know those high school girls that you see wearing the same thing or had matching bags? Yeah, that was us. (Please note: Yeah, I am totally ashamed of it now.) She and I were best friends until mid-grade 12, then the falling out. It all started when Celine, and another friend of ours, did not like how I kept “stealing” all the guys that they liked. First of all, it’s not “stealing” when the guys were the ones asking me out. Cannot be helped! Well, I guess the breaking point for them (after “stealing” Trevor (aka hot punk rocker with mohawk); Scott (aka Scottie the Hottie); and some other guy who’s name I can’t remember (aka guy I can’t remember) )was when I started dating Jason #1. Looking back on it, I should have let them have him because MY GOD that would have saved me the trouble of “Jason’s”. Anyway, Celine and other friend decided to go around and spread the rumour that I was a slut (HAHAHAHA. Honestly? So far off.) and that I was psychotic. Teehee. Okay, maybe I could see the latter. Once I found out about this rumour, I said, “Fuck off” and that was the end of it between Celine and me.

As of today, I have managed to keep three best friends that I love dearly, two of which have been my longest friendships to date.

There is Miranda (aka Whitey). She and I were friends in grade 9 through to grade 12. As of right now, she is one of the two friends I have maintained since high school. She and I both find it fascinating that we managed to stay best friends, especially considering we weren’t very close in high school and our personalities can clash quite a bit.

Then there is Derek. I have been best friends with this guy for four years now. He is like the brother I never had and he has always been there for me when I needed him. I, without a doubt, could not ask for a better friend than him.

Or could I? Because my all-time bestest friend in the whoooole wide world is Jamie. Not only do we have quite a history together (nearly 6 years of history) but we even have quite a story to tell on how we became friends. He means the universe to me and I would be completely lost without him. He is the first person I go to when I’m upset or happy and when I’m angry he’s the first person I’ll go to punch (yes punch, but at least it’s mutual – I’m there when he needs someone to punch).

And so that ends my insane list of best friends throughout the years. Best friends that I wish I could have kept in touch with would be Michael and Anna, and I certainly hope that I will maintain my friendship with Whitey, Derek and Jamie.

Left Hand, Ring Finger

When I was in grade 10, a young 15 year old back in the day about 8 years ago, I lost a fingernail.

Classes were ending for the day and my best friend, at the time, was standing by my locker. She returned a magazine to me (I believe it was a rock magazine of some sort, Circus perhaps) but rather than handing the magazine to me, she quickly stashed it in my locker just as I had opened it and closed the locker just as quickly. Not knowing why the hell she did this I opened up my locker again only to have her close it again.

Me: What the hell? What did you do to my magazine?!
Her: NOTHING! Nothing at all…
Her: *the look of, “ohmygod, I am a deer caught in headlights”*

We then proceeded to push and pull on the locker door in a battle of strength. There I am prying my locker open with one hand pulling on the door, while my other hand is stationed at the base of the locker. My friend had a death grip with her palms pressed against the front of the locker pushing with all her might.

Before you knew it, with the strength of her pushing and the fact that she had her entire body pressed against the door, I had given up and went to remove my hands from my feeble attempt of holding open my locker.

Instead, I only managed to remove one hand, the right hand trying to open the locker door; my left hand was still partially leaning against the neighbouring locker with just my fingertips slightly over the crease that connects the locker door to, well, the rest of the locker.

The locker door slammed down hard on my ring finger on my left hand. A sound that I still cannot forgot.

I started yelling out obscenities as my friend stood there wide-eyed and in shock.

And I still remember the blackness of the blood that began to fill out beneath my nail. Starting from the cuticle and quickly making its way to the tip.

I cried. I screamed. I panicked.

My finger had begun to swell up twice its size and all that went through my mind was that I will NEVER be able to play guitar again. It was at this point that I feared that I would never be able to live out my Rock Star dream. (Please note that I was in a massive amount of pain, scared and in a MASSIVE amount of pain: I truly believed that if I lost my nail that the tip of my finger would flop around, hence why I would never be able to play guitar again. I completely blame the immense amount of pain that I was in for the simple fact that I did not stop to think that no! this is not the case! There is a BONE in your finger that will prevent it from “flopping” around!)

After my hysterical crying I went to the nurses’ office where they packed me up with ice and a band-aid, and sent me on my way.

The next day my nail started to push upward from my finger due to the tremendous amount of dried up blood that accumulated from the injury. Then “flop”. The tip of my ring finger went limp. It turns out that it was all a lie and that there really wasn’t a bone in my finger to keep it from limping on me.


