Hot People Just Look Away

So, I've been pretty busy with my last few days of work (It's my last week! As of tomorrow I will be, for the first time, legitimately unemployed)...so I've let the exercise slip a bit. Also, I like to do it outside, and it's effing cold out, which has made even the outdoor WINTER sports unbearable.

One of the INDOOR exercises I've taken up this year is something called Zumba - I think it's supposed fuse Latin rhythms with easy-to-follow steps so working out can FINALLY be fun. And for a long time, I thought it was fun. I thought it was fun because I was in a big room with a bunch of forty-ish women who weren't really that fit (you know...the one I'll be when I'm forty-ish) and had little to no sense of rhythm and couldn't really follow along with the steps (in their defense, the instructor is pretty terrible at calling out the steps ahead of time, but still...). I had rhythm, and my hips were shaking...I thought I looked like a hot mama...especially in comparison to the forty-ish crowd.

But last week, my Zumba class was moved to a smaller facility. Not only was I hampered by the fact that someone with no rhythm (and therefore no way for me to predict whether their next step was going to be on my toes) could bump into me at any time, but there were also two large plate-glass windows at the front of the room. They were surprisingly reflective. This allowed me to see exactly what I looked like in my work-out gear, shaking my hips and trying to keep up with the delayed step calls. Hot it was not. To call it spicy would be laughable. After that, I spent more time worrying about how I looked than actually getting a great workout and having fun. Zumba was ruined by a window.

But that's not the only time I realized that I'm not so graceful when I'm being active. My uncle and cousin and I went ziplining for my birthday (btw, this is SO fun. Do it. Go out and do it now. Stop reading! [ok, don't actually stop reading...]). It was like flying - you're suspended over the tops of trees by a piece of cable. Birds look graceful when they're flying...why shouldn't I?
This looks pretty epic, doesn't it? Upon closer examination, though, THIS is what was happening:


















Is that a sweater around my waist? A particularly wide belt? Is there some kind of canvas netting in the harness? Please for the love of GOD explain this picture!!!

Nope. That's my midriff. It's hanging out like a pre-teen at recess.

ALL of the up-close pictures are like this....feet ungracefully flexed and belly-button out to wink at everyone. Fan-effing-tastic.

And this made me think of all the things I really enjoy doing for exercise...and then it made me curious about how I looked doing them. Apparently, I look reasonably ok doing the "light" setting for DDR:


(Yes, that is the world's fattest cat, of World Weekly News fame. She lives in my house)

But increase the difficulty, and you stop being able to tell that the thing I'm dancing to has a beat.



It's especially attractive that I'm continually adjusting my bra straps. If only this habit were limited to vigorous exercise...alas...

Pilates is just as bad (if not worse). Observe:





My favourite part of that is the extreme panting at the end. I am out of breath due to the exertion of a single sit-up.

So, I think it's obvious that exercise has got to be a major part of Plan Ab-tastic. Otherwise, I'd have to starve myself such that the fat surrounding my current abs dissolves...and I have a wealth of theoretical knowledge explaining to me why THAT's a bad idea. But the glimpse I caught of myself in the plate-glass window has me worried...what if all those times I danced like nobody was watching, somebody actually was watching? I don't want to be some stiff-hipped girl with her midriff hanging out!

I need brain-bleach. Stat.

Photography and Cinematography courtesy of my 13-year-old cousin.

Hot People Are Impervious to Diversions

Ok - Plan Ab-tastic is not going well so far.

The plan involves a two-pronged attack. The first prong is to be unapproachably attractive. I am not faring well on this score. Perhaps because I am less interested in boys of all shapes and sizes (I prefer now to focus only on boys of SOME shapes and sizes...), I find myself more attuned to the things that I do not enjoy about my physical appearance. I know I've complained about my complete and utter corpulence in the past, but the saga continues. I've also noticed that my face looks as though it belongs to the greasy boy from your grade 7 gym class...you know the one...he sort of lurked in the corner and ALWAYS dropped the basketball at crucial moments. It's kind of peeling AND acne-covered. SO fetch.

Also, there's my teeth, which I've noticed more and more of late. Let me tell you another hilarious story of my youth. Once upon a time, when I was seven, my family and I were driving home from the our friends' house in the early evening as the moon was rising. You know how the moon looks extra-huge as it's coming up? Well, we thought we wanted to make that magic last as long as possible. As such, my mother suggested we abstain from turning the lights on when we got home and instead go directly to the kitchen (which was on the moonward side of the house) to watch it continue rising.

Until I was in my early twenties, my Dad kept fish. For as long as I can remember, there has been some kind of fishtank in my house. For much of my young life, there was a gigantic fishtank in the front hall. As you may recall, fishtanks are made of glass, and are therefore more or less invisible in the dark. As you likely won't recall, the gigantic one in my house stood at about mouth height on a seven-year-old. And on that particular night, when all the lights were off, and I was (a little strangely) excited to see the moon rise from the back of our house, I ran directly into that fishtank, mouth-first. The direct result of this was that I broke my front tooth in half. And as if my front tooth had not suffered enough violence, it was broken again the following summer when my brother hit me in the mouth with a paddle. Because I was singing too much, or something.

As a result, one of my front teeth is made mainly out of amalgam. To my extreme dismay, almalgam stains easily and is impervious to the work of all whitening toothpastes, as well as the bleaching power of any white strip I've tried. In conclusion, it is at least two shades darker than the rest of my teeth. It makes me not want to smile, especially for photographs, and as the Little Orphan Annie taught me in that seminal musical starring Carol Burnett, you're never fully dressed without that. Lord knows, there have to be SOME photographs of me where I'm not in SOME state of semi-undress...so I'd like to fix my smile.

I feel as though ALL of my problems would be solved with the proactiv solution and Zoom whitening. Unfortunately, both of those things cost oodles of cash, and frankly, my Visa situation is more dire than the last time I mentioned it. Therefore, I will soon commence scouring the internet for home whitening and acne removal solutions. This will definitely not be a recipe for disaster.

