And now the Van Halen song is in your head too

Remember how I said Mother Nature is taking my simple purchase of a proper coat as a personal challenge? Yeah, that hasn't let up. I think everyone is getting hammered with it. They're calling it an arctic vortex, which sounds pretty doom and gloom. As if we weren't depressed enough about living in darkness and having to wear long underwear everywhere.

I mean, that shit flatters no one.

But with excellent timing, I have planned a trip in a few weeks to Panama. Where it's really warm, I hear.

I'm going with my cohorts from high school, the Four Horsewomen of the Wine-Induced Apocalypse. Except we're losing a Horsewoman, so there's only three, but I'm pretty sure that's enough for a few apocalypses.

We all turn the same age within about a year and a half. When we turned 30, we did something special for each person's birthday. We went on road trips, we went to the spa. I am the last one to celebrate, so my friends were out of ideas and just rented a limo and tried to kill me with liquor.

Speaking of apocalypses.

This time we figured we'd just do one BIG trip, and hopefully the liquor assassination attempts would all be mutual. Originally we thought Costa Rica, which got nixed due to finances, and after a lot of 'reply all' email chains we settled on Panama. Which has spiders, but I'm willing to overlook them if my friends are willing to stand between them and me.

They promised me they were. That's true friendship, folks.

I've traveled a fair bit in the past couple of years but rarely for pure pleasure, and I have suffered through every single bone ass cold January here since moving home from Vancouver over 15 years ago. So a hot weather vacation is due. I even bought a new bathing suit that makes me look like a super hero.

A slightly pudgy super hero, but hollywood is totally ripe for one of those, amirite?

Omg, it's going to be so fun. Sun, sand, booze, water, booze, two recently divorced friends.

What could possibly go wrong?

 

Ex-Boyfriend Greatest Hits: A series in, um, let's say 5 parts

So, not having a lot of blogging mojo lately, I turned to my usual muse: FoN.

"I need a blog subject," I whined. Last time I did this, she suggested the masterpiece (snort) that was Are You Dissin' My Man. This time, she did me one better:

"Why don't you do an old boyfriend review, ala High Fidelity? You're getting married now, so you can reflect."

Well that's just...fucking brilliant! And highly embarrassing. Really, her talents are wasted working for the government. She oughta be in show business, pitching ideas for reality tv.

So I'm going to list them in chronological order and kick off this little project with All The Guys I Dated in High School. FoN suggested amalgamating them all into one, globular Highschool Boyfriend, but while I didn't date any of them for long, and they do tend to blend together sometimes, they all played their specific role. There was:

FIRST BOYFRIEND WHO WAS ALSO EVERYBODY ELSE'S FIRST BOYFRIEND. You know the type - targets girls who are new to the scene and just blanket bombs them all with affection until one takes the bait. And then, when they figure out he's kind of an idiot (usually about 3 weeks), moves on quickly to the next one and professes his undying love on her doorstep. My First Boyfriend was also my best friend's First Boyfriend, and the First Boyfriend of another girl in our circle of friends. After First Boyfriend, there was:

FIRST OLDER BOYFRIEND WHO WASN'T THAT GOOD LOOKING OR INTERESTING EITHER BUT HEY, HE WAS OLDER. Like, 5 years older and able to drink legally. I often wonder how badly my mom had to bite her tongue about this. It took me a lot longer to figure out First Older Boyfriend was also an idiot, because hey! He was older. And had a car and parents who were rarely home. He spent a lot of the time his parents weren't home inviting me over and pressuring me to sleep with him. No, thanks. I'm saving myself for:

REALLY HOT CRUSH WHO FEIGNS INTEREST BUT ONLY WHEN HIS SLUTTY GIRLFRIEND IS UNAVAILABLE, REPEATEDLY BREAKING MY HEART. He had warm brown eyes, long brown hair and looked smokin' in tight jeans and hightop sneakers. Do we need more details? No. I would have given it up for him, but couldn't acquire an appropriate venue (satin sheets covered in rose petals) before his on-again, off-again slut girlfriend came to her senses and stole him back. Crushed, I swore off hot bad boys and set my sights on:

THE NICE NEW GUY AT SCHOOL. Actually, it didn't hurt that he was hot, too. He was 6 feet tall and had hair like CC from Poison. Swoon. But he really was a nice guy. A nice, intelligent, funny, caring guy. So, naturally, I kicked him to the curb. Because this was high school, duh. And I was perplexed by a boyfriend who didn't try to stick his hand down my pants at every awkward opportunity.

