Success! Embarrassment! Mortification! Victory!

Saint Christopher good luck charm

Guess who got her license?! THIS GIRL!!!! I could say that this success was the result of the months of driving practice I put in, but I’m pretty sure it was the 2 hours I spent before the exam frantically googling St. Christopher and where I could purchase one of his pendants to hang on my rear view mirror,  that sealed the deal for me. I fantasied about saying “It’s just you and me now, Chris” immediately before my exam, and him metaphorically hoisting me upon his shoulders while we rode our way to victory together, but instead I called my dad to ask him a few last minute questions about lane changes (because learning the rules of the road is very important before you get your license), and ol’ St. Chris took the backseat.

I thought the most humiliating thing I could do during my road test was fail, but I was so, so wrong. I mean, I did a couple of embarrassing things during the test, like I drove off without releasing my emergency brake (I’d like to blame nerves, but I really am just that forgetful). I parked on someone’s lawn (and I didn’t even realize I had until we were going over my test results). I let out a high pitched “reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeally?!” when the instructor (do you call them instructors? Test Lady?) told me I passed (although, in my defence, I was pretty sure I failed and was just out-of–my-mind excited that I didn’t have to hide any tears or do the walk of shame back into the Ministry of Transportation). All of those examples are the kind of low grade embarrassing experiences I’m used to on a daily basis.

My real “Miranda Moment” came after I’d left the vehicle. Tester Lady, who was very nice (I was hoping for a kindly grandmother figure, but she was a firm but fair type), asked me if I went to the local public high school. Only, I was thinking about how happy I was not to have to tell people that I failed the test, and I missed the first part of her question. I thought she asked if I currently go to the high school (because it’s perfectly reasonable that someone would mistake my 35-year-old, mother-of-2, baby-boosters-in-the-rear-seat-of-my-car, broke ass for a 16 year old, right?!), so I replied, almost condescendingly (because I’m a dick, apparently), “I went to St. Joe’s, but I’m much, much too old for high school.” Tester Lady was like “uh… yeah. I know. My daughter is your age and I was just wondering if you knew her.” I realized then that my G1 license had been attached to her clipboard THE ENTIRE TIME, and OF COURSE she knew how old I was. Mortified, guys. I was mortified.

And then I had another Miranda Moment when I got home. I thought, rather than call my parents and tell them I’d passed the driving test (my dad spent an entire afternoon teaching me to parallel park 2 days before the exam), I’d show up at their house and tell them in person. So I drove, by myself (!), to their place. I was so proud of myself for not getting into an accident on the way, I got all cocky and thought “I’m going to parallel park behind dad’s car right now!” Welllllllllllllllllllllllll, I hit the curb during my attempt. I don’t know why, but I always get stuck trying to straighten out when I’ve hit the sidewalk; I have a mental block when it comes to anything related to how my wheels are turned, particularly in reverse. I’m just a total mess. Normally, my being stuck wouldn’t be a problem because my parents live on a really quiet street and I have a lot of space – and privacy! – to do my thing, except today, for some reason, (payback for poking fun at Jesus all the time?), SOMEONE PULLED UP BEHIND ME. Not just like, behind me, but RIGHT behind me. He obviously thought I was a competent driver and expected me to straighten my car out like a normal person with the adequate amount of space he left for me. Instead, I looked him up and down – because who parks on that street, anyway? – and then pulled out of my parking space, narrowly missing my father’s car. THEN, I thought, “maybe my car is small enough to fit in the driveway behind my mom’s vehicle.” I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that it didn’t. It was while I was backing out of my parents’ driveway when I noticed that the dude who was in the car behind me was WALKING UP TO MY PARENT’S DOOR.

Instead of just cutting and running, like I should have done, I parked down the street in front of the neighbour’s car (waaaay in front of it). I didn’t parallel park this time, BUT I did take two actual literal minutes to straighten out and make sure I was close enough to the curb (WHY DID THEY GIVE ME A LICENSE?!). Let me tell you, two minutes is an eternity when someone is watching you in silent judgement while you are all too aware that your life has become a real life episode of Mr. Bean.

