Fate

I broke up with my boyfriend and I'm getting a new spine. Shit. Life is crazy. I mean, it's crazy how things work out.

First of all, the spine thing. I have a scoliosis. A pretty bad one. Not the worst ever, but bad enough that I am thrilled and completely elated about the possibility of getting it corrected. I have been in contact with a great doctor in Orlando who specializes in scoliosis correction. I am going down in one week for 14 days of intensive care. I have my flights booked, my vacation property reserved (private pool, king size bed, oh yeaaah), and have paid my deposit for this pricey two weeks of corrective care. The whole thing is surreal. I think I might have a bit of an identity crisis. I mean, this is the body that I have known for my whole life. Now everything is going to change. Exciting. Terrifying. Life changing.

Second, the boyfriend thing. Apparently my crazy magnet has not been removed. I thought I was rid of it, as this seemed to be the real thing. But nope. Not quite. Pretty disappointed, pretty sad, but also kind of relieved. It's exhausting worrying about someone else all the time. And it's absolutely torture feeling like you're the only one invested in a relationship. All the exhaustion and emotional turmoil was not only making me irritated and upset, but also sick. Physically. It's crazy how your body physically responds to something stressful. Not a healthy situation. So enough of the crazy, on to good changes and an exciting new direction. Maybe I will ask Dr. Nalda if he can remove my crazy magnet as part of my treatment. I mean it can't be that hard, just a minor surgical procedure. Get that thing outta me... no more crazy.

Anyways, I'm planning on blogging my entire trip. It's going to be quite an adventure. Especially if I meet a hot American husband on the plane. Now wouldn't that be fate? A new spine and a husband all in one trip.

Sayonara, Scoliosis.

Thankful

After another delicious family feast, I am left feeling the need to write.  Plus, it's been over a month, and I am getting harassed by my followers (ie. ONE follower - my brother) to blog.  So, here I am.  With a full tummy, kind of a heavy heart (I'll explain why later), and a brain full of blog ideas bouncing around, I am lying on the floor with my laptop watching Dancing With The Stars.  Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.  

These family gathering always get me thinking: Where the F*#$ did I come from?  I really wonder.  How do I fit in with this family?  Did I come from the milkman?  Here is a little family tree breakdown as an explanation:

Specimen A: Papa G

Civil Engineer, Masters Degree, Ironman, hard-working, dedicated, non-emotional, introverted, traditional, conservative, kind of a nerd.

Specimen B: Mumma J

Community Health Nurse for ten years, incredible stay-at-home mom, now a coordinator at a Fine Arts school, loving, caring, would do anything for anyone.

Specimen C: Brother D

Typical middle child, smart, but vulgar, sarcastic, a bit of a womanizer, kind of an asshole and absolutely nothing like me.

Specimen D: Brother A

Typical youngest child, the life of the party, hilarious, witty, smart, also a bit of a womanizer, less of an asshole, but still nothing like me. 

{note: both Brother D and A also work at nightclubs, shoot stuff, and eat raw meat for breakfast, lunch and dinner.}

Other dinner guests tonight:

-Steve: family friend, the sweetest, most stylish, delicious man I know.  If only he liked girls.  We'd have adorable babies.  Just sayin'.

-Ellen: childhood friend from Grade 2, incredibly intelligent, beautiful, amazing, one of the best friends a girl could ask for.

-Mark: grew up with the boys, pretty much similar to them, just slightly more PG, less R-rated.

-Xander: another friend of Brother A's, there's still hope for him.  He seems sweet enough, here's hoping the boys don't totally corrupt him before his 21st birthday.

And then there's me, Specimen E.  I'm kind of the odd ball.  Always have been, always will be.  With extreme views about healthcare, with passionate opinions about relationships, with values and convictions strongly rooted in respect and loyalty, I often find myself feeling a little left out in these heated (wine-induced) conversations. 

Quite the recipe for an interesting dinner, wouldn't you say?  Thank God Ellen was there.  At least I had one person in my corner!  

Which brings me to the part about a heavy heart.  The person that I really wanted to be there tonight couldn't make it.  I could have had another person in my corner.  And the one person that matters a lot to me.  Kinda bummed, but I'll get over it.  That's another blog post entirely.  

Anyways, I guess this is my point for this Thanksgiving Monday night:  family is family.  It doesn't matter how big of an asshole Brother D is, he's still my brother.  When it comes right down to it, I know that they would do anything for me.  I know that when shit hits the fan, when things fall apart, or when there is a real problem, we all come together, we all support each other, and there is nothing that we can't get through together.  I guess maybe the sum of our family combined is stronger and greater than its individual parts.  I guess that's just what family is.

