Dear Cell Phone

I know not whether I want you to ring....
You see... if you don't ring... then the guy who said he would call me is ditching me... and thus I will be pretty hurt...
But for if you do ring, then I have to answer it and make conversation over the phone... which I am terrible at doing with guys I am interested in... and then be filled with regret after making a terrible excuse and hanging up...
so cell phone, I am staring at you... with vomit in my esophagus... and I don't know if I want you to ring
Posted by Smash at 6:19 PM 0 comments

Spicey

Dear reader, I feel I must post a disclaimer
This is so so ..... feminine and a bit of an overshare
I was cooking today... making homemade jalapeno poppers...
so in prep, i was cutting and seeding jalapenos...
and everyone knows after handing these peppers, it is time to wash up, and not touch your eyes... i made the mistake of only washing once and then taking out my contacts one time, and it was painful.
but today i did something much much worse....
i washed up, and went to the bathroom... to change my tampon
not thinking anything of it, i changed, peed, washed, and went back to it...
but then i felt it... the burn...
the capzasin from the pepper oil was.... down there
omg... so much pain, dear reader...
things i have learned: don't let a guy eat mexican before foreplay (yeah right... im celibite), ghonnorhea is likely worse and i have learned a valuable protection lesson

Finally, A Warm Day, and a Pile of Confusion

I love that first warm day of the year, when you head outside and see all the happy people... confused as hell.

Some may see sunshine, some may see smiles, but I see a sea of morons. A Quarter the people are girls in tiny dresses shivvering behind their gigantic sunglasses. A quarter of them are girls in winter coats, sweating, but marching confidently. And the other half are guys in shorts.... as soon as it's slightly warm, all the guys put on their shorts. I guess it's so they can avoid washing their pants... that or they prefer to feel freeeee

What's In a Name?

Unfortunately, more than you think
I met a guy at the bar this weekend... seemingly decent. I am not one for bar pickups, but every girl likes to be told "you are beeeauuutiful" even if it is through drunk lips and eyes. Whatever... he had all of the superficial qualities I look for in a potential... but I couldn't get past his name
Alberto

Ah-bayre-toe
I was waiting for him to stop buying drinks and then wash my hair and show me how shiney it could be.
I couldn't imagine calling mumsy and popsicle "yes, I am bringing him home. Al-bayrrrre-toe"
I'm shallow

Nice guys finish last

but nice guys with broad shoulders have a better chance

Parking Lot Wars

Today, for a change, I was cutting it close with time on my way to class.

I sped like a motherfucker, (which for me means going over the speed limit and maybe passing a slow moving truck if I feel confident enough)and made it to the gigantic (and always full) parking lot with hardly minutes to spare. I arrived at the exact same time as another car, dear reader, one with a guy who also seemed to be concerned with his lack of time. The two of us sped around each aisle, skipping one to avoid each other, and narrowly avoiding head on collisions when we ended up in the same aisle. Then I saw what was a glorious being... a glowing "pull through" parking spot... two spots back to back which would allow me to pull all the way through and not have to back out on my way out. With a smug grin I pulled through the first spot, on my way to the second, and then another car came behind me to get take the empty spot which would be behind me. At the same time, dear reader, my nemesis automobile came flying into my pull through space from the other side. I sat there and waved my finger like a female action star at a lame karate scene when the guy tries to kick her in the face. Then I grinned as he backed away and he drove off into the spaceless parking lot. I got you good, you motherfucker.:D

This is what anger feels like

If I open my eyes any wider
I think I’ll go blind with rage
And if I move my mouth any faster
I think missiles will engage
And if I spread my wings any wider
I think my arms will break

So do me this small favor
And tell me I’ve got it made

Not Easily Embarassed

Today... was an embarassment, dear reader.
I have been nutoriously late in the past, so I decided that from now on, I would always be early for my morning classes. So this morning, I got up early and made my way to the first class of the day. On my way there, I saw a guy from my class, who I recognized simply because he was... stunning. Since this class just started a week or so ago, I did not remember the exact room number, but I followed my fellow classmate into the room he was heading toward. We both sat there in awkward silence until he eventually said "Hey... so how do you like this class?" We had a nice conversation that went on for about 7 minutes. This is interesting, dear reader, because even though I am a confident person who can talk to anyone confidently, I definately lack much in my skills of fraternizing with members of the opposite sex whom I find attractive. Feeling reborn, I checked the time on my laptop and noticed it was about 5 minutes into class. I looked at my nameless new friend and said "is this class cancelled?" "I was just going to ask you the same thing." We came up with possibilities for a few minutes such as a bus delay, a room change, a cancellation e-mail neither of us received, but all seemed illogical. Then a girl poked her head in and said "oh, are you guys using this room?" We used our best 'matter of fact' tone and replied that there was a class in here... room 341. The girl became smug in her response, obviously not enjoying the smugness in ours and responded "I am sure there is a class in 341... but this is 343."