When I finally got up to the house, I immediately started laughing nervously and telling this stranger about what a terrible driver I am. The guy turned to me and said “that was you?!” Not, like, joking or anything. It was worse than when I assumed I could pull off a sweet 16 with the Drive Test lady. Thankfully, I didn’t have a lot of time to process because the stranger and my dad were headed out and I didn’t have to face him for long. I was left to stew in my shame in private. Thank God for small miracles.

And, to wrap this up, thank St. Christopher for my license! We did it, Chrissy! I mean, we probably shouldn’t have, but WE DID IT!!

Stickin’ It To Rude People, Miranda-Style

I am probably the biggest pushover you will ever meet. I hate confrontation. I would rather be  miserable (not just miserable, but, like, fuuuucking miserable), than speak up when I think someone is being rude to me.  I am passive to the point of ridiculousness. For example, if I was at a restaurant, and I knew the waiter PURPOSELY put a pube in my food, I’d probably apologize for not eating it (“Oh, I’m so sorry. The food was delicious, but I’m just not very hungry tonight. I had a big snack before I came”). And then I’d leave a big tip.

Sometimes (most times), I am passive aggressive toward those who have offended me, but I am too much of a pussy for even that, so it looks like I’m just being naieve. Chase and I ordered pizza last night, and when I handed the delivery guy my card to put in his portable debit machine, he took it upon himself to select the 15% tip option. It’s not a big deal, I guess. I am sure drivers get ripped off all the time, and you can’t blame a guy for trying. Except, I kind of do blame him. It’s rude. It’s like saying “I know you’re cheap, and I expect you to be a douche.” I expressed my displeasure … by giving him a 15% tip. I would have given him double that because I am always an insane tipper (I have a weird guilt complex where I think people should be paid extra to deal with me), but I “stiffed him” for his impertinence. Take that, Delivery Man! There’s your 15%!

A few weeks ago, while I was waiting in a shopping centre to meet a friend of mine, a random old Italian lady, who smelled like she hadn’t bathed in years, DEMANDED I give her a dollar for a jar of spaghetti sauce and some pasta. I politely declined, and told her I didn’t need any groceries, but thanks for the offer. She would not take no for an answer, and she was downright hostile about it. After several rude and unsuccessful attempts to pawn this bag of food off on me (and me being too polite to tell her to eff off, but too terrified to buy a smelly bag of food from a crazy person), she told me she needed the money for subway fare. She said she had $2, and she just needed 1 more to buy a ticket. I figured she was lying because the lady was like, at least 70 years old (she could have passed for 90); the senior fare is only $2 (which she already admitted to having). I could have told her I didn’t have any money. I could have given her a dollar just to get her to leave me alone (I had at least 2 loonies in my stroller), but I was so mad, I gave her a $3 subway token instead. Try to buy some non-transit related items with that, you old witch! 

This is how I tell people to screw themselves, you guys – by being nice and giving them money. It’s a terrible strategy! I don’t recommend it.

Guilty Pleasures

So I just watched last week’s episode of Glee, “Guilty Pleasures” (season 4, episode 17). I don’t know what it is about Glee, but I love it despite the fact that every episode leaves me angry, embarrassed for the writers and actors, or underwhelmed (usually all 3). Glee is one of my guilty pleasures.

Anyway, this episode was a letdown. Seriously, Boring-Gay-Guy-with-Brown-Hair, your shameful secrets are that you like Wham and you have a crush on the only attractive member of the Glee cast? Bitch, please! Get in line.
Glee got me thinking about my own guilty pleasures, and I thought it would be fun to share.

 

The LA Beast

I cannot stop watching The LA Beast’s videos. I giggle like a school girl every time he says “one and done” or every time he vomits or talks about going to the hospital. Hilarious!

This guy lived at his parents house well into his late 20s, puked all over his father’s car because he threatened to throw him out, eats competitively for a living, and has some of the most awkward dialog I’ve seen on YouTube. And yet, I’d hit it.

