28th time around

I was stuffing Tom Yum soup noodles in my face, trying to talk over the mall noise into my cell phone. Of course, a band below me started to play holiday songs, adding to the volume.

"It might get you in the Christmas mood," Adam said, as I voiced my complaints.
"No." Was my simple reply. Isn't Peace the root of this holiday?

My meal was then interrupted again. 20 kids in santa hats lined up around the food court balcony to sing Jingle Bells. It was useless trying to carry on a conversation via phone.

They looked happy, though. And festive. And when they started marching to the tune of 'I Want a Hippopotamus for Xmas', I fell in. The mood, that is. I wasn't alone. Very soon, the food court diners became an audience, started crowding around the railings, trying to take pictures and see the full view (difficult, since we were surrounded by mall ferns).

As I sailed down the escalator, I saw Santa. I saw the little kids in awe of his presence in their mall. A little girl in red-ribboned pigtails was so starstruck she couldn't even walk past him to line up.

I never know when the Christmas spirit will hit me, but I'm glad that the reason is almost always little kids. Maybe they're not all bad.

:)

I have so much to be thankful for this year. There's a lot of joy and creativity and love and stimulation in my life. I hope I can share it as much as I should this holiday season.

Goating and Gloating

I smell like a barn. Not even kidding. 2 people requested a meeting with me and I declined. Because I smell like a freaking barn.

The shirt that I'm wearing today has been worn since Saturday. I drove to Wasaga in it. I cheerleadered in it. I drank in it. I drove back in it. I dined in it. I fed goats and camels and peacocks and monkeys in it (word of advice, don't be too nice to goats. They'll walk all over you). I dined yet again in it. I've spilled soup, coffee, beer, wine, tomato cream sauce, and animal feed on it. This morning I had to wear it to the office because I was too lazy to go home to change last night. Lazy and drinking. Lazy and drinking and wanting to get laid. What.

The good news is, though, I went to the zoo! And I went to Wasaga! And I had a great birthday weekend again! And if doing those things means I have to go to work smelling like a farm stuffed into a warm closet for 3 days, then so be it. Sniff me people - that's the scent of success.

Barefoot on a Barfloor

Things I swore would never happen [again]:

Waltz with an Elvis impersonator. Bond with a baby daddy. Text the wrong Steve. Hang out at a broadway karaoke bar. Have the love of my life, bar none, sing happy birthday to me. Have him also play the song he played for me on our first date. Be the only straight couple on the dance floor. Get hit on by a lesbian. End up kissing her goodbye (it didn't suck actually. I get why you guys like us so much). Dance in barefeet on a barfloor. Salsa to the Spice Girls. Drink too much.

Things I did last night:

See above.

Shmucking

Stef and I are going to try once more to see something worthwhile at the theatre. The last 3 we saw (if I'm not mistaken) were Grown Ups, Valentine's Day, and Nine. Bad, bad choices. It sucks because if we go by ourselves or with someone else, we usually luck out on a good movie.

Tonight we are opting for Dinner With the Shmucks. It's actually supposed to be called Dinner With the Idiots, but the Americanized version had to dilute the language a bit. I'll cross my fingers. Hopefully they win over Grown Ups, the other all-comedian casted movie, because even though it had Kevin James in it (swooooon), I've never been so embarrassed to be in a theatre.

Found a great camera in the house and it's mine. It's all mine. Now I just need to find the cable for the one I used at the wedding last weekend...

Matter of My Psychotic Self

Thousands of bubbles popped around my head and I leaned back to soak in matters of my psychotic self.

I want to go to the zoo today, but nobody wants to take me. Apparently the fact that it's a holiday means the place will be packed. Understandable. I'm not one to wait in line to see an ape scratch itself. However, it's the one thing I haven't done this summer and I need to do it. Someone ask me.

The wedding was fabulous. Small, intimate, and drunk. I danced non-stop until 2 in the morning, made some bad decisions, and didn't trip over anything.

Yesterday's mini party went on for 3 hours at a table set for 4. I watched my dad slowly drink a bottle of wine and I wished that I could help him out with it but thoughts of the night before kept me from wanting any kind of alcohol. I'm pretty sure I napped for most of the meal and was thankful that other people kept the conversation going so I didn't have to contribute. So bad.