My friend and I laughed, called each other morons and began packing up, realizing we would both have to enter our classroom... late... with our coats already off. So instead of being any kind of witty, I put my tail between my legs and headed off to class.

Moral of the story: A desperately single female will always follow a cute boy, even if it is against her and a normal person's better judgement.

Relationship Vows are a Prelude

I promise never to have “love you soooo much, sweetie” in my screen name, nor will I expect you to have it in yours
I promise I will never make you watch a chick flick
I promise I will never ask you to “turn off the game” so we can “talk”
I promise not to get mad if you want to play poker with the guys, unless you start to lose
I promise never to go through your cell phone
I promise not to cry unless I really mean it

I promise that all disgust at pet names, especially “baby” will be sincere, so stick to, “girl,” “babe,” and any nickname you have genuinely given me
I promise not expect you to tell me I am hotter than Angelina Jolie
I promise never to get “too comfortable” and show up for a date in sweats
I promise not to bombard you with phone calls when you are out on your guys’ nights, but you might get some texts telling you how sexy I think you are
I promise never to lie to you
I promise never to say “I love you” unless I mean it, and never expect you to say it unless you mean it

I promise to never fall into a boring routine
I promise never to insist you leave stuffed animals anywhere
I promise never to put stupid girly things on your stuff so you “can always be thinking of me” unless you ask me to
I promise never to ask you if my clothes make me look fat
I promise not to tell everyone how much I hate you every time we have a fight
I promise not to leave subtle song lyric messages like “what goes around comes back around” in my screen names and away messages every time I am upset with you
I promise to always maintain my independence, whether you like it or not
I promise you will never see a tampon, because no level of comfort calls for that
I promise to always gush about you to all of my friends, but pretend like I don’t
I promise never to have picture captions like “I loves me baby” but you should expect at least one instance of me saying “my boyfriend is sooo much hotter than yours”
I promise never to tell you to stop hanging out with someone, no matter how much I hate him or her
I promise to see any movie you choose, or to any bar you choose, because it won’t be fun unless we are both happy
I promise to live through every hardship with you
I promise not to expect you to feel anything you don’t feel in that I won’t force you to cry when your goldfish dies, but if you do, I will wipe your tears
I promise never to fish for compliments
I promise never to get so drunk that I pass out on you and expect you to take me home 2 hours before you were planning on leaving
I promise never to drunk cry and utter words like “you hate me ‘cause I’m fat, and she’s prettier than me”
I promise to sometimes grab your shirt and pull you closer when you kiss me, just to remind you how bad I want you, even when you might think I don’t


Promise me you will call me when you want to talk to me
Promise me you will always reach for my hand in public, and not get mad if I pull away
Promise me you will wait for me to get comfortable
Promise not to pressure me, and understand my insecurities
Promise to always make me feel like I am the most desirable girl to you wherever we go
Promise anything you want to say about me, you will say to me (within reason) so that I don’t have to find out from your friend “Shnookie” that you don’t like my eyeliner
Promise to try to or pretend to like my friends
Promise to listen to my ridiculous complaints and always agree with me over the period that I am still mad
Promise to never use the phrase “PMS” unless you expect to get slapped
Promise to stand beside me when we go places so that I can show you off
Promise to remember that the little things like a kiss on the forehead, or a nice e-mail will always make me smile so much more than the big things
Promise never to lie to me
Promise not to be mad if I have to spend too much time working or studying
Promise not to hold the craziness of my family against me
Promise to always pick me up or at least offer to walk me to my car because I hate walking alone

Promise to never tell me you “have needs”
Promise to give me your umbrella when it rains and pretend it’s because you actually care if my hair gets wet. And if you don’t have one, and my hair gets wet, pretend you like it better that way
Promise not to kiss me in the morning until we have both brushed our teeth
Promise to always be a gentleman, especially in front of my father
Promise to always care just enough about the designers I am interested in, like for instance, recognizing a Louis Vuitton, but pronouncing it wrong
Promise that if I ever want to spend a night in with you watching SNL, you will act like you want to, and have a good time
Promise that when we dance at a bar, it won’t all be ‘grinding’
Promise never to tell me to be quiet if I start screaming in a horror movie
Promise to talk about me just enough to your friends that they will know who I am and even like me
Promise to be subtly cute like when you are on the phone with me, telling someone in the room, “I am on the phone with my girlfriend” just to remind me you still care
Promise to always be my “date” for functions, no matter how terrible they sound
Promise to like my dogs, even when they shed on you and bark at you

Women Have Such Silly Goals

... and one of mine is to lose some weight.
I have failed at this for my entire life, so I decided I needed to find another way. That's when, after much research, I decided to join Weight Watchers. You see, dear reader, I am a vegetarian, and all of these fancy food mailing diets would leave me less than satisfied for more reasons than one. So I decided that the WW point value system was the one for me. So a friend and I suited up, and headed to a WW meeting at the local grocery store... being the Loblawes super centre near my apartment...