My Ovaries Ache

Yes, you read right. I said it. My ovaries ache.

Translation: I want babies. Don't tell people; this is not something to be excited about. This is causing turmoil in my life. And no, Wild does not know that I have baby fever. Way to make a new boyfriend immediately vanish. I'm good enough at that as it is. Hah. But he can't be oblivious... I mean, he must see how I instantly fixate on any child within a 10 meter radius of us, how all I talk about is my best friends new little baby who I can't get enough of, and how I literally attract them. I swear, I am a baby magnet. They flock to me. It's like I'm a much hotter version of Dora the Explorer. Or Barney. Justin Bieber? Or something. Nevermind, bad analogy. You get the point.

But anyways... back to the turmoil part. My biological clock is ticking. The ticking is interfering with my other clocks, and all this noice is getting irritating. And quite honestly, it's making me a crazy person. I have never really even believed in the whole biological clock thing. I always just thought it was a funny term that women used when they were getting tired of being in a relationship lacking commitment, or in another unsettling place in life.

Well, after a little research (very reputable sources: Wikipedia, etc.), I have confirmed that there IS in fact such a thing as a biological clock. In fact, all human beings, plants and animals have an internal clock that tells us when to eat, sleep, wake up... the list goes on. So it only makes sense that I have two monstrous clocks taking over my ovaries and wreacking havock on my emotions. Seriously people, I'm only 26, what's my problem?

I hate to have timelines. I feel like we all put so much pressure on ourselves to get things done by a certain time, to have this many credentials, to make this much money, to have this promotion by this time.... like really, we all need to chill the f*ck out and enjoy life. I have never been one to put timelines on the progression of my own life. I will get married when I will get married. I will have kids when I have kids. Putting a date on those events is lame. Not fun. And not healthy. Yet, here I am, having infant urges.

I think this will pass, though. It's just a phase. And realistically, I am in no position to have a baby right now (my boss would kill me). And really, it's not a bad thing that I am excited about being a mom (in the future), right? It just means that I know what I want for my life. My life work will be my family. I am here to be a sister and a daughter, but I am also here to be an incredible wife and an amazing mother, and I know that will happen sometime. I guess maybe I just get excited about the possibilities.

But for now....

Ovaries, you need to shut the hell up. Seriously. Let's not get in a fight now. I'm going to need you later.

Lifesavers

Girlfriends are the best. When shit hits the fan, when you're down in the dumps, when you feel like a fat, ugly mess, or when you are a complete emotional basket case, there is nothing that cures these symptoms quite like a good giggle with a good girlfriend. It's the small moments and the simple pleasures that make life so amazing. And it's so good to share those with friends. Boyfriends, too, yes. But to be able to sit outside on a warm, breezy Friday night and eat chips and salsa, drink iced chai's and laugh hysterically to the point of embarassment is absolutely priceless (my tummy muscles are going to hurt in the morning - no lie). I don't know if I could do this with a boyfriend. It just wouldn't be the same. And this particular Friday night moment was extra special because of the reminiscing of our numerous past moments of humour together. I don't know what it is, but together, we are like fun magnets. Strange things just always seem to happen to us. It's pretty much the most awesome thing ever.

My girlfriends make me a better person by knowing them.
CS- You are wise beyond your years, your honesty and kindness are immensely admirable. Your warm spirit lights up a room and there has always been something about you that just shines. You radiate goodness. I am lucky to be able to call you my friend.
JD- My rock. You are beautiful inside and out. You walk through life with such strength and grace and you amaze me everyday. I respect you, look up to you and love you so much.
EL- You are such a role model to me. I am so proud of you and am always in awe of all of your accomplishments. You have such a big heart and I am fortunate be a part of your life. I am excited to see you conquer the world. You're a superwoman.

I fall asleep with cheeks that ache from smiling, a tummy that is satisfied with salsa, and a heart so full that it makes me feel like everything is okay in the world. And how good is that?


"They say nothing lasts forever. Dreams change, trends come and go, but friendships never go out of style."
~C.B.

Never Send a Man To Do a Woman's Job

After an emotionally exhausting few days, I find myself left with a terribly negative thought pattern in my head. It's on repeat. It's on full blast... high volume. It's bad.

You're too nice. Such a pushover. Way too accepting. You did something wrong. You've been lied to. You're not good enough. What's wrong with you, anyways???

So after a good little cry on my way home from work in the rain today, I decided it's time for a nice positive uplifting blog post.