HAH! Just kidding.


After the dried up blood pushed my nail off, my finger (still intact) was so horrid looking (seriously, there was no nail on my finger! of course it’s gonna look horrid!) that I had to put a band-aid on immediately. I never looked at my finger after that for a few weeks. Whenever the band-aid needed to be changed I got someone else to do it for me and I only started to peak underneath the band-aid when I knew that a new nail was growing in. Thankfully, you don’t feel a thing when a new nail is growing in from scratch.


Update!

Best Friend in grade 10: Somewhere in Calgary, maybe. She and AJ are no longer friends after a falling out in grade 12.

Locker: Still doing fine. I think. Hopefully being put to good use. Like storing school books. Or something.

Circus Rock Magazine: Collecting dust. Deep, deep in the bowels of a closet somewhere.

The Many Band-Aids used: Landfill? I don’t know… it seems fairly reasonable. Oh, unless it is covered in seagull feces. That too is reasonably possible…

AJ: Looking at her fingernails thinking, “When comparing my left ring-finger to my right ring-finger, the left ring-finger is actually shorter in length… damn the bitch that slammed my locker on my finger… I will forever be dubbed a freak.” She is still not living the Rock Star life.

Left Hand, Ring Finger: Livin’ it up as if it were 1999. Doing great and looking good. Still mackin’ male ring-fingers.

Ma, Pa, I'ma Be a Rock Star

As a child growing up, you start to dream of what you want to be when you’re older. Some children will have their mind and hearts set on that one specific goal, while others, like me, will go through phases of what they want to be when they grow up.

I don’t recall the exact order of goals I had of what I wanted to be when I grew up but I do know that, for the rest of my life, I will be haunted by a single cassette that my mom had recorded of me when I was 3… 4… years old?

Mom: AJ, what do you want to do when you grow up?
Me: I want to help mommy wash the dishes!

Ugh. Dreadful. To this day my mom still brings it up and tells me what I smart child I was. Personally? I believe she forced me to say and record it; otherwise, she would ban me from eating. Okay, so maybe that isn’t true… but I still tell my mom that is what she did.

At one point I wanted to be Sherlock Holmes. Don’t ask why because I couldn’t even tell you. I guess I was a freak like that. It must have been the whole sense of mystery and adventure that I was attracted to. But believe me, you, if I ever own a basset hound I am so naming it Watson. In the end, this dream was short lived.

So I moved on to wanting to be a writer. Oh the wild and crazy ideas I had running through my young mind! Unfortunately for me that bubble was busted when my dad, I believe, told me that it’d be nearly impossible for me to achieve such a goal.

Next up, the artist. When I was younger I was a talented artist. I drew and painted like there was no tomorrow. Because of the talent, my parents and school teachers constantly entered me in local, provincial and country wide contests. I had high hopes that one day I’d be a famous artist like Salvador Dali or some other insane version. However, and yet again, that vision was shattered when I was told that artists only become famous after they pass away. Yeah… that wasn’t going to work out for me.

Soon enough I was 13 years old and realized my true calling in life. The life of a Rock Star! Oh yes… a Rock Star. Hardcore Punk Rock, to be exact. I was a rebel on the loose and there was no stopping me. After much begging, I had talked my dad into getting me a bass guitar and we were off to the local guitar store. When explaining to the sales person what I was looking for, he quickly turned away the idea of a bass and offered to show me a selection of guitars. Apparently learning to play bass would have been too difficult and that a 6-string guitar would have been easier. Now by the time I hit 13, I was a shy and meek person (not very hardcore, eh?), failed to stick to my guns regarding a bass and I ended up with an acoustic guitar. It was so not what I was looking for. I mean, if I’ll be playing a guitar, let it at least be an electric!

A year went by and I finally received an electric guitar (the exact one shown in the picture – sexy colour, I know.) as a Christmas present. I believe I may have peed myself from the excitement. I was gonna rock out like no other! Now, I admit, the guitar wasn’t quite the one I wanted, but who am I to complain? It was free! Being it was a Christmas present.

As for my dream guitar… I’m not even kidding when I say that just looking at a picture of it makes me tear up and choke. It’s beautiful… gorgeous and so damn SEXXY. It is, the Gibson Les Paul Standard. I have wanted one for YEARS, but they are so darn expensive. If I could throw at least $2,500 around, I would buy one in a heartbeat.