I have to tell you, I understand the concept of a support system, however I definitely don't want 30 people holding my hand while I step on a scale.
So within minutes I was sitting in a room of chunky business men, house wives, career women, and grandmothers, all of whom know exactly how many lbs are in my spare tire. It started off well, we applauded some people who had met some goals, and some people shared their stories of trials, tribulations and successes. It felt like AlcAnon. There was a meeting leader at the front, and we all sat around in a circle and shared our stories. Then those who had reached milestones received symbolic stickers, badges and medals which were oddly similar to AlcAnon milestone badges. So then we moved onto the "meeting topic" where the meeting leader shares something with us that is supposed to inspire us all the way to rapid weight loss. I was all smiles until she went on to say "... so you should be there for each other. When you see each other out and about, don't just whisper to your friends how you know that person, say 'Hello, I recognize you from my WW group!'"

Suddenly my palms became so sweaty that I dropped my handy points calculator. WHISPER? HELLO? ISN'T THERE SOME KIND OF A CONFIDENTIALITY AGREEMENT?! What the hell kind of support group shares your diet secrets with people they know? I am now frantic. Luckily there are very few young people in the room, and thus the odds of them whispering to a hottie at the bar that I am involved in a weight loss support group are slim.

Bikini Waxes Hurt

The secret’s out; they really do hurt.
Dear reader, I am sure you have deduced by now that I am less than sexually active, so a regular bikini wax is necessary mostly for cleanliness and to wear a bathing suit. I found a waxer who I actually felt comfortable with, but then she moved away and became out of my reach. So my mother and I asked around, met some people, and got some information and eventually found a spa which we found worthy enough to hire staff to manhandle my cash and prizes. So before my vacation, I shaved my legs and headed to the spa for a good old fashion vagina wax (‘bikini wax’ is one of those terms used to take our minds of how frightening and weird it actually is). The morning before the big day, i made sure to wear my longest sweater, and ensure that any other parts of my body were hairless enough so I seemed as clean as possible.
So we head over to the spa. Dear spa directors: no amount of calming tea, fireplaces, or pretty statues will ever dampen the fact that in a few minutes, molten hot lava will be poured on my private parts and then ripped off along with some of my dna.

So I am introduced to my “personal service provider” and escorted into a tiny room filled with what looked like dental tools, and some bottles of lotion and oils. The said torture chamber was cold, and had a big window with translucent blinds. I guess my service provider (I am not referring to Bell Sympatico Internet, even though it sounds that way) could tell I was threatened by these ‘curtains’ so she assured me no one could see in from the back woods. Then she turned on a few things, cleaned some others, and then said “I will be right back, get yourself ready.” GET YOURSELF READY? WTF DOES THAT MEAN? Suddenly I had warped into an episode of Seinfeld. How do you get ready for a bikini wax? Do you swallow some pain killers? Inject your pelvis with novocaine? Should I take off my pants? Leave them on? Get naked? Lie down? I fumbled through my purse to find my cell phone to phone my mother for advice, but she was in the spa lounge talking to some friends and enjoying a pedicure.

I knew time was a factor so I unbuttoned my top button thinking that this way, when she came back it would look like I was mid-decision and about to get ready. But after 40 solid seconds of pretending to be actively undoing my fly I felt stupid. So I dropped my pants but then immediately felt nude and looked for something to cover up. I looked through every cabinet in the torture chamber until I found a face towel which I instantly wrapped around me. The service provider came back in to find me with my socks pulled up to my knees (as if this provided some coverage) and my sweater down past my waste, which was wrapped in a bleach stained face towel. I could tell she was holding back laughter as she told me to “lie down.” Then she asked me if I wanted some disposable underwear. I don’t know if she thought I was going to pee in my pants, or if she meant so I could avoid getting wax on my own underwear, but I politely declined figuring it was worth sacrificing my Victoria’s Secret panties to wax if it meant holding onto at least a tiny shred of comfort and dignity. So she waxed, and I screamed and flinched despite her asking me to hold still. I’d like to see her hold still as a stick of hot wax was coming toward her vajayjay. Then after she finished she asked me to “look and see if you like it.” Good Lord. Have you ever had to rate your own private parts? I have. As if her trimming me wasn’t humiliating enough, I now had to either be modest and suffer more waxing, or admit that I liked the look of my own poon in order to avoid more torture. I told her it was fab, zipped up, and got the hell out of there.