Prong two of Plan Ab-tastic is to divert my attention away from boys. Because they ALWAYS make me sad. Always.

I've tried to do this by distracting myself with other things. One such potential distraction was also an on-the-fly attempt to inject some culture into my life; I got rush tickets to the Nutcracker ballet (could I just say, at this point, that $11 rush tickets are a perk of being a student that I will sorely miss once my current student card expires. SORELY). The Nutcracker is a holiday favourite, with music that is beautiful AND familiar, a story that is a timeless classic, and ballet, which is always fascinating to watch, especially when you're a person who can't actually touch your toes without bending your knees and grunting. Despite all of these things, I couldn't help but be distracted by the bulges in the male dancers' tights. Yeah...I spent most of the night staring at their junk. Or marveling at just how tight the tights were across their bums - seriously, I could differentiate between individual gluteal muscles.

So...after a week and a half, I am failing on all fronts. However, I just bought new pants, and they fit marvellously. This may be just the morale-boost I need to plough forward. We shall see.

Hot People Don't Have Tails Between Legs

Just needed to share this. I am too stupid to live.

I apparently don't know how to read the diagrams on fax machines. I subsequently sent blank faxes to a number of establishments last week, including one that was meant to inform my university of my intention to graduate...on the last day they were accepting those forms, as well as my national professional association.

A consequence of this is that I spent part of today being blisteringly rude to a government phone centre employee.

We're off to a great start this year, aren't we?

EDIT:

While faxing the back side of the forms was a huge idiot-head move on my part, apparently my school lost $65 that I paid to them with my Visa. Best. School. Ever.

Hot People Don't Seethe: The Disaster Continues

I think it's fair to say that I've been having a rough time lately. At the time of my last post, I felt shittier than I've felt in a long time - all my fault and my inability to keep the physical and the emotional separate. I learned a good lesson there, I thought.

So, on the advice of a number of friends (but mostly because of my hands-thrown-in-the-air attitude about my inability to keep things casual), I DID set up an online dating profile. My mother told me I was crazy, but many friends and relations said that this was a totally normal thing to do and some even cited their own relationships as successes of the online dating world. I had every reason to believe this was a valid avenue for seeking companionship with a reasonable probability of success.

I posted some relatively cute pics of myself, I thought. This one shows my sweet side (I Heart EVERYBODY!!!):

This one shows my classy side (cuz classy chicks wear fake pearls they bought for $7.49 at Bizou):

This one shows my outdoorsy side (cuz outdoorsy chicks stand near lakes):

I wrote an honest, charmingly self-deprecating, and somewhat funny blurb about myself and thus opened the floodgates for the sea of date requests from eligible bachelors that awaited me.

I should say that I expected this sea of date requests because my father once tried the same dating website and received approximately 200 contacts in the space of two days. Why should I be any different? I'm young. I'm moderately attractive. I can spell and write in whole sentences. I'm no middle-aged man with a mustache and an acrylic sweater, but I thought I'd do ok.

"Ok" is not the word for how I did. I might use the word "poorly," though. In the space of a week I received only four contacts. Of these, only one person had all of the following winning qualities:

1. The ability to write in full sentences with moderately good spelling.
2. A lack of inane interest in my tattoo history (I have none, for the record. No piercings either).
3. The appearance of not being morbidly obese (In my defense, if the site's body description "a few extra pounds" was actually used properly, i.e. in the case of ONLY a few extra pounds, I wouldn't be so quick to judge).

So we chatted this week. He said he was intrigued by my profile and thought we had a lot in common. He asked what I did for fun and I told him I was relatively new in town and didn't know what the cool kids did for fun here. He said he'd be happy to show me. I said "how about next Saturday?" and he said "Awesome, what time?" and I said "How about 5:30?"

It is currently 7:00 p.m. on Saturday and (unless I am concurrently blogging AND dating) I am obviously at my home computer, (not obviously) wearing my pilates clothes and drinking a pre-mix cosmo. Short date, you ask? Not so, I reply. 5:30 a.m., you ask? Not so, I reply. So what happened?

Well, I never received a reply to my proposed time and (public) meeting place. So yesterday, I thought I'd send him a quick message to confirm the time and place. And when I hit "send" my computer screen told me he had BLOCKED ME (?!?#$@!%#$!#$%) !!!!

Ok - can ANYONE tell me WTF happened?

My aunt has a theory that he's a creeper and was put off by my suggestion of a public meeting place. I think she's trying to make me feel better about my second pre-dump in the space of a month.

Alternatively, he found something utterly offensive in the following sentences: "Let's meet at the Mackenzie King Bridge entrance to the Rideau Centre. There's a bench there just to the left of the entrance. How's 5:30? That'll give me enough time to get ready after work."

Honestly, I'm not that upset about letting this guy get away. Aside from his obvious douchiness, his pics weren't that good looking, and truthfully, the best I was hoping for was a reasonably friendly first date so I could practice my dating skillz (which I'm guessing are considerably lacking since I've never actually been on a real date before. Truth.)

But let's just talk about online dating in general. In NO other venue can you be so frequently rejected in the comfort of your own home (which I generally like to reserve for non-rejection-related activities). I mean - this site tells you which people have checked out your profile and taken a pass on you, which people you've sent messages to and whether they've read them or not, whether they've deleted them, AND whether they've read and THEN deleted them (which means ALL your written and photographic charms were complete duds). It also comfortingly suggests that you "Find someone else" when you've been blocked.

In conclusion, my hands are now firmly thrown up in the air. I GIVE UP on this coupling shit. I just can't do it.

In further conclusion, I have a new goal. Let me give you some background.