Now, fast forward 10 years later. I am not a Rock Star, although at times I will pretend to be. Career-wise, I am no where close to what I thought I’d be doing. I still daydream about the day I went to the local guitar store and got a 6-string as opposed to a 4-string. I do not regret playing guitar or owning one instead of a bass. I adore my guitars and would grab them in a second in case of a fire. BUT, I still have a part of me that would love to play bass and still wonders what it’d be like to own one.

WELL NOT NO MORE!@#$&!

As mentioned previously, I splurge on myself a couple of times a year. Well yesterday I made the decision to buy a bass guitar! OHMYGOD!! I couldn’t even explain to you folks right now how ecstatic I am. NO WORDS. No words to explain! I was seriously up till the wee hours playing it. I was so turned on by the sound. I also purchased an amp to go with it, ‘cause God only knows that if I played my bass on my guitar amp… BOOM. All in all, I am 100% pleased with my purchase and couldn’t be happier. Seriously. You cannot tell me that this Ibanez bass guitar doesn’t turn you on too.

"And Your Total Comes To..."

So, like, hi. Apologies in advance, but I’m SO not in the mood.

Yesterday I went on the torturous hunt to find new eyeglasses. Well I found a pair after about an hour of searching and during that time I seriously must have drove my dad insane.

Me: Dad, what do you think? Silver or black?
Pops: *blank stare*
Me: Do these look funny on me?
Pops: *blank stare*
Me: I hate the sides on these… they look funny.
Pops: *blank stare*
Pops: OH! How about these?
Pops: *picks up the most horrid puke green glasses known to man, knowing damn well I HATE the colour green on me*
Me: *blank stare of death*

I finally picked out a pair I liked and went to do the whole prescription-adjusting thing. Once that was done the lady totalled up the final price. Now, before I went looking for eyeglasses, I had an idea how much it was going to cost me – about an arm and a leg. Well, I was off… WAAAAAY off. Let’s put it this way… these sacks of shit I’m wearing cost me not only an arm and a leg, but ALSO my other arm, other leg, every strand of hair on my head, my fingers and toes (yes, including the little piggy’s) and my large intestine right down to the bowls.

I thought I was going to cry.

At that moment, I knew my life would not be the same for the next while.

Good-bye piercings and tattoos! Good-bye fancy, expensive dinners! Good-bye pretty skirts and shorts!

/me cries.

I asked J to guess the total. He estimated it was approximately $250 CAD. I told him to try guessing a FEW hundred dollars above that.

Honestly? This pains me.

Eye Definitely Knew It

So how was my weekend? Let me tell ya!

I cleaned. I cleaned like I never cleaned before. Soon my place will be clean and it’ll be like a miracle! J was so proud of me and I am so proud of me.

But then… it all came crashing down on me like a bag of bricks. I swear I am cursed.

Remember this story? Well, *insert sarcasm* I am just sooooo excited that honestly? I just can’t hide it! Another goddamn, cunt-fuck piece of motherlickin’, shit-ass eyeglasses broke on me. HONESTLY. I did NOT break them on purpose like my dad would claim! So now I’ll have to find and pay for a new pair out of my own pocket money because I used up my eyewear benefits back in September last year. Oh, and the finding a pair process? It is a long and torturous process because I am so damn picky with what I put on my face.

Okay, it’s like this. I was craving a slurpee so I was changing into a hoodie so that I could go to a Seven-11. I was taking my eyeglasses off – not in a rough manner like a psycho freak -when all of a sudden SNAP! The piece that connects the eyeglasses to the head broke off. Here I am, standing in the bedroom, glaring at the two separate pieces thinking to myself, “I’ma kill you. THEN BURN YOU ON A STAKE.” Then I threw the broken pieces onto the bed and sulked all the way to the convenience store.

It was horrible. I couldn’t see a thing.

“Excuse me sir, but is the white-walking man telling us that we are allowed to cross the street?”

Because the mall is closed early on Sundays, I wasn’t able to quickly find a new pair. Knowing that I had to somehow survive till the end of the work day, on Monday, I needed to come up with a solution that doesn’t involve taping my eyewear together so that I looked like an even bigger loser. Then, ta-da!, came Super Glue to the rescue! I managed to glue together the two pieces and so far it’s working. It’s a little wobbly and shaky, but I’m hoping it’ll last till 4:30 p.m. (the time I’m off work). It’s a long shot but if all fails, I’m willing to bring on the clear tape.

Now I’m sure there are people out there thinking to themselves, “Just buy contacts! They’re great!” Well I’m sure you are right, but at this moment I’m not sure if I could handle contacts because my eyes are extremely dry, and my left eye had an issue a few years ago which involved an eye patch like a pirate. Eh, that’s a whole story on its own.