So you wanna be a rockstar

I thought I was going to be sick. I don't know if you've ever had the experience of hearing a 'birthing story', but when I laughed at others telling me that it's horrible, I had no idea. It's horrible. When she was finished, I'd forgotten what it felt like to breathe normally.

I find that new mothers are suddenly very comfortable with the other females in their lives. They can talk about anything, and expect a completely relaxed reaction, coupled with a few 'women only' giggles. Fuck that shit. I wasn't ready. Halfway through the story, my head was trying to cover both its ears with one couch cushion. I had huddled into the corner, afraid to hear the next sequence of events.

And she was always more reserved than me. But she says that goes away (holy shit) after the first couple of hot doctors have stuck their fingers inside of you without a glance. I can't even fathom having my mother in the same room as my naked self.

No, when my time comes, I'm doing it alone. No mother, no husband, no girlfriends. I've always preferred it that way with physical pain. Someone watching you squirm is dreadful. They'll never be able to empathize enough. And when someone asks me about it, I'll be all "it sucks, and I'm glad it's over", and that's it.

Wrapping Up

Hahahah, I love this pic. Like seriously, wtf.

Lots of stuff is going down this week, and I feel like I'm finally getting a grip on some of it. Well, at least enough to spend an enjoyable, stress-free weekend with my hubby in the States. Yes, it's colder than I'd prefer. But all the more reason to buy some cute scarves and hats, right?

Actually, fuck the hats. I still haven't figured out how to wear one and then take it off without messing my hair up completely. Some girls can just flip off the head-carpet and wave their head around, and the hair just instantly falls perfectly into place. Not me. I get hat-hair. I get static. I get 60% of my do escaping my precious ponytail. I might entertain the idea of earmuffs. We'll see.

Gloves don't work either, because I have bad circulation. My fingers get really numb if they're not all together as a family. My tips get their heat from my palms, and if everybody is seperated by fabric, then I have no hope of smoking while driving.

So I'll be cold, is what I'm saying. Luckily, as a smoker, I brave all kinds of weather without complaining, because then the simple solution would be 'go inside'.

Simply can't wait for the Olive Garden.

Desired. And left.

Oh, fuck my life. I don't remember the last time I was in a good mood.

I went to this baby shower yesterday. All of my friends, I'm now beginning to realize, are moving somewhere with their lives - I guess I didn't get the memo.

Anyway, here I was, sitting right beside the guest-of-honour (didn't go near the baby, no thanks), helping her open up the gifts, holding up the gifts, providing the required 'aww' at the 5th pair of jean overalls, mentally counting how many boxes were left, and timing my wine sippage accordingly because nobody bothered to ask if I wanted a refill. 2 hours, 2 hours, later, the last piece of tissue paper was folded, and the last ribbon was placed on the paper plate hat. I was tired of laughing. I didn't care to see any more baby tshirts. Baby Registry is a definite must on the list if my time ever comes.

The veterans of baby showers knew not to sit by the presents - I didn't know this. I thought it was the place to be. But no. By sitting at the food table, one could carry on conversations instead of pretending everything was adorable. Next time (because I assume this is only the first of many baby showers I'll be attending in my lifetime), I'll know better. But I'm glad I was there for her.

Is it bad that I got 'the baby itch' after seeing the merchandise that comes with it? Is it shocking?

In the Meantime

I tried masking my shitty day yesterday by smearing Pur Mineral makeup on my face in the car. Blush. Lipgloss. My hair dried sideways while I was sleeping, and it looked a little early 90's Johnny Depp-ish. Adam reassured me that I didn't look like crap, just smelled a little of vomit. Great.

Where boyfriends are never honest when it comes to my looks, car mechanics are more than generous with the truth. I barely stepped into the shop before the laughter started.

"Rough day?" Gerry snorted.

Actually, yes. I had the worst hangover since the night I met his fiancee.

I don't hate hangovers, as long as they're the really bad kind. If it's just a headache, there's too much time to think about what I regret from the night before. However, if you're puking your guts out and trying to keep water down, surviving is the only thing on your mind. Throwing up feels more purifying. Then comes the sweet, sweet healing nap. My healing naps, both of them, didn't do much for curing the barfing, though. I emptied my stomach every hour, on the hour, until around 7. This includes the mechanic shop. And my car.

