Only on a Sunday

I teach dance to little girls on Sundays because I like to mix a bit of masochism into my life. That is the only reason I can think of. That, and I love them to death. It's a torturous emotional cycle. Yesterday was our first practice since October. As usual, I had a perfect little lesson plan for my perfect little princesses. Problem is, they're not little princesses.

 

To say they were hyper upon arrival would be like saying Canadian winters are nippy. It's such an understatement that it borders on Blatant Lie. My ears welcomed the echoes of their shrieks because it meant that, for a half moment, there were no actual screams.

"What the-", don't say fuck, don't say fuck, "what the heck is up with you guys today?" I manage to be heard by one.

I look at the parents with a glare that I've perfected this year.

Teaching kids who are hopped up on kinderdrugs is never a good idea. Especially when the parents come to watch me not kill their spawn.

My original plan, since I was fighting a hangover, was to sit in a nice circle for most of the hour and calmly discuss what we did for the holidays. I imagined we'd giggle together and tell stories and maybe the really little ones would fall asleep and then I'd be all 'oh my goodness, look at the time! Class is over!' and there'd be frowny faces but everyone would leave in single file and I'd be merrily on my way to dinner and maybe a glass of wine. I have no idea how my mind still imagines scenarios like this, because there's never been one hint of quiet sitting in my classes, not even as a joke.

You can't fight fire with fire when it comes to hyper kids. I know this. I read about the theory of silent but strong leadership. I get it, and it probably made sense to the philosopher who made it up in his own little mind in his own little quiet room away from anything under the age of 50. Try it though. See how silence works for you in a room full of screaming girls. They'll forget you're even there.

I put on my angry face.I yell out the name of our first dance, along with "LINES!!". I stomp to the laptop and put on the song. My ears were still ringing as I cross my arms and stand like a dance teacher should. With authority. Oh yes, I did.

We can't talk for an hour, but we can certainly dance the FUCK out of 4 songs, and learn one more. Then do it all over again. Then again, because I had NOTHING ELSE planned for today aside from the quiet circle sit which, at this point, is worth a point-and-laugh. I must have checked the clock every two minutes.

When I have kids, I won't have 16 of them.

Snobs on James

If asked to list my interests, the people who've met me would probably put fashion at least in the top 5. I'm just saying. Keep that in mind when you read my latest story:

It was Saturday night. Adam and I had already spent about 24 hours together in bummy clothes, reaping the rewards from a trip to the market earlier that day. I was still hungry though (food would also be listed in my top 5), and we were due for a nice meal.

My Sexy Sweatpants from Aerie - yes, that's what they're called, and yes, they are - and black v-neck T combined to make my outfit of choice for the day. Adam looked oodles better, although he was in the process of growing his mustache for Movember. In short, we looked appropriate for the Hamilton scene.

We walked down the street and saw Ventura's, a Portuguese restaurant. It looked rough around the edges a little bit, perfect for how we were dressed.

We walk in and examine the decor of dusty shipping boats and trinkets from the sea. Cute: blue twinkle lights. Not exactly up to par for our choice of dining, but it would do. The wait staff were nicely dressed.

We waited by the 'Please Wait to be Seated' sign for quite a while until the owner walked up to us.

"We have no room. You can wait by the bar if you want, but there will be a long wait. About an hour. Hour and a half."

It should be noted that right behind him were two empty tables. Actually, the whole place was pretty much empty. There is no restaurant that will make you wait an hour and a half. Or even an hour, for that matter. Not even in New York. It took a few seconds to realize we were being kicked out for our sub-par dress. I was too shocked to argue.

We found a great sushi joint instead, and while eating my Edamame, I started getting angry. Who the hell does he think he is? It's downtown Hamilton, for heaven's sake. Not even downtown. Like, where the druggies live. Prostitutes walk this street. His blessed restaurant was beside a Chinese souvenir shop. It's not like we looked homeless. It's not like we don't know what to wear to a nice restaurant. His place looked dingy. It was what we settled for because we knew we couldn't dine at Acclamation.

I believe it takes more class to serve everybody with the same respect than to do what he did. That was downright new-money of him.

Wish You Were

Every once in a while, I meet a man who smells like the best day of my life, who leans in to smile, and meets my eye with a gaze that could make a girl drop from SKDS (Sudden Knee Disappearing Syndrome). The one on Saturday even knew how to dance.