It was this video that did me in:


At the end, when he’s puking over the toilet and saying “fuck, I’m crying, dude,” I thought “that’s a guy I’d like to sleep with.”

This is why I should never be allowed to date again. Thanks for keeping me safe, Chase.

Nikki Minaj’s butt (also, Beez in the Trap)

I am mesmerized by Nikki Minaj’s butt. Like, if she’s onscreen, all I can do is a) stare at her butt, b) hope that they pan out so I can see her butt again, and c) stare at her butt some more. It’s a serious problem.

Oh, and I love Beez in the Trap.

 

Harry/Ron slash fiction

Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. They’re friends. They admit that they actually kind of like like each other. They make love (hopefully when they are of-age so my obsession with this ship seems less creepy). I fangirl as a result. They are so.cute.together!

Siiiigh. I know I’m terrible. I know it. I’m sorry. I can’t help it.

Motivational Speakers

I can sit and watch/listen to motivational speakers all day long. Tony Robbins, Brian Tracy, Zig Ziglar (RIP, you old coot)… There’s no one too cheesy, no one too radical, no one I won’t listen to. I live for this crap.

 

What are your guilty pleasures? I am seriously dying to hear about them. Please comment or write a blog entry or both. Or other.

Ode to My Mullet (or When You Have Nothing Nice to Say, Pretend You Didn’t Notice)

Lindsay suggested I do a retrospective. I thought it would be a nice way to wrap up my birthday week, but all I can think about is the mullet I used to have as a kid (followed by a series of bad perms). I still have a mullet these days; I just wear it on the inside. It’s like the essence of mullet. My hair is long in the front, but I can’t grow out the white trash.

Maybe it’s a bad idea to write about my life when I feel like crap?

Speaking of bad hair, though, I used to date a guy who had a perm (I’m sorry if you’re reading this, guy whose name I won’t mention!). He was a regular fixture at my house before we’d even started dating (in fact, I’m not even sure if he was my boyfriend at the time of this disastrous hairdo). One day while we were hanging out in my parents’ basement, he told me that he was thinking about getting a perm. I don’t remember what I said – probably something noncommittal, maybe even vaguely encouraging. I’ve never been good at giving people honest feedback when I have something negative to say (not to their face, at least). I should have said “WHAT THE EFF ARE YOU THINKING?! DON’T DO IT, YOU BIG GIRL!” because soon after, he showed up at my mom and dad’s, a single curl poking out of his tightly drawn hoodie. I thought “Oh, dear god. No!” and immediately started feeling embarrassed for him. I didn’t know what to do or where to look. What do you say when someone you care about has gotten a stupid hairdo that’s bound to get him beat up at school? I certainly didn’t know, so I did what I’m best at – I denied that the awkward situation existed. I looked everywhere but at his head and pretended I didn’t see the curls. Even when he finally pulled his hood back in this like, awkward and shy “ta-da!” moment, I CONTINUED to pretend that his hair was still straight. I bounced around, looked at the television, and avoided turning my head in his direction until he ASKED me what I thought about his new hairdo. I was like “Perm, what? I didn’t think you got a perm!” Dude went from having stick straight hair to this mop of unruly curls AND I PRETENDED I HADN’T NOTICED. I am so awesome.

Many years later, when another boyfriend (who will also remain nameless) came home with a mohawk (which was infinitely more obnoxious than my ex’s curls and, as a result, slightly more embarrassing), I resisted the urge to ignore it (oh GOD, I wanted to ignore it), and in the end managed to say 2 things: 1) “Oh, Eric” (the name of the friend who shaved his head), and 2) “I like it because YOU like it” (which is basically code for YOU BIG FREAKING ‘TARD! Do you even know who the Dead Kennedys are?!). It’s not that I am against mohawks – there is a certain place and time for them – but that place and time will never come for that particular countrified boyfriend  (sorry, Babe).