The realization that you're not going to die is probably the best feeling in the world. There's always one food that kills the hangover. My first bite of gnocchi cured all thoughts of suicide. I paired this meal with fuzzy pink slippers, Evita, and a bird that happily shared my plate.

There really is nothing better than the post-hangover.

Baby Bumps

I held a baby last night for the first time in 13 years. It was terrifying. He cried and cried the second she put him in my arms. I started to sweat and tense up, which didn't help matters much. He knew I wasn't comfortable, and did his best to make me more so.

Then we locked eyes, and fell in love. Well, I fell in love. He fell asleep.

I tried to conjure up my yearnings about wanting a child 6 years ago. You should have seen how baby crazy I was. Everyone in my office knew. I couldn't wait to get married and start my brood, and have nicknames for them like 'muffin' or 'tater'.

I hate myself for waiting. Waiting allows harsh reality in, and when that happens, it's hard to get back to ignorant bliss. Dr. Phil tried to scare a promiscuous teenby asking her all of the questions one needs to know the answers to before having a baby. How much will it cost in doctor bills? How much does it cost to send a child to school? How much is life insurance? How much will it cost to upgrade your car? How much will your rent go up for an additional bedroom? How much does it cost to feed a whole other person for 18 years? How much of your spare time can you sacrifice? How much are taxes for a house and a family for a year?

Hell yeah, it's scary. I still don't know the answers to these questions, which makes me feel like I'm not ready. It's not fair. I feel ridiculous pressure from society to 'make sure' my life is exactly where I want it before getting married or having a baby. But when the fuck does someone know that?

What happened to the old days, where two people fell in love, and that was that. Boom, a house. Boom, a baby. Boom, a 50th anniversary party. Congratulations. Nobody made you feel like an idiot when you wanted to get married at 21 years old.

Society is stupid. It's less of a deal to have a baby when you're too young than to get married. But a baby out of wedlock is frowned upon. Oh, and then being unmarried and 28 is also not good. Oh, but wait, you can't afford to live on your own, because buying makes more sense than renting.

What gives? Maybe these criticizing hypocrites should write a book so I know what the hell I'm supposed to do. Because I can't keep falling in love with a baby smell and not get hooked on it.

Let it Heal

It's not a good month for me, November. Around this time I start evaluating and over-analyzing my life, dragging my feet into Christmas, and missing the summer like it's a lost love.

Here is what I've figured out about my life so far:

- I'm fat.
- I need better corporate attire.
- Nobody likes me.
- I don't have sufficient energy to fix that by being over-social.
- I'm stuck at my house with a mother I can't leave because otherwise she'll end up on Hoarders.
- My brother is light-years ahead of me on the cool scale.
- My boyfriend will soon realize he's spending all his spare time listening to me whine.
- I'm going to get fired, or worse, people will forget I work here.
- My mind is a mess and I'm too lazy to clean it.
- I've developed a lifestyle that kills anything I could look forward to.
- I'm fucked.

Oh November, leave me be.

Advice for the Freshwoman

I wonder how I let so much time go by with him and not realizing how much of it I'd want back years later. I wish I could have told myself back then that I'd be lying awake some nights with miss. I wish I savored his hands in my hair. I wish I woke up with a smile, because it was another day he was in love with my grumpy morningness. I never cared, back then, that it would end.
Back then, I was in love with someone I don't even think about now. I should write a warning book for college students:

1) Never take any opposite-sex friend for granted. 'Old College Friend' is the best lay 7 years down the road.
2) The boy who you can't live without will be the boy you end up living without. Keep that in mind, and you'll act way cooler than you are right now.
3) If said boy writes you a poem, for goodness sakes, remember it. Get a copy, get it signed, but remember #2.
4) "Everybody wanted to be with you last night. Everybody." means the guy likes you. He is including himself in this statement. Don't think he's asexual just because he has a girlfriend at the time. She'll be old news soon.
5) If said boy has a said girlfriend, and she's petite and blonde and beautiful, sleep with him anyway. He'll cheat on her with some fat cow in a year, end up being single, and you will have lost your chance because now he's tagged as a cheater and is therefore way less attractive.
6) The boy you've always wanted to sleep with will try to sleep with you when he's drunk. Always stay a little more sober than him in order to keep control of the situation. Your first time with him shouldn't be a sloppy mess.
7) Make sure you're available when said boy breaks up with his girlfriend and calls you.
8) Choose the guy who doesn't automatically trade you in for a hotter model any chance he gets.
9) Choose the guy who notices everything you do, who gets jealous, who takes care of you when you throw up, who buys you dinner, who knows what you want, who fills up your gas tank, who makes you laugh milk out of your nose, who gives you daily back massages, and who naturally steps in front of you when you need protection. Grab him. Because otherwise he'll get married to someone else.
10) College bars are not cool. Go somewhere else, and don't drink before class. It just isn't cool.

Truckin' the Heap

So I forgot my phone today, which is the worst, because one of my friends is in labour as we speak, and another is picking me up from work today. Both scenarios require the use of my phone.

I had to ride down the elevator with the CEO of our company. While he is very nice (not un-nice, I should say), he's the most intimidating man I've ever met. "What do you do for me?" he boomed. I'm your Marketing Coordinator, please don't fire me.

I had the biggest anxiety attack of my life that got me sweating through my clothes and making a salad at 3 in the morning. 2 whole apples, handfuls of cashews and a whole carrot later, I'm thinking this diet thing isn't gonna work out for me. Then I ate a tub of hummos.

Finally the decorations are starting to come together, but the list of To-Do's outweigh the list of Did's. This is not good, since this weekend is filled with family and cleaning. No time for me. Never any time.

I'm so stressed that I don't even want to drink anymore. Crazy, right? I'm afraid that if the booze won't help me relax, I've run out of options. And that will be the death of me. So I won't even try. I'll take 20 Marlboro's for 200, Alex.

There are around thirty different people who have asked me for something in the last week. They take, I give, and I'm almost out of whatever it is they think makes me worth it.

My gut is wickedly hanging out of my pants, but I've given up the suck-in. I've graduated to layers.

come home

He hates a lot of things about this world. He doesn't trust, as far as I know. He doesn't depend on, or vent to, or relax with. His eyes look dark and hollow. I can't get through to him. Maybe I never could.
I want to tell him to relax. To greet a brand new day with the genuine hope of it being the best one yet. But for every smile I give, I get an impatient sigh. I waste his time. I'm so far away from where he thinks he is.
He is far. Sometimes I remember the pillow fights we used to have, the way he used to laugh, and I know there's a glimmer of that he still remembers too.
Must see what I can do about that.

Disappeared

Posture is incredibly important when trying on dresses. One needs to do the tummy suck, the invisible heels, the mental vow to lose 10lbs before the event, and the books-on-head, slow-motion twirl in order to see how amazing the dress will look in 'real life'. As if we walk around like that in real life.

I stared at my reflection under fluorescent lights, unwedgie-ing an unsightly panty-line with my middle finger. I looked back at my slumped self, no makeup, greasy hair, sports bra and old lady underwear showing through. My arms got really jiggly since I last stepped into a changeroom. My skin was dry. I haven't shaved my legs in a week. I looked like a crazy woman who found a prom dress in the trash 20 years ago and has refused to take it off since. It was a gross sight, believe me. I'm getting old enough to understand the woman's hatred for dress hunting. It's meant for prom queens and tiny models who live on the verge of starvation. Not for a girl with fat poking out of the armpits of my bra.

I've drifted to unclassy in the last year or so. I've disappeared. I'm not this person. I loved dresses. I loved putting on heels and parading around a hall, spreading whispers of lipstick kisses on various cheeks. I used to be the one people wanted to be around.

I'm afraid this time around I'll end up sitting by myself at a round table with a shawl and 'practical' shoes that show off my fat ankles, and taking pictures of people who are crossing their fingers that I don't post it on Facebook to associate us as friends. It doesn't look promising.