I'm having trouble sleeping and eating and that can only mean that something is going on and I'm not looking forward to finding out what it is, but I suppose knowing is better than not knowing when it comes to matters of my psychotic self.

Perfect Things

I'm fighting a whisper-quiet hangover and trying to remember how many cans of Keith's were opened last night.

I painted. I smoked. I ate alot of junk food. I picnicked. I danced. I doubled over in laughter. I stood in the rain with a lottery ticket. I bought $5 sandals. I fell in love at the pet store. I found perfect things at Michaels. I over-hot-pepper-flaked my Thai. I gave up on my hair. I'm pretty sure I drunk texted. I engaged in a game with styrofoam cups. I twirled and ate Twizzlers. I sang along. I tease-flirted. I waved to the crazy woman across from the fire escape. She didn't wave back. I fell for Bradley Cooper. I finally got to hear her voice on my phone.

A friend once said that life's boring without a hobby.

I think a life dependant on a hobby is missing out on true happiness.

One More Night

Every day I promise myself I won't drink and then as it happens an old flame comes to town or a girlfriend requires bonding, or a night out is planned at the last minute with people I haven't seen in a long time, and inevitably I end up with a bar tab of margaritas and wines. Then there's the nights I'm free and to celebrate I relax with a few pints that go perfectly with pizza and companions. Welcome to summer, my liver announces drily.

I'm in need of a huge detox. One with lots of fruits and waters and stillness. No coffee. No cigarettes. No alcoholic nonsense. The spirit of get-togethering is a fun one, but sometimes overstays its welcome, eats all of the food, and leaves hairs clogged in the bathroom drain.

Tonight a concert is on my list of to-do's. It is the opening celebration of a weekend full of laughter and songs and Lithuanian drinking. I feel like I'm going mad.

TGIM

swallowing a handful of Dr.'s
best karaoke number ever ever ever
naughty drunken lips
"solid 6"no, so more like a 9.
hours of sleep i lost
Whiper Words of Wisdom grand reveal
remembering the 90's with people I didn't know then
flowers and hairpins and friends and wines
and my voice through a speaker
and jazz and crab legs all over my fingers
veranda swings
a crumbled loaf of bread
a pool for the kiddies and my aching puppies.
a bandaid and a smile.

Pretty in Show

I'm pro-romance, anti-marriage, so when my old way-back-to-diapers-days friend invited me to her bridal shower, I thought of about 400,000 things I'd rather do. I love her, really, but seriously. Standing around at a girls-only fest, opening presents with the word 'bake' on every box? Is there enough wine in the world? I can't giggle that long without help.

Thankfully, there's a reason she's stayed my old way-back-to-diapers-days friend. She didn't want to be there either. But she got presents and a fiancee, so I told her to shut it and take it -which she did, though we poured each other's glasses regularly.

Loads of stories, laughs, and in-sync eyerolls later, I was drunk. I've been wearing the same clothes for 36 hours (it's been a long 2 days). I was surrounded by pretty things and napkins and date squares and candles, inhaling about 30 different perfumes, and thanking my smart self for ditching the heels for flats at the last minute because teetering on a lawn is impossibly hard to do gracefully. In the end, I had a blast. I can't wait to see her walk down the aisle.

Oh, plus I got to wear a flower wreath. Not the worst thing to do on a Monday.

In the noon

Late night last night. Lay-hayte. Of course, booze was involved. Of course, hangover follows suit. And as with hangovers, they are usually accompanied by a busy day.

Before noon, I managed to pick out baby mama clothes, go birthday shopping, lay mulch around trees, craft myself to pieces, and fix the patio table. All on about 4 hours' sleep. Now my hands smell like manure, I have a cut on my finger, and I'm still effed for any hope of a decent Father's Day gift. Oh, plus I managed to sit my dress-and-thonged ass on a dime that was baking in the sun on the driver's seat of my car. Sweet mother.