I'm pretty sure I'm going to live to 100. I turned 25 almost a year ago and that birthday, which, without the cupcakes and hospitality of one of my greatest and steadfastest friends I would have spent alone, was one of the worst birthdays in history. Ringing in the New Year is supposed mean new beginnings. The only thing that began in January is a time in my life known by some of my friends as Crisis Meltdown 2009, culminating in February with my break-up. I've had deaths in the family, months of intellectual and cultural lethargy, and of course, the latest work angst. This has been a year-long quarter-life crisis. At the very least, it's pretty fair to say that I've had several misadventures, but this blog has been a great outlet and has reminded me what it's really all about. Hotness.

I think I lost sight of that about a month and a half ago and all of a sudden my primary focus was coupling myself. I'm pretty sure the last few posts have shown just how disastrous THAT idea was. So, new plan.

It's my 26th birthday on Wednesday. I have two wishes.

The first is the fulfillment of my new hotness goal. Up until now, "hotness" was referring to some intangible quality that made me feel awesome about myself. Well, I'm proud to say that I'm ready to stoop to a new and superficial level. I WILL be ab-tastic by the time I'm 27. I want to be unapproachably attractive (as opposed to approachably unattractive...which I guess isn't THAT bad either) - just to spite all those online daters who take a pass on my profile EVERY SINGLE DAY, who have pictures of themselves (or stock photos of anonymous models) with their ripped abs on display AND all those men who would give me fake phone numbers and pre-dump me. Douchebags. I WILL have ripped abs. You WILL bounce quarters off them.

The second is a wish of all my readers (all eight of you...). Make this shit famous. I want it published. Tell your friends. Email it to your entire contact list. Repost it on your facebook wall.

Or at least send me a birthday message.

Hot People Don't Have Crushed Souls or Phantom Appendages

Warning: the following is going to get pretty emo pretty quickly.

Ok - life is a disaster again. Complete and utter crap. While I could handle it if it was just one of the two, having both of the following problems at the same time is uber-painful. Uber.

A. I hate my job. It eats my soul.

I guess I haven't really talked much about my job here, except that I have one. I am a dietetic intern, which means that one day, I'll be a nutritionist. If you don't think I'm crazy enough to want a job telling people how to eat food they don't like, you might be convinced of my craziness when you learn that to qualify as a nutritionist, you must complete 40 weeks of unpaid internship. UNPAID. I'm on my last stint of this at the moment and things are starting to get a little bumpy.

Right now, my actual job description is to complete projects given to me by my supervisor which will increase the efficiency, profitability and social capital of the retail and patient food services at a local hospital. Or rather, find ways of squeezing money out of sick people, hardworking healthcare professionals and taxpayers while at the same time giving them an artificial warm and fuzzy feeling about us. Right now, my functional job description is to do whatever type of kitchen-bitch-work this hilariously understaffed department needs done. This means that instead of doing projects that make me feel like a bad person, I'm pushing trays covered with the food scraps of swine flu patients through a dishwashing machine. So fulfilling. And, of course, there's that hairnet I've grown so attached to.

None of this would be so bad if my boss actually made me feel like I'm doing a good job at any of it. She has two qualities that make me feel like a super-failure pretty much every day. First of all, she handily neglects to inform me of important information regarding the operations of the kitchen or the deadlines by which she would like things completed. The obvious answer to this is to ask a many questions as possible, but when you don't know what you don't know, this gets kind of difficult. It also often results in my being caught having left something out of my project reports because I didn't know that she was expecting its inclusion. Secondly, she provides me with NO feedback unless something is abhorrent to her. I'm sure I'm doing SOME things right, but I'll be damned if I know which things they are.

B. Love hurts.

Recent epiphany: I can't hack this whole "casual" thing. It just makes me so unbearably emo.

After meeting someone I kind of dig, my usual thought process is as follows:

"This is great! No commitments or expectations. This is just going to be casual and won't lead to anything. It'll totally be fun."

After saying goodbye to someone I kind of dig, the thought process has changed slightly:

"That was totally fun, but it was only casual and didn't lead to anything. Now there aren't any commitments or expectations...great."

Of course, I never tell HIM that's how I feel.

In conclusion, I'm totally crazy. And lame. I don't know how I do this to myself, but I form ridiculous emotional attachments to men that give NO indication of wanting to be attached to me (clarification: I mean ridiculous insofar as I've made an attachment. I do not mean ridiculous as in ridiculously emotional, read: stalkerish). This might have something to do with me expressing a desire for nothing more than casual from the outset. Possibly.

A solution-focused person would tell me that the easy mitigation of this problem IS to tell the dude how I feel...but it seems that, nearly every time, I've chosen perfectly to make this effort futile as well. They almost ALWAYS live in a city several hours away from me and (I find out AFTER all offending deeds have been completed) have possible (their words) or suspected (my words) wives or girlfriends, and sometimes fake phone numbers. Although nearly EVERY movie I've ever seen suggests to me that they leave their terrible (ok - probably not actually true) ladies for the star of the show (clearly, this is me), I have a sneaking suspicion that this might be some kind of fantasy created by the film industry to keep women like me unbalanced (see: above contention that perfectly innocent and likely quite lovely girlfriends are terrible) and docile (see: the fact that I do this to myself ALL THE EFFING TIME). They almost always seem to be musicians too, but I think that's another issue altogether.

The result is that I spend weeks (!) being sad about how this completely one-sided relationship doesn't have a B-side, vainly hoping for some kind of contact, because, you know, it might work out between us eventually...see? I don't even believe myself.

In conclusion, I am THIS close to setting up an online dating profile. While some might say this is the last refuge of the desperate and sad, at least everyone's looking for the same thing on those sites (right?), and anyway, I think I've more or less illustrated my desperate sadness in the last several paragraphs. And if those E-Harmony commercials are to be believed, ALL the subscribers are impossibly good-looking. Score! Also, I'm pretty sure venturing into the world of online dating opens up a whole crapload of opportunity for blog-worthy retardedness.

Hot People Don't Get Hurt for the Cause

Maybe this is just me, but it seems like even if I DO get past the pre-dump stage (yep, still bitter about that), something else happens to muck up my intentions for hotness. Including being TOO hot - this tends to cause injuries.