Then again, I had a mullet and I volunteered for not one, but SEVERAL perms (spanning many years) in my youth AND now I sport a head of broken-ended hair that a) isn’t suited to my face, and b) never looks brushed, so… glass houses and stones and all that. I’ll shut up.

If You Got a Cat For One Day, Man…

That one day, man, had better be your life, man….

Ooooh Janis. I was watching this news clip of some crazy woman talking about a robbery (or rubbery), which made me think of a cracked out, homeless Janis Joplin, which made me think of this song (specifically the part of the song, about five and a half minutes in, where Janis raps about wanting a cat for 365 days, man, and gives us all a little bit of advice), which reminded me of Lindsay, which made me want to stumble around my apartment moaning in a whiney sing-songy voice, saying things like “I don’t understand why half the world is crying, man. And the other half is still crying, too, man” and “tomorrow never happens, man!” Which is what I’ve been doing for the past hour. Awesome! Wish you were here, mom!

I AM A HILLBILLY GENIUS!!

My back yard is super ghetto. It’s more of a parking lot than a back yard. A gravel one. With a big ol’ broken down white cube truck in the back corner.

Chase, ever the optimist, refuses to believe that our yard is just a parking lot and has been looking for excuses to have a party back there (I suspect he wants to be closer to the BBQ – if he could sleep with that thing, he would). At 11 o’clock last night, we were behind the house making burgers and hanging out on the gravel like hillbillies, discussing why it would be wiser to host our Canada Day party in the park next door (where they have tables and GRASS) instead of the back “yard”. Chase had  set up one of those big yellow work lamps to shine through our bathroom window into the parking lot. I was admiring the way the light was reflecting off of the truck when it hit me; WHITE TRASH DRIVE-IN THEATRE!!

As soon as we catch up on all of our bills, we are totally buying a (very cheap) projector. We’re thinking about doing a Friday night movie shindig every week, complete with pop corn, soft drinks and no-name hotdogs (for that extra honky flair). BYOLC (bring your own lawn chair).

Did I Mention That Chase is a Good Boyfriend?

Ooh good lord, I am tired! Chase has been working the late shift, and I’ve been staying up to spend time with him when he gets home from The Store. It’s nice, but it has been a long week of sleep deprivation, and I am absolutely zonked now.

When my mom, Linz, visited a month or so back, she dumped a bunch of movies on my hard drive, and I have been watching them while I wait for Chase to get home from work (also, while Chase has been watching Battlestar Galactica. I refuse to watch that show because I can’t stand to listen to the characters say “frak” all the time. It grates on my nerves. I understand that it’s the future, and over time, a curse word could morph into something else – shiznit, for example. But frak?! It sounds so fake and ridiculous. I’d settle for “fack”, but “frak” is asking too much of me).

So far, I’ve watched:

  • Eagle vs. Shark
  • Wristcutters: A Love Story (which is my favourite so far, and not just because Patrick Fugit, the only celebrity I would ever consider actually having real live sex with, is in it. Words cannot express how much I adore Patrick Fugit, but the movie was good enough to stand on its own)
  • Lars and the Real Girl (hilarious)
  • Dan In Real Life

Tonight I watched Little Miss Sunshine. I loved it. I knew it was about a weird family, but it wasn’t what I was expecting. Actually, it was a lot better that I had imagined (although, I feel it should have made me want to cry more than it did), and I really liked it.

I blame Little Miss Sunshine (and low blood sugar, and sleep deprivation) for my emotional state not much later on in the evening when I broke down bawling like a baby because I found out that one of my favourite bloggers (who has no idea that I exist, and whose journal I have never ever even commented on) found a lump on her breast . Chase was like, “oh my god, what’s wrong?! are you okay?!!” and I just kept sobbing “You’ll think I’m stupid if I tell you!!” Which is kind of a dumb thing to say, in retrospect, considering his mom died of breast cancer and he knows exactly how sad it is. It’s just weird to get all panic-y and emotional about someone you don’t even know.

Chase didn’t think I was being stupid at all (god bless him!). He just gave me a hug and felt me up a little (for lumps – he was totally checking for lumps).