Ok, my cry may have been more than "little." It was more like an ugly cry. So ugly that that the guy stopped at the light beside me on Macleod Trail concerningly looked over at me and mouthed the words, "Are you ok?" You know what I'm talking about. Full snot streams out of both nostrils. Horrific looking mascara streaks down the face and neck. And that noise. That awful sobbing/gasping noise where your lungs are furiously trying to inhale enough oxygen and regulate your breathing patterns to get your body out of this extreme state of panic and hyperventilation. Come to think of it, I probably shouldn't have been driving.

But I'm fine. I just need a good cry every once in a while. Once it's out, life is good again.

ANYWAYS... this is supposed to be a positive entry. And it is! I am going to celebrate all the things that I do better than men. Actually no, I am going to celebrate all the things that WOMEN DO BETTER THAN MEN. Hence the beautiful, profound and poetic title of this post.

So aside from being better drivers, living longer, making smarter investments, and being superior communicators (I don't make this shit up, dudes. Its all fact - read the studies), we are also better at much more, maybe less tangible or quantifiable, but still equally as important.

-Worrying
Move over guys, this is our specialty. Maybe it's worrying about whether or not you had enough to eat for lunch, made it to work safely, or are having a good day in general. We have got it covered. And fuck yes, this is a good thing. I am tired of feeling bad about the things that I do well. And damnit, I worry well. And statements like "Don't worry, I'll be fine" are usually indicators to us to worry more, FYI jackass.

-Having The Flu
I think I have mentioned it before, but men are whiney little bitches when they're sick. Seriously, just give us all the sickness there is. The world would be a much better place if only women got sick. We suck it up, suffer in silence, take care of ourselves, and get better. Men sniffle, whine, complain and exaggerate about ailments, that to us, hardly seem worthy of mention.

-Planning
This is something my mom has always warned me of. "Sorry sweetness, you're going to have to plan this one. Don't wait for him to do it." And holy shit, is she right. Trying to plan a vacation, dinner party, or even a movie can literally be like pulling teeth when you are trying to collaborate with your man.

-Getting Shit Done
It's true. Whether it's paying a parking ticket, making reservations, buying groceries, or the dreaded, TALKING ABOUT FEELINGS, leave it to us to get it done. If we left it to them, the world would be a monstrous, uncommunicative mess.

-Caring
Ok, maybe that's a bit harsh. I know that men care. I just don't think they express how they care as well as we do. Or maybe it's how we care, the quality of care that's different.
But I am generalizing both parties. Maybe all women don't care like I do. So I will speak for myself.

I care whole-heartedly and with total and complete abandonment. I care so much that it hurts me sometimes. I care to the point where all I can think about is that other person, what they are doing, how they are, what THEY are feeling, and how I can help them. I pour my heart into caring. I will even care to the point of exhaustion, even when I know it will not be reciprocated, or know I will be hurt.

That is how much I care.

And not selectively. It's not a time sensitive, mood-dependant thing. It's there all the time. It's me.

So rather than feeling inferior, weak, or pathetic for my amazing caring abilities, I'm choosing to love them. And KNOW that they will serve me well.

Besides, I would rather pour my whole heart and soul into something I care about, give every ounce of who I am, love with every fiber or my being and end up completely and utterly heartbroken, trampled, ruined and devastated, than NOT care, NOT try, NOT put in the effort, and look back in regret, wishing that I had.

I think I'm Getting Old

And these are the reasons why:
-I really want a baby. It's creepy. Don't tell anyone.
-I think all the songs on the radio sound exactly the same. And I am particularly tired of people over-using the word 'shorty.' And I didn't know who Justin Bieber was until a couple months ago. How does one not know who the Bieber kid is? Seriously.
-I don't have cable. I frequently find myself watching TED Talks on the internet or reading consumer reports on environmentally friendly cleaning products. WTF?
-I constantly criticize other women's make-up. There is not a day that goes by that I don't want to walk up to someone and yell, "BLEND, woman!"
-I go to bed early. And usually do so drinking tea and reading a novel. Lame.
-My ideal Friday night (or Saturday night, or any other night of the week, for that matter): making dinner and watching movies with a certain special someone.
-I bought cellulite cream the other day. And I just laughed out loud when I typed that sentence.

And the number one reason that I know I am getting old....

I HATE STAMPEDE.

Ok, maybe hate is a strong word. But in my almost ten years of living in this fine city, never have I found myself feeling so bitter toward this annual boot stompin' drunken orgy.