And when I say injuries, I don't mean in the metaphorical sense (although I'm told that, in the metaphorical sense as well, love hurts). I mean everything from hickies to heart stopping.

Hickies tend to be on the less painful end of the romance-injury spectrum. The main thing they're injurious to is your social life. Who hasn't been in this situation: you're having a conversation about current events or bioethics or some such with someone and your eyes suddenly stop on that tell-tale purple-yellow spot. And while your brain is telling you "It's only a bruise...just an oddly placed and strangely shaped bruise due to impact with a..." your eyes are doing their best to look anywhere else. Who also hasn't done a mirror check in the middle of the day to discover a previously unnoticed and exposed hickey, as well as a perfect explanation for why that acquaintance of yours from down the hall suddenly became very interested in the shade of the eggshell latex on the wall and less interested in your discussion of the staff gift exchange? I know I've been there.

Sometimes it really IS only a bruise - but the cause of the bruise is just as "unsafe for work". Luckily, most of these recreational injuries are covered by clothes most of the day - which is good, because if I had to explain every hand-shaped boob bruise I've had - well, that could get uncomfortable. Speaking of which, men: I know they're attractive, but they're not squeeze toys.

The longest-lasting, most visible romance injuries tend also to be the ones that make you the most unattractive immediately after the romantic activities. Anyone ever had makeout-burn? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? Perhaps this is just me, but it seems to happen every time I find myself kissing anyone. The next day my face is rubbed raw from stubble and for the next several days my face is basically chapped and cracking and peeling like I have a third degree sunburn. Most recently, the end of my nose got caught in the fray, which means I look kind of like Rudolph the Raw-Nosed Reindeer. Nothing says "you want to see me again" like that, right? Men love girls who can't keep their skin on their face.

And who's not attracted to girls with limps? I guess the limp wasn't acquired so much by romance-related activities as it was in the pursuit of romance-related activities. I may have been dancing a little too provocatively (or maybe just gyrating a little too vigorously) at the Halloween showing of the Rocky Horror Show. I may also have stepped on the rice they throw at the beginning of the movie. That rice may have made the floor more or less frictionless and I may have gone ass-over-tea-kettle and twisted my hip in an uncomfortable manner (and possibly also flashed the underside of my slip to the adjacent audience members). The resulting injury may then later have been exacerbated by other activities requiring stealth and endurance. I now have a very obvious hobble, which is difficult to explain even leaving out that it was acquired in the pursuit of romance, and it certainly does nothing to add to my allure.

So, what's a girl to do? If I dial down the fantastic-ness, I may never get to the romance-related activities that I so enjoy. If I don't dial it down, it's entirely possible that I'll never get past the first activity (and considering the pre-dump a few weeks ago didn't make me feel SO fantastic, how much can I possibly dial it down?). It's certainly a conundrum.

Hot People Never Experience This

My life is a disaster, I've decided.

I was out of town this weekend for a conference (truthfully, I was away this weekend for a debating tournament, but I was trying to deflect my nerdiness...and upregulate my togetherness). There are several reasons I found myself at this tournament.

a. I suggested, months ago, in a drunken stupor, that I would go, despite never having seen that particular style of debate and not having a place to stay.
b. I went to a local friend's party, and not knowing anybody, played wallflower for much of the night. Therefore, I missed my friends.
c. My friends reminded me, again in a drunken stupor, that I had said I would go. Therefore, I felt guilty.
d. I thought there might be dancing, which none of my friends in Ottawa seem to like to do.

Although the weekend was a success from a "winning stuff" standpoint, it certainly was also riddled with DISASTER on the hotness front. Here's what went down:

I was staying with a very good friend in the city while my friends from Halifax were staying in a hotel. We all (the whole tournament) planned to go to a bar on Friday night, but when I got there my friends from Halifax were nowhere to be found and were not answering text messages (as it turned out, the phone had died...forgiveable...I suppose...). Luckily, my friend with the spare futon happened to be there and I enjoy his company very much. He had previously been speaking to a friend of his, and we were introduced upon my arrival.

As we know, I'm TERRIBLE at making conversation with strangers, so this was a significantly high stress situation for me. However, the conversation flowed easily with only a moderate amount of SoCo and Coke (don't judge me! the bar didn't have Strongbow and I panicked and blurted out the first drink I saw) to grease the wheels. Huzzah, I thought! I'm getting better at social situations!

Fast forward to the following night, after a hard day of watching debate rounds, eating banquet hall chicken and cake, and making my friends feel bad for bailing on me the night before. We're headed to a bar that is so effing crowded that I actually can't walk without stepping on people's feet. In the shuffle I lose my friends, but the friend-of-a-friend from the night before happens to find himself at the bar next to me. We took up our conversation where we left off. I couldn't believe how developed my skill was at talking to semi-strangers..."I'm winning this hotness thing!" I thought to myself (since hot people aren't aloof and awkward in a corner, right?).

I should state at this point that I really hadn't any agenda for the weekend aside from hanging out with my friends and possibly shaking it a little in my swank dress after kicking off my heels (since you know I can't hack'em).

But THIS is when things get weird. Midway through a reasonably good conversation, all of a sudden he stops and there's this pregnant pause. And when I say pregnant, I really mean laboured. This was clearly a pause he wanted me to ask about. So I did. When I asked what was up, he responded that he was wondering if he should "prioritize his relationships".

Ok...W.T.F? Obviously, that pause was having twins it was so pregnant. And obviously I was meant to ask what THAT meant too. Then he went on at length about how he flirts with everyone (truth...) and doesn't really know why and perhaps he should just focus on hanging out with friends and having a good time with them. Being a supportive co-conversationalist, I responded by saying that we all think with our cocks (pardon me) sometimes (admit it, truth). Then he started asking me about why I was single, and what exactly caused me to be single and what kind of thing I was looking for now. So I told him my stock-answer about what went wrong, and then I told him I wasn't looking for anything too serious these days - although I certainly wouldn't turn down a few dates if they were offered by someone interesting.