Anyhooo *happy blog, happy blog* , well the weather is fantastic. And tonight I get to totally relax, sleep, play video games, sleep, watch TV, and be waited on by a pretty fantastic guy who knows how not to comment on my snacking ability. Did I mention sleep?

Don't Hate Me. I'm Getting the Veggie Plate

A long-awaited question.
I instantly regret.
You hold my tears in one hand
And light your cigarette.

The best thing about boys
Is that they make for good stories
When girls drink together.

And we laugh at ourselves for the foolish things
Our hearts can't stop from rescuing.

Someone around me is always laughing

I gave my heart to four songwriters last night. Just gave it up, completely and without regret. It was that entrancing. The studio was full of people, heavy red and white drapery around the stage, sprinkled with lanterns, the occasional glowing chandelier, and one of every type of sittting furniture you can think of. It was dark, dramatic, romantic, artistic, and uninterruptingly magical. For a few hours, I forgot about any world outside of music.

I wanted louder. I wanted more. I wanted to swallow his voice and savour it inside me. I wanted to press into him and feel the guitar vibrations against my skin. I tried to tell him so when his eyes fell upon mine, but the energy in the room was so thick that we may as well have been trying to have a conversation from opposite sides of New York.

And I thought I had fallen in love, but after the drinks and cigarettes were consumed, I realized that it was the music that had swirled me into an affair. It was the chord that kissed my neck. It was the harmony that stroked the inside of my wrist. It was the silence at the end of a song that whispered in my ear.

Music promised never to break my heart.

Lithuanian House

Yesterday morning found me on Bloor street; sitting in a large hall, at the VIP table, keeping one eye on writing choreography for a new dance, and the other eye on what's going on around me.

What's going on around me, you ask? A dress rehearsal, mere hours before the doors open to the public - so you can imagine the craziness. 8 couples swing dancing on the floor, 6 musicians playing on stage (accordionist included), light and sound setups, a steady stream of greetings from various people that I'm happy to see, and family members randomly strewn about in all aspects of the show. This is what it means to be Lithuanian to me. Sunday mornings can equal total, sparkling chaos if I choose to be a part of it. I can be a choreographer, a graphic designer, a stage manager, a dancer or musician, a lighting director, anything. All I have to do is raise my hand.

This time, though, I didn't. Instead, I had lunch with the guys. Had a beer. Watched the dances. Hugged my grandparents. Found a yellow helium balloon.

Then I proceeded to fail at finding the right way home (of course), and ended up in the middle of downtown. Perfect. So I blasted David Cassidy's 'I Think I Love You' and sang loudly to the traffic jam.

Augusta in May

There's something exceptionally comforting in moments that make you realize how many friends you have. One of the moments happened last night. Wednesday never sleeps on Augusta. You'd swear it was Friday, were it not for the lack of cackling girls walking the streets dressed in Cheap Fcuk garb.

Hamilton is known for its great music scene. There's never a dull night, never an empty patio, and never a quiet moment when the weather hits California Nice. An entire pub-infested street is lined with different genres of song, each performed by band buds I haven't seen in a long time. Consequently, they come with band fans I haven't caught up with in a while, too.

"Last time I saw you your wife was still pregnant!"
"Crazy. My daughter's 2 now! My son is 4!"
"Wait, you have two kids?"

Since I'm still in the process of finding self-happiness, I didn't drink my face off. Drinking masks hurt temporarily, but the pain is back the next morning along with a familiar hangover. No, the best way to go about getting my real smile back is to do things one step at a time, but permanently. When I feel sparkly-good, I know it's because I really am, and not because I paid $5.65 for it. I'm not into emotions on a per-pint basis. Thanks to a list of people who are genuinely happy to see me, who have a knack for making me laugh, I feel more optimistic about journeying to my goal before I die.

This morning hurts a little, though, I won't lie. A tick of sadness hits me sometimes, like walking into fog, and just as unavoidable. I take a few minutes with the Blue; not forcing it out of my mind, but accepting that currently, it's a part of me. By accepting the sadness, giving it permission to affect me, I feel more in control. I can then kick it out of my mind after the wave passes, sans guilt.

I suggest you try seeing some live bands this summer. Drinking isn't drinking unless you sing along.