(Later, when Nice Guy went into Theatre in university, we all nodded knowingly. Of course! Nobody straight was that nice. But now he's married to a lovely woman, and he became a cop. Whoops. That'll teach us for being stereotyping assholes.)

Somewhere around this point I decided that virginity was an overrated commodity, and to hell with satin sheets and fucking rose petals. So I ended up with:

THE "FIRST" GUY, WINK WINK NUDGE NUDGE KNOWWHATIMEAN. I dated him for about 3 weeks. At the first available opportunity - the back room at a loud house party - I let him get me naked. I think I saw him twice after that. One of those times was like 3 weeks later, when, after not calling me for 2 of those weeks, he came to my house to tell me I was a slut because he'd heard I was making out with some other guy at the drive-in. Which, y'know, was true. But in my defense, two weeks is a LONG time in the high school dating world. I'd assumed he was dead.

With that pesky hymen out of the way, it paved the road for all kinds of dating opportunities.

So of course I stayed single until just before graduation. THAT guy will be the next in this series. When I get around to it.

Birthdays

Five years ago today, all of my friends - even Politika, who lives on the coast - pulled up at my house in a limo. A "well stocked with booze" limo. I had spent the day shopping, I was sporting a new haircut, wearing new clothes. Nice, expensive clothes, without food or snot or tears on them.

(Clothes I no longer fit into)

The limo took us out for an expensive dinner, we dined and drank and laughed. Then it took us to every bar or lounge where we knew the bartender, which was...every bar or lounge. We celebrated and were celebrated, we charmed and acquired people in our limo and had shooters named in our honour. We were freaking rock stars.

We ended up at a club where we danced all night and closed the place down. At one point I pressed my face into the chest of the man who would one day become the father of my child, and moaned drunkenly and melodramatically, "I'm not going to make it!"

I spent the next day in bed, and didn't emerge until 4pm. That legendary evening was hailed thereafter as "The Day My Friends Tried To Kill Me With Alcohol".

Today, this year, I blissfully slept in until the unheard-of hour of 8am. I dozed and listened to the murmur of voices, tiny feet dancing, toddler giggles.

I got out of bed and the three-foot-tall light of my life ran up to me with a small box. He tripped away, laughing, as I opened it. And then the six-foot-tall light of my life, who had followed his son, asked me to marry him.

I said, y'know, I'd think about it.

We had breakfast and I went to the gym. I had a nap. I went out for lunch with my best friend and my favorite short person, then played in the garden for the afternoon. We had a great dinner, a glass of wine.

Birthdays.


(I'm just fucking with you. Of course I said YES. Duh.)

I may even invest in a black leather trenchcoat

I kind of sucked in the HASAY department this week. The week started out really well, but went downhill. I ate out twice (would you like to know how many grams of fat are in a Mile High Mud Pie? No, you wouldn't) and then my son was sick all weekend and up all night so I couldn't make it to the gym. That means I haven't weighed in, which is probably a blessing. I've been running on goldfish crackers and enough caffeine to fell an elephant; I'm guessing it's not pretty.

But! Before it all went south FoN and I did get the opportunity to go to the karate class that we've been meaning to attend. It was actually billed as "Spirit Training", which was a source of great amusement, and we sort of assumed it was going to be a lot of humming. I'm happy to say we were wrong - it was a pretty good workout AND we got to learn how to get ourselves into trouble quite a few of the basic moves.

It was a nice small class and everyone seemed very welcoming and not at all prone to laughing at us. So, in the interest of multi-tasking and doing something to distract ourselves from all this fucking EXERCISING, we're going to try to show up regularly and actually *gasp* learn karate. (This might be a better fit for us than the martial art that Valentina wanted to learn, krav maga, which seems to be less about inclusion and balance and more about kicking your opponent in the throat while he's laying on the ground).

Plus, saying "I know karate" in a stupid Keanu Reeves voice? That NEVER gets old.