His response to this is that I'm "girlfriend material" and lists a bunch of qualities I have, including "dignified" and "professional" (?!?). At first I'm thinking "Wow, great compliments, stranger-dude!" but as the list goes on, I realize that something's not right. Who tells a girl that she's dignified? I suddenly realize the horrible truth. I am being let down easy. The worst of it is that I am being let down easy from an expectation I did not have. He's turning down a proposition I did not make. I'm being pre-dumped!

Quel horreur! I don't even think I have to tell you how depressing it is that I can get dumped without even trying to hook up. It's pretty sad. I neither know what I was doing to give the impression that I was interested in something more than a stimulating conversation (because mixing up libido and conversationalism could get awkward FAST), nor do I know WHAT IS SO WRONG WITH ME THAT MY TOTAL LACK OF A CHANCE WITH SOMEONE MUST BE MADE CLEAR BEFORE I'VE EVEN THOUGHT ABOUT MAKING A MOVE???

Gah...so now a guy who wasn't even my type and I wasn't really that interested in has made me into this totally depressing bitter person who shoots dagger eyes at strangers if they seem to be in a relationship (because obviously people in love are the enemy [seriously, I think this old man who was kissing his wife goodbye in the mall yesterday thought I was going to mug him or something]). This will obviously increase my social capital immensely. My furor is compounded by the following "compliments" I got from my real live friends (truth):

"Wow, you actually look good tonight...and what I mean by that is that you look better than you did yesterday"

"Your hair looked nicer yesterday"

"How much do you weigh? I want to feel better about myself."

Also, there was no dancing to be had all weekend. Balls.

Hot People Aren't Hot (Messes)

Do you know someone that has an innate tendency to draw awkwardness from far and wide?

For most of my friends, I'm that person. I don't understand how I can possibly do it so regularly, but I certainly manage.

Here's a little background on my current living situation: I'm boarding with an uncle and his family (including my thirteen-year-old cousin) on the outskirts of town while I intern at a hospital on the other side of town. As you know, it's a long bike ride. So, sometimes, I take the bus.

This means that I occasionally (or frequently) need bus tickets. Anyway, it was a Saturday, and I just happened to need bus tickets for non-work-related reasons - I had a social engagement that evening and since I could send a cab driver's child to a reasonably priced technical college for the fare value to take me from downtown home, I opted to take the bus. Unfortunately, I was out of bus tickets. My cousin also needed bus tickets, so I told him I'd drive him (in his mother's car) to the drugstore to pick some up. On the way there, I also remembered I was fresh out of a few other things...you know...deodorant, conditioner, prophylactics...

So when we left the car, I mosied on over to the requisite aisles - Hair Care, Personal Care, Family Planning, assuming my young companion had gone straight to the cash to pick up his tickets. It wasn't until I was holding the box of condoms that I noticed he'd been following me the whole time. He had a deer-in-the-headlights look. I'm quite sure that even my THOUGHTS were in slow motion..."Noooooooooo-o-o-o-o!!!!" We headed to the cash in silence, purchased our tickets and my sundries and went back to the car. Once there, I felt I needed to make this a teachable moment, so I turned to my cousin and explained to him that I didn't have a particular purpose for the condoms (except that at some point they would be used for that which they are meant), I just wanted to be safe, because you never know what's going to happen, and you don't want to find yourself without them when you need them and...

"Please, just stop talking!!!" he pleaded.

"I don't know how!!!" I exclaimed.

It was terrible. And I was sober. I can't count the number of times I've gotten the awkward turtle at alcohol-type parties. I'm pretty sure I had an argument a week ago with a friend about how he met his girlfriend, despite having only met her myself a few hours previous. At Thanksgiving this weekend, some of my family members wished fervently for personal eject buttons after just about every sentence I uttered (although, I think to a certain extent they'd made their beds and I just jumped on them and threw the pillows around, figuratively speaking...they know who they are...).

The point is, I can't stop myself. It's like crack or pizza or Glee. If there's a dime-sized opportunity to be awkward, you can be sure I'll wriggle my fat limbs through like a wharf rat in grocery storage. How do I stop this madness??!?!?!

Hot People Don't Have Bad Hair

I often find myself torn between what is hot NOW and what will make me hot IN THE LONG RUN. My hair seems to have found itself in this sort of epic battle royale at the moment.

My entire life, hair-related angst has sent me into near catatonic states on an extremely regular basis. When it is curly (as it is naturally), I imagine that it kind of resembles an impressionist painting - you know...it looks nice from about ten feet away, but when you get up close to it, it's basically a mess (or at least, that's how Cher Horowitz would describe it). This "mess" problem was mitigated somewhat by the discovery of a $3 curling creme I found at the grocery store that works a ZILLION times better than anything I've ever purchased at a salon (for 5x the price), but when it rains (as it seems to be doing ALL THE TIME these days), it still definitely looks more Claude Monet than John Frieda. The advent of the ceramic straightener was a terrific boon to me. All of a sudden, if nothing else, at least my hair could be hot. Except of course, again, when it rains. Then it just looks like I rolled out of bed and forgot to brush it. At that point, there's really nothing for it except to resort to an "I-give-up" hat or pony-tail holder, lest I be forced to walk around in public looking like Eraserhead.

Much of the art and science of my hair has to do with the cut, and getting a good one isn't easy. My stylist in Halifax was fantastic, but since I don't live there anymore (and neither does he), obviously I can't get cuts from him. Instead, I was referred to the stylist of a friend. This woman works out of her basement. This was obviously my first red flag. The last time I got a haircut in somebody's house it was free and it was done my friend who cut my hair with her kitchen scissors and decided to give me baby bangs without taking into account that they might curl up when my hair dried. The previous time before that, it was for my prom, and the woman curled my hair, then decided one side was longer than the other, so she CUT IT AFTER IT HAD BEEN CURLED to even it out. My experience of home haircuts has been fabulous, you can tell.