Maybe it's my bad dating history. Maybe I'm just getting older. Maybe my ovaries have changed their tune. Whatever it is, the idea of dealing with someone without husband potential feels like a waste of time. My Saturday Man will not be interested Sunday morning. He won't make decisions for our best interest. He won't wake up and put someone else's needs ahead of his own. He won't call, and I'll spend the week wondering if it was because I'm too fat. I'll end up chasing down a flat dream, pummeling it to dust, and then hate myself for obsessing over someone who probably never uses my name when he talks to friends.

In a snap, these realities hit me in the face and in one song I have a great, fleeting romance with a great, fleeting guy. Then I go home to the man who will chase me, and have me, for the rest of my life.

Bang Bang

Fall is upon us and all I do in my spare time is fantasize about the amazing new wardrobe I have in store for myself. I'm thinking Camelot Hunting Queen . Furs. Scarves. Leather. Suede. Camel, brown, pea-green and cream. I'm tempted to go for a bit of turquoise to brighten it up, but since I'm assuming everyone will be grabbing at that colour this season, I'll go for something different. Taupe-y pink. We'll have to see. Can't wait.

I'm currently being pursued by a player. I hate using words like 'player' because they sound so dated - like 'girl power' and 'did you watch 90210 last night?' - but I think shallow, fakely-sincere attempts to acquire sex is dated anyway.

Why am I allowing it, you might ask? Why would I waste my time wasting perfectly good sexual innuendo remarks on someone I'll never sleep with? Why would I shake my head at lame offers of intercourse instead of just calling bullshit? Because. It's nice to play the tease and feel no remorse about it at all. Oh, I'm sorry, did you assume I'd sleep with you because I answered your inappropriate questions? Weird, 'cause I didn't assume you'd provide emotional love past the fuck even though you talked like Cassa-fucking-nova. Colour me embarrassed.

For a long time I thought I owed sex to someone if I got him interested in it enough. It was my payment for having a good conversation with a man, that spending time with me was his sacrifice. For a long time, I wasn't good enough to just walk away. Now I don't mind that part at all.

Watch out, shallow fuck-hunters. You'll be sorry.

Lady Gaga

I got there first, and slipped off to the bar to wait.

It is impossible to look sexy at these tables. My booty, legs, breasts and posture are consumed by an enormous chair and an even more enormous table that reaches the middle of my chest. I feel like a five-year-old. Nobody sees me crossing my legs, or my new heels that make me die from the love I have for them. I try to seductively prop my elbow on the table, but it only results in complete coverage of everything below my neck. The waiter asks me what I'd like to have, and I can't even flirt with him. I feel like he expects me to order an orange pop.

"Pint of Keiths, please."

And a high chair.

Tupperware Dreams

Cute Guy, who works on the floor below me, walked into the elevator I'd been riding down.
"Hey." He says. God, he has his lunch in a Tupperware. How cute is he?
"Hello." I say. Totally cool.
"You work on the top floor?"
"Yep." I say, still totally cool.
"That's a nice floor. I like the view."

Here's what I respond with...ready?...
"I like your bathrooms."

Totally not cool. I try to save myself by "they were cleaning the ones upstairs", even though it wasn't completely true. I spent about 20 minutes one day just traveling from floor to floor, getting a better idea of my surroundings. Cute Guy appeared out of nowhere, and I ducked into the bathroom so he wouldn't think I was snooping around.

He smiles at me like I'm special in a bad sort of way, and does the universal move all people make when they're stuck with someone they don't want to be stuck with on the elevator. He looks up above the door.

The floor indicator buttons are not up there.

It might be a while for both of us

I would have eaten my hand if I had to stay at work any longer. Gym just wasn't an option yet. I needed fuel. I needed Pho.
I was starving enough to decide on a solo dining experience. No time to text people, wait for them, and then watch them figure out what they 'felt like' while I try to suck nutrients out of my cheeks.

Thankfully, I found a book in the car. The girliest piece of gum there ever was (complete with makeup and hair tips weaved into the story). I walked in, sat down, grabbed the Help Yourself order sheet, and wrote furiously. Thankfully the place was somewhat empty, and the nice lady came straight away to pick it up. I ordered a beer, and sat back for possibly the longest wait of my life.

Across from my table sat a family of 5. Perfect soccer mom, sporty dad with a scruffy beard, and three blonde little ones under 6. I forgot about my book for a while and watched the baby consistently throw the car keys on the floor. The two older kids asked an array of irrelevant questions, and made up songs to what sounded like a MadLib gone wrong.

What happened? I was supposed to have that life. I'd planned for it ever since I could remember. Not a perfect wedding. Not the dream job. Not even a perfect husband. A family. 5 kids, ideally. Any woes in my life were easily soothed my fantasizing about coming home to a litter of towheads, making Kraft Dinner for lunch, having Taco Tuesdays, inventing cookie recipes, taking pictures at the backyard barbeque (I was still hungry at this point).

But I didn't have that. No, instead I was sitting by myself, drinking a beer, and obsessively checking my phone for texts. Oh, and reading a book that I imagine tasted like cotton candy. Once the food came, my sighs became less frequent.

As the family passed me in mid-bite - and for those who've had Pho, you know how unattractive this looks - the mom stopped in front of my table. I smiled with full cheeks. She smiled back. "You know," she said, "I couldn't stop looking over here. I don't remember the last time I had time to read a book with a drink. By myself. You are literally experiencing my dream dinner." With that, the little girl pulled her out the door.

I wonder if she remembers what it was like on the other side.

Firsts

First prom date: Billybear.
First kiss: My 16th birthday. He's married now.
First amazing kiss: He knows who he is.
First job: I was a chef at a Golf and Country Club. Paid shit, but I had a blast.
First car: Toyota station wagon. Known to my college peeps as The Turtle.
First moved away from your hometown: 3. Mississauga to the Farm.
First grade teacher: Mrs...Ms...Allegro or something.
First ride on an airplane: Jamaica mon!
First date: If I recall correctly it was coffee and a movie. He looked really cute and wore a wooden necklace. I was gonna marry him.
First person to send you flowers: I was a late bloomer for this one - I think it was Adam.
First regret: Losing happiness on purpose.
First 'I Love You': Drunk or sober?

First mistake: I remember 'oiling' up my bike with gasoline from the garage when I was 5.

First attempt to fix a broken relationship: It was the hottest kiss of my life. Bar none.

Hopeless Flirt

27-yr-old female, looking for male 23-40 to start a half-committed, sometimes jealous raging, drunken yet happy relationship. Must be from UK, or have a good fake accent upon request. Interested in everything but Ever Afters.

Needs to be ok with the fact that my hair looks like complete shit. I'm tempted to shave it all off and start fresh. If you would still date me, let me know, cause I'll totally do it.

Must love wine. Must be ok with talking about doing things and never actually getting around to them. Experience with crazy girlfriends having a weight obsession an asset. Broadway musical knowledge preferred but not expected. Strong knowledge of the 'smile and nod' very important.

I'm a smoker, a hypocrite, and have a gym membership somewhere in my wallet. Also, I've worn this shirt for 2 days straight. Including in bed.

Anybody swooning is welcome to give it a try.
Will provide one month guarantee. Drama will commence soon afterward.

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.

Lycra Run Up My leg

I spilled my fibre cereal, milk and all, over my new skirt. The bird wouldn't leave me alone. I forgot to wash out my conditioner. There was a run in my nylons. I was late, and of course, didn't know where I was going, which made me miss an important meeting. The day refused to go my way.

When I have FML mornings like this, it's hard to look at the sunshine and think Beautiful Day. It's hard not to pick up my phone, call the whole thing off, and drown in a wine before 9am. But since that would be a sure sign of alcoholism, and I've vowed not to portray myself in that way too often, I soberly trudged on through. It was crapola day, but I'm glad I didn't give up. There's something to be said for perseverance, right?

While being blue and moody, I decided to pretend everyone else was having a run of bad luck as well. I texted a handful of friends with an inspirational love message, letting them know I was on their side. Just in case they needed a boost the way I did. This way (muahaha) I can feel justified in my crabby disposition. If I can make someone else's day, I should be allowed to wallow in the shabbiness of mine.

And don't roll your eyes. I didn't go home and bake cookies while singing Mary Poppins tunes or anything. I'll have you know I ate lots of chocolate instead.