This World

This world’s a joke

And not a very funny one

Its malicious humour

And I don’t know who’s laughing

But someone must be laughing

Or else what is the purpose

Of the sick practical jokes we live everyday

An extremist might disagree

And could even be correct

Maybe there are no giggles

Just an undetermined lifestyle

In a spinning sphere of randomness

And we are all within it

It could be completely up to us

To live it to the fullest for absolutely no purpose

But to satisfy our own needs

But if there is no ending, then why have our beginning

Dear reader, this poem is referring to my biggest secret. One that I still fear sharing, even with you, and even as an anonymous female

Have You Ever Fallen in Love With Someone you Have Harldy Met?

I have.
His name is Jan. (I know… it’s a girl’s name… his full name is also the same as a wife-beating actor, and believe me, that’s not the only thing I would like to hold against him). Jan and I have the oddest of relationships. We met once, by chance, at a party in the middle of nowhere. We barely spoke at all, but somehow we exchanged e-mail addresses and added each other to msn. As creepy as it was, I felt like I really wanted to talk to him, so I did. Well innocent instant messaging quickly sprung into a full on online love affair.

We told each other everything. The secrets I am telling you here, dear reader, are less involved than the ones I shared with him. Some days when I was down even lower the proverbial “dumps” I would hope to whatever supreme being was in existence that he would be online so he could bring me back to social consciousness.
But sometimes he wanted to call me, or meet up with me in a distant city. I never wanted to. Why, do you ask, dear reader? Probably because I contain estrogen. What was “Jan” but a different colour font in my message window? He had no voice, no face, no breathe. Was he anything more than a flattering auto-response programmed to tell me whatever will make me feel good? Was his immensely dysfunctional lifestyle nothing but a computerized ploy to make me feel like I was saving someone? I actually talked him out of killing himself, I spoke to him to stop his quivering after having a gun to his head and begging for sweet relief, I talked him through rehab, and through family fights. I talked to him through welfare all the way into a steady job and new house and car. I talked him through the pain he experienced when his girlfriend made the decision to abort his child. Was he just a project to me? Was I just an anonymous voice to him? It all seemed that way until he admitted to me how much he needed me. The most powerful words I ever heard from a person were in bright blue Tahoma font on a white screen with a puppy background. He told me that he wouldn’t be alive today if he didn’t have me. Well, dear reader, I don’t know if you have ever experienced that kind of a feeling, but I promise you it moves you in ways you never thought possible.
So to him, I was much more than a type font. I tried so hard to convince myself that I felt the same about him, but something about the layer of my computer screen was comforting and shielding. But to be honest, dear reader, I was borderline in love. He was all I thought about, and all I tried my hardest not to talk about. I would eat my dinner faster so I could run upstairs and make sure I didn’t miss a message from him, and I would specifically think at moments “I can’t wait to tell Jan about this.” We would talk each other to sleep alternating telling bedtime stories to each other, most of them ending in “and then he met this girl online and they fell madly in love.” So at this point, you ask, why didn’t I do it? Why didn’t I go meet him when he came to visit Toronto? He told me he was coming, and believe me, I wanted to see him. But I have to explain. I am a suburban girl with the most “normal” family life. He was the definition of “bad” and “wrong” in the most superficial sense, but deepdown he was the most kind hearted person in the world. I could never explain him to anyone, especially myself. So when he came to Toronto I convinced myself that I had to be in St. Catherines the same weekend and fled off leaving him with a disappointing text message. I felt so terrible, but at the same time, so relieved. And that feeling of relief just lead to deeper guilt which I can barely recover from to this day.

So after the weekend, we had a conversation where he told me about his trip to the city. He had a great time… in fact… he met a girl…. his new girlfriend. I was heartbroken, but we had both had dates and partners as we spoke, as we knew that our relationship didn’t go much farther than our keyboards. But then months passed where we didn’t speak. This happened often when because his job required him to move every few months and sometimes he stayed in hotels with no internet and I would miss him on his internet cafe ventures. So after a few months he surprised me with a real phone call. I barely recognized his voice, but once he said “It’s me, Jan,” I had a full body chill such as I imagine Julia Robert’s tries to portray in all over her crappy movies. I could barely contain my excitement and flat out admitted how happy I was to be speaking to him. That’s when he told me he had to ask me the most important question he ever has. I knew it was big because he had asked me about many life-shattering things in the past. I was nervous, excited, scared, and images and thoughts passed through my mind at a rapid speed. But it all came to an earth shattering halt when he finally asked his question… “How should I propose to my girlfriend?”