Anyway, this woman had a sort of salon in her basement. Her dog kept us company, and she spoke like a sailor. I can see why a spa setting was not a good fit for her. However, the cut she gave me was fabulous, despite my concern about the venue. Truly now, if left to its own devices, or straightened, my hair can certainly add to my hotness (or at least, it is hot on its own).

Unfortunately, there are a number of things that get in the way (yes, that battle royale I referred to in the opening paragraph!).

First of all, I'm pretty sure most hot people are gainfully employed. I'm interning with the food service management of a local hospital. This means I work in a kitchen and consequently wear a hairnet all day. All day. As a result, I seldom bother with my hair because even if it did look fabulous nobody would see it all day. Also, the hairnet has a tendency, by the end of the day, to flatten residual fabulousness so that even seeing people sans 'net after work means my hair won't be amazing. It's a difficult choice to make: continue with an internship that will lead to future employment, or have fabulous hair EVERY SINGLE DAY?

Secondly, hot people are fit (or are, at least, trying to be). I'm still cycling, only now I've parlayed my leisure activity into a handy way to get to work (I say handy...it actually takes me upwards of an hour and a half to commute each way). Unfortunately, I've moved to a city FULL of cyclists, which means that on an almost daily basis I am reminded of how very BAD (read: painfully slow) a cyclist I am. I don't mind it when twenty-somethings zip by me because I assume a. that they have schmancy bikes that I don't have and b. they've been cycling for YEARS and I've only been doing it for a few months after YEARS of neglect, but when OLD MEN are zooming past me I start to feel a little demoralised. However, I press on in the hopes that it will contribute to my goal. But, I find that the combination of bicycle helmet and sweat-inducing cardiovascular activity ALSO results in a coiff that resembles the helmet for hours after its removal. Très chic!

So this is obviously a conundrum that has taken up a significant portion of my thinking time. I think I'll probably stick with being "hot in the long run," but this WILL mean endless complaining about the state of my hair in the meantime. Fair warning.

Hot People Move (or, How I Spent My Summer Vacation): Part 3, Bike

As I'm sure any faithful reader has gathered, I like to cycle, and despite being in the hilly Canadian Shield, I'm finding these hills much more manageable than the ones in New Brunswick that begin at sea level. Again, make no mistake. I am not a "cyclist" (except, of course, when it makes me seem extra heroic or athletic to say so). I don't own any fancy shorts or spandex tops. I can't cycle 100km/d ad nauseom and I don't have one of those super hero-shaped helmets. Mostly, again, I like to go fast...usually downhill, because it's less work that way.

Cycling around here also comes with lots of scenery, and wildlife...especially if you don't mind seeing two-dimensional chipmunks and rabbits (helpfully flattened by the tire of a local F150), with occasional partial internal anatomy, or Jackson Pollock-esque renderings of leopard frogs. Sorry. That was gross.

Anyway, I've been cycling a lot here, training for my 20km commute to work this fall (yay bike paths!) and attempting to undo all the dessert-eating I've been doing with my grandmother. My greatest feat thus far has been a 37km loop. Hardcore cyclists (such as those I allude to in my illustration of the sort of cyclist I am not) will scoff at that, but it's my longest ride to date and I'm proud of it (so nyeah).

It was, however, not without incident. The trip started with some pretty, and familiar scenery. However, just before I turned into new territory, I heard a loud and unfamiliar sound. I soon realized I was being chased by three (rather angry sounding) unleashed dogs who appeared to believe that my ankles looked like they might be tasty. I had to ride for my life, and I outrode them! When I was sure I was not going to be eaten by a pack of rabid dogs (three's a pack, right?), I stopped for a rest and admired this cabbage patch.

I soon turned again into even less familiar territory, at which point the pavement ended. The dirt road that followed seemed to be covered with looser and looser sand...to the point where I amused myself with the notion that I was riding through the Guinness World Record holder for longest outdoor sandbox. Seriously, you could have made some sweet castles with that shit. My amusement was also tempered with the fear that at any moment I would be met by an Ed Gein or Michael Myers lookalike, brandishing a chainsaw, who would drag me to some cabin in the middle of the forest to carry out some sinister and unspeakable deeds on my person. Houses on this road, you see, were few and far between, so only the trees would be able to hear my scream (and, presumably, the rabbits, chipmunks and frogs not yet dispatched by the tire of a pick-up).

Fortunately, I emerged from the forest unscathed to the intersection of Rockingham (I say intersection rather than village or community because it consists of a stop sign and an historic church) From there I continued my thereafter mostly uphill battle (which I gave up on the last leg of the UP). While the view at the top suggested I'd reached lofty heights, the ensuing downhill, though fast, was not as satisfying as I'd hoped, and when I'd reached the last intersection of my trip, (upon which a stand of red pine once stood, until obliterated by the great tornado of aught-seven), my legs were more or less ready to fall off, despite (or perhaps because of) their knowledge that there were only five more or less flat kilometres to go.

Anyway, I reached home with the knowledge that this feat was also achieved...and it feels pretty good to have been a country girl driving on the 401 through Toronto without fear, and to have sailed my grandmother's Laser without falling out or getting stuck in a reef, and to have taken my longest bike-ride ever despite the (real) threat of hungry dogs and the (imagined) threat of chainsaw-wielding homicidal maniacs.

My return to a city (an unfamiliar one) is impending, and if my quest for hotness (I achieved some goals, right? Hot people do that...) seems to be going too successfully, I am sure my new habitat will provide me with plenty of opportunity for blunders and mishaps on the road to being hot. Fear not.

How People Move (or, How I Spent My Summer Vacation): Part 2, Boat

I learned to sail when I was 12 or 13. I am not an expert. At all. I use the boat less as a means to get from point A to point B and more as a way to go fast.

And when I say I learned, please don't misunderstand the method. Most people I know who sail took very expensive lessons at very expensive (I imagine) yacht clubs with guys (I imagine again) named Chad and Landon who are dressed (and coiffed) like the cast of Saved by the Bell when they all worked at Malibu Sands Beach Club, and have hyphenated surnames. I've obviously spent a lot of time considering the sailing lessons of others.