Perhaps it's because I have had a wretched head cold all weekend and while desperately trying to fall asleep, all I can hear are YEEEEHAW's or car horns honking, or glass breaking on the pavement (Oh, the joys of living downtown). Or maybe it's because the annual occurance of this festive event seems to be an instant ticket for young men and women to turn into COMPLETE f*cking sluts. I guarantee it, more marriages are broken up during Stampede than during any other time of the year. What is it about putting on some trashy jean skirt, a cheap cowboy hat and some ugly cowboy boots that turns most girls into complete hussies? And men, why is a plaid shirt and tight jeans enough permission for you to treat women (even more) like garbage?

As I drove home along 17th Ave. tonight, I saw a girl wearing a shirt that read, "IT'S NOT CHEATING, IT'S STAMPEDING."

Great. Way to make a good impression:
"Calling all Dirt Bags! Yes, I am involved in a relationship, but since it's Stampede, and I will be completely inebriated all week and will lose all sense of judgment, I am hoping to destroy my current relationship by partaking in random sexual acts with complete strangers. I'm not too picky, I'd be down with an STD or two. In fact, I'd be ok with more than one guy too... The more, the merrier."

Yes, maybe I am reading a little too much into this, but come on.

Some other classy Stampede shirts I have seen so far (and it's what? Day 2 of Stampede?)

- Equally as repulsive as the above mentioned T-shirt, "Ride Hard, Ride Fast, RIDE ME."
- The OH SO ORIGINAL, "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy."
- And the completely lame and stupid, "Cowboy Butts Drive Me Nuts."

Get a life, people.

Whatever, I'm old and bitchy. In my defense, I think my bitchyness has been augmented due to the immense pressure in my sinuses. But nonetheless, still a bit of a bitch.

Maybe I will see if I can get a certain special someone to get on his jeans and cowboy hat, and take me for a night out on the Stampede grounds. We'll ingest some poison (in the form of mini-donuts and corndogs), pay way too much for everything, deal with massive amounts of people, horrendous line-ups and screaming children, and then to finish the night off right, maybe hit up Cowboys or my personal favourite, The Roadhouse, to drink our faces off and ruin our relationship by going home with someone else.

Sweet, sounds like a grand time.

Happy Stampede, everyone! I'm sure I'll be over this once I'm feeling better. :)

A Collaborative Effort: Hot Sex For Sandwiches

Happy Canada Day. I am celebrating by drinking Corona's with my brother (Brother #2) while preparing to drive across the province for a family reunion this weekend. Oh, the excitement. After a few Corona's, and a harsh scolding from my brother about neglecting my faithful blog followers, we decided it was necessary to post a collaborative blog. For the record, the title was all him.

A few points we will be covering:
-Market relationships.
-An exchange of goods and services.
-How the dynamics of today's relationships have changed because of feminism.
-And my personal favorite - stretching and reaching.

Can you tell Brother #2 is a Sociology major? He's also a professional womanizer, a bounty hunter, a part time super hero, and an all around smart ass.

Let us elaborate:
Back in the old days, a market relationship was as follows: A man was more capable of killing a sabre tooth tiger with a stick, and a woman was more capable of raising children. Hence the "hot sex for sandwiches" term - a woman gives a man hot sex, he gives her what she needs to make sandwiches. I like to think of it like this - a man provides security and a woman gives him a family. Sounds vulgar and somewhat primitive, but I think Brother #2 has a valid point.

Feminism has changed the success of relationships because it has changed the dynamics, skewed the typical roles and totally f*cked up the polarity scales. Women are totally capable of self sustenance, and other than in extreme scenarios, don't really rely on men for security anymore. Men, on the other hand, have mostly become bonafide subscribers to the weekly issue of VaginaVille (a.k.a. pacification of man). For example, finding a man capable of kicking in the door to a burning building, killing six men with his bare hands, throwing a damsel in distress over his shoulder and heroically carrying her to safety is about as rare as finding that damsel in distress that will let someone take care of her, or for that matter, even needs to be taken care of.

This is an excellent illustration of why successful relationships always have a reacher and a stretcher.
A reacher: someone that is reaching down.
A stretcher: someone that is stretching up.
Ideally, the reacher and stretcher meet half way, and all is good in the world.
You can reach and stretch in different ways though. For example, Brother #2 always feels like he is the stretcher is the looks department in most of his relationships. However, the girls he is with are most likely stretching in other departments.

After another highly intellectual and insightful night with Brother #2, I am left thinking...
Maybe I need to channel my inner damsel. I mean, I'm not going to turn into a complete needy, high-maintenance flake. BUT... I am starting to realize that people need to feel valued for their skills, abilities and strengths. They especially need to feel valued by the person they are with. So I think it's ok for me to let down my walls a bit, to ask for help, to get a certain special someone to fix my car, and drop the "I can do it myself" thing. Besides, being a damsel in distress could be fun sometimes. Might take some getting used to, but here goes nothing.