It was like a scene in a movie when the protagonist is seemingly standing still while the entire background spins in rapid circles as the character’s face becomes drenched with sweat. I took a breathe deeper than the Atlantic and said “Wow…. let me think about this one.” I told him I would think about it, and then I pretended to want to hear about their developing love life while in my head I was repeatedly uttering “THAT SHOULD BE ME! I SHOULD HAVE BEEN THE ONE HE MET IN TORONTO. THIS SHOULD BE ME!”
So, dear reader, our relationship was a whirlwind wild ride that has been reduced to nothing but these few words formatted into a lame poem:
You have been almost everywhere
But you have never been here
And it might be my fault
In fact I think it is
My shyness held me back
And now you have found yourself
Somebody else
And now I am giving you
All of your advice
When I really don’t want this
New girl to be your wife
But I think that I am just being selfish
I don’t want to marry you
But I love what the two of us share
And I don’t want that to change
Not a single bit
I love you so much
And everything we have
And I know I want more
But if you married, and you are settled down
Where does that leave me?
Can you still have an inappropriate friendship
Where you are completely open
With someone the same gender as your spouse?
And I don’t think that I should be the one
To break up a marriage
This girl might be perfect
And I know you are not perfect
I think I am the only one who knows that you aren’t perfect
And that’s why I am upset
I want to keep knowing everything, and keep telling you everything
I just want to be who I am… and for that never to change
You have been everywhere but here
And I think if you had, things would be different
I just want to see you
But I don’t even trust you
Could you be my friend?
I think you would go farther
And I know all about you
Even about her
So I don’t want to see you
Unless I know it’s different
But it will not be different
Because you have been everywhere but here

Background: Why I am the Anonymous Female

I can definitely fool everyone around me. From a distance, I appear to be the girliest of girls with my flat-ironed hair and bright pink laptop bags. But anyone who knows me knows that my tendencies seem remenisant of those of a 12 year old boy. My favorite things are superheroes and action movies, not to mention my preoccupation with sports. So my friends think I am that quirky girl who remains closed and unemotional, in fact, no one has ever seen me cry. But alas, I will admit it to you, dear reader, I have shed a tear but once or twice. While the occurrence isn’t often, it has happened and it becomes harder and harder to admit with time. So here I am, and here I will admit to you, that beneath my quirky, funny, and level-headed exterior, lies a true female, but I wish to remain anonymous.
How did I reach this point? Where did I come from? Well let me start with my childhood. Don’t worry I will keep it a short as possible. I grew up with two brothers, one older and one younger. The older one was a hockey star so since about age 4 I ate all my meals at the snack bar at a hockey arena. I grew up with the team, being the only girl surrounded by athletic males. This made me who I am: I strive even harder to be feminine, but yet I gave into the ninja turtles, the power rangers, and the sports until I became the platonic friend of a bunch of 20 something guys who call me “l’il sis.” That balance really stuck with me, especially through high-school where I met my first long term boyfriend, and the love of my life…. those being two separate people. My boyfriend was superficially perfect; rich, hot, smart, in a rock band… but he was also the be all end all of lying assholes. Because of that, I never trusted him enough to sleep with him, and thus I wasted many a year of “stupid sex time” with him, leaving me unsatisfied and in my 20’s. The love of my life (not the boyfriend) was simply that. He ended up being one of my best friends, but we always kept each other at a safe distance due to the fact that we both knew what was really going on. I definitely would have given everything to him, but the chance never arose, instead it was just a series of awkward moments and handshakes (followed by cold showers).
My mother is beautiful, and my father is successful. Both of them want me to be just like them. I get calls from my father encouraging me to keep up the good school work, and other calls from my mother making sure I am still getting regular eyebrow and upper-lip waxes (which I have since age 11). So I have become what I call…. average. I am average looking with an average figure. I do average in school, I am averagely clever, and I am average at most skills (unless it’s athletic and then I am just plain terrible). But I still strive to excellence, unless I get too distracted by all the amazing things that have to do with being young.
So here I am, a third year university student striving for law school and career, striving for a good family life, friendship, love and happiness. All the while I keep level-headed with my feet on the ground, until I am alone where I become Anonymously Female.