I learned to sail by getting in this boat (which is ancient) and straining to hear by Dad and grandfather screaming from shore for me to "Come about! Come about! Pull on the rope! The other rope! The other, other rope! Go left! Not your left, my left!" and so on.

I've been spending the past three weeks or so (save for my trip to Hamilton) with my grandmother at her cottage. I am the oldest of her grandchildren but we're all really at the age where we have to work through most of the summer, so I think she misses the noise and the company. It's a pity, too, because it's beautiful here, even on freezing cold days such as this one. The result of her relative loneliness is that any time there is a glint of sunlight, it magically becomes "great swimming weather" (my mother and uncles recall a time when this meant all weather save for lightning storms) and any time there is any breath of wind it's "wonderful sailing weather."

The first time she told me this, (which I automatically translate to its true meaning: please go sailing now) it was actually TERRIBLE weather for sailing, unless of course, ones' boat had a motor. I actually tried using the rudder as a propeller (those of you who sail will understand the futility of this measure), lest I get stuck in the middle of the lake.

The next "great sailing weather" day proved more fruitful and was generally a success, in that I went fast, did not fall out of the boat (this has happened to me more times than I care to admit), and managed to steer clear of the lake's numerous booby traps, which include a reef, an old log sticking up out of the water (called, in my family, the dead head), numerous sand bars and cross-breezes, and I learned recently, an old logging crib.

Not bad for someone who learned by straining for poor directions muffled by the wind.

Hot People Move (or, How I Spent My Summer Vacation): Part 1, Car

This is part 1 of a tale of my mastery (?!) of three forms of transportation.

I undertook to travel from rural central Ontario to the great mecca of steel and pollution known as Hamilton to visit one of my oldest friends (and the newest addition to her family). This caused my mother a great deal of stress because rather than using my normal method of complicated pick-ups and drop-offs, depending on the kindness of strangers, with train or bus interludes, I elected this time to rent a car, which meant I would have to drive by myself on the 401 through Toronto. The fact that I maneuvred her car (while she was in it to bear witness) through torrential rains that seemed as though someone was standing on the rof of the car dumping bucket after bucket of water on the windshield (turns out I was driving through a tornado...true story) was of no consequence to her. Nor were my repeated statements that I had driven in Montreal on countless occasions (unless, of course, you can count past two). All she would tell me was that it "wasn't the same."

Well, perhaps I'm foolhardier than most, and perhaps I timed it perfectly to avoid rush hour (more likely), but the trips both there and back were more or less uneventful (Except, of course, for the horrifying experience I had returning the vehicle, in which I uber-failed at backing into a parking space while my Dad watched with an expression of extreme disappointment in my driving skills). The visit was also pleasantly without incident. We ate, watched movies, and I bought this cute jacket for the baby.

...Because hot people buy hot jackets for their hot friends' babies so that they may also, one day, be hot. Incidentally, this picture had the only smile in the bunch, which was unusual for such a smiley baby. As it turned out, he had a diaper-full which when discovered explained the lack of grin. I wasn't grinning either. And, although he was lovely and made me less afraid of babies (since it appeared that simply wrinkling my nose would make him giggle), I also learned that I can certainly survive a few more years without one of my own...unless, of course, they start making odor-free models.

Hot People Road Trip

Uninspired ramblings from my move cross-country.

Stop 1 - 3:59 am AST. Breakfast in Elmsdale. Still dark. So tired. Poured Tim Horton's coffee into the thermos.













Stop 2 - 4:04 am AST. Gas up at Elmsdale Petro-Can (in my head I'm saying Elumsdale). Mysterious 24-hr gas station in the woods with even more mysterious security system. Old bugs washed off windows.










5:11 am AST. Springhill, NS billboard: You should see us now! (What were you like before?!?!)

5:?? am AST. New Brunswick billboard: No small wonders! (or big ones?)

Stop 3 - 6:08 am AST. Gas up in Moncton/Magnetic Hill. CBC reports Stephen Harper eating seal. Bold political move, but no accounting for taste. Sun just coming up. Poured Tim Horton's coffee out of thermos. Into lap.










Stop 4 - 9:53 am AST. Gas up in Edmundston. Jeezly hot. In & out of not quite sleep. Pleased, since I missed most of boring NB TCH.










Stop 5 - 12:09 pm EST. Listening to Dion album. Man, nothing ever goes right for that guy. Driver nearly kills us missing a stop sign at the Laurier Station Ultramar. Getting very hot and very hungry.










3:00 p.m. EST. Discovered Ontario.

Hot People Take it Off and Take Stock

I've been internetless for the better part of a month, so these are catch-up posts - for those interested.

Waxing is nothing, if not a journey of discovery.

All warnings that I would scream out in pain at my first bikini wax were false. While it certainly was not like Christmas morning (except perhaps the one where my parents thought it would be hilarious to stuff my stocking with coal-shaped black licorice - which was quite painful indeed to my four-year old self), it was significantly less painful than I had prepared myself for, although the esthetician did suggest that the services she provided were nothing more than a "good starting point..." (I thought that full pictorial disclosure was not necessary in this case)

The waxing appointment also provided me with the discovery that, despite being appropriately waxed, I am not ready for a bikini. I came to this conclusion whilst sitting, pantsless, on the edge of the spa table wearing a pair of disposable underwear (this is a place I never thought I'd find myself). I was waiting for the esthetician to return with a pot of steaming hot wax, and had time to reflect upon the rolls made by my stomach flubber. When I realized I couldn't tell which roll was hiding my belly button (Now we're ALL glad I decided against pictures, aren't we?), I decided I could compromise with a tankini (obviously, though, with boob support).

I still have some questions about waxing, though. While I understand that it requires maintenance, I'm not sure how much, how often...any suggestions?

More contemplations: I'm moving again...and once again I'm finding myself taking stock of where I am, what I'm leaving behind and where I'm going. Where living in New Brunswick felt like a kind of limbo, this feels like a new beginning. This is good because I don't really feel like I've attained that hotness goal yet (and if hotness is a state of mind, feeling as though I've not succeeded yet must mean I've not succeeded yet).

I guess that since it's been six months since I started this blog, now is as good a time as any to redesign my strategy...so I'll be hot 6 months from now.

No, now.

Ok...NOW!

You get it.

Hot People Cut Their Losses

So, I never got that coffee date, and really I wouldn't mind except for the absolute DRAMA that went along with never getting that coffee date.
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Dear Single Men: If you don't really dig seeing a girl again, do not - I repeat - DO NOT immediately add her to Facebook. This gives her the impression that you are interested in her. Trust me. I've been there. Recently.

But if you do, and then she subsequently asks you for a coffee date, there are three acceptable responses.

A. Accept the coffee date since, hey, she may end up being the love of your life (please do not misunderstand - I do not want to be the love of anybody's life right now - certainly not when I'm only going to be living in this vicinity for another three weeks, max...I'm just trying to get across that it really probably wouldn't be SO bad to accept the date).

B. Say up front that you had a great time the other night, but you're just not that into a date right now (this, while initially hurtful, is probably your most gallant option).

C. Do not respond to the message, and several days later quietly delete her from your friends list (this is your second most gallant option, because while it will result in 3-7 days of false hope and incessant facebook-checking, at least you're not technically leading anybody on.)

The WRONG thing to do is to accept the date and then provide her with a phone number that does not actually belong to you. That is just hurtful. I'm OBVIOUSLY speaking in hypotheticals here and am not bitter in any way.

Love, Miss T
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Since I had kind of a shitty week, I thought I would indulge myself in a little bit of retail therapy. By shopping for bathing suits. Clearly, I am a genius.

So, while I have been riding my bike pretty regularly over the summer, and managed not to fail at getting up the biggest hill on my ride yesterday (it only took me two months!), I discovered today that there's still quite a bit of butter on my body. These pictures speak for themselves (Warning: I decided some months ago that the next bathing suit I bought WOULD be a bikini, so...yeah...avert your eyes if you wish).
I guess this isn't so bad except that I tend to do things other than stand perfectly still with my arms up slightly trying to hold a camera out of the way of the picture. I hate to think of the rolls and folds that might result if I ever leaned forward. Eep. More work on the bicycle is in order, I suspect.

Also - I never EVER thought I would curse my breasts. Sometimes they like to peek out of tops that I thought were work appropriate and suddenly make them work inappropriate, but they've never done anything terribly harmful to me. I suspect, though, that if I were to wear any of these bikini tops (most halter ties), I would have a half-inch-wide trench dug into the back of my neck due to the weight of my very ample bosoms. The suit on the bottom right actually made me afraid they might try to escape out the bottom. Say hello to my underboob.

I actually tied everything quite tightly for this shot, so you can see how little support this top had, leading me to the conclusion that nobody makes a bikini top with boob support for the affordable department store shopper.

Yergh. Cearly, I came home empty handed. In the meantime, I've decided that the next few weeks are going to involve much more intensive bike riding, possibly a trip to a much fancier bathing suit store (I already had a very serious chat with my visa on the bus ride home), and also some deep contemplation about whether this actually is the summer for a bikini.

As for coffee dates, I'm sure this wasn't my last chance ever.

Hot People Remember the Important Things

Ok - so I may have to take something back I said in my last post. I've had some fun in New Brunswick.

But here's the thing - I have the capacity to drink like a sailor. This does not mean that I drink like a sailor every day (because I do not). Nor does it mean that I should exercise that capacity every time the opportunity presents itself (although I do perhaps a little too frequently). It's amazing, though, what a little liquid courage will do for you (or in Saturday's case, at least a bottle and a half of wine's worth).

As we all know, I have issues with meeting people. When sober, the idea is enough to make me stay home and watch chick flicks. However, recent reports suggest that drunk Miss T was dancing up a storm with half of everyone at Le Club (I'm being French again...can you tell?). Obviously, meeting people was not an issue for me last Saturday. Some girls from work that we happened to meet there even commented on it. They suggested they didn't know I had it in me. I didn't know I did either. In fact, I didn't know I had it in me until my roommate informed me sometime midway through Sunday afternoon (post-four hour nap).

It is very important to note, though, that I distinctly remember most things about the night - the IMPORTANT things, I should say. I have no idea how we got from my roommate's sister's hotel room to the bar, but I definitely remember dancing with this man.

I have no idea when or why we left this bar to go to another bar (actually I do - it had to do with a med student my roommate met and wanted to introduce to her sister), but this remedy to a garden-variety high heel problem (see, I'm not the only one who can't hack it!) was imprinted in my memory long before I turned on my camera midway through breakfast as a means of not falling asleep in my Banana Blast pancakes.

I do not remember that the band was awful, but I do remember that some creepo followed us from the second bar back to the first in the hopes of winning the affections of one of the twins..."whichever one was single". Charmant. Good hair, though.

And I do not remember how long it was between when I wedged myself between two men at the bar (very proud of myself for this courageous move) in an effort to make new friends, and when one of them found me on the dance floor. But I do remember that I felt pretty effing awesome to know that he was looking for me, and I felt really retarded every time I asked him what he did for a living...I think by the end of the night we had reached a total of seven times.
Do you think it affects my chances at a coffee date later? Hope not.

***Also Happy Birthday to my cousin, who may not be reading this, but turns 19 today and gets to enjoy all that night life has to offer.

Hot People Don't Need to Share Everything

I was in my favourite city last weekend to visit friends, go to a house party, and more or less just bust out of here, when I asked my friends I hadn't seen in a while what they thought of the blog. Most of the responses were pretty positive, but one friend asked me about the frequency of posting...he seemed to think I had a schedule. Another friend corrected, telling him that the thing about blogs is you only write them when stuff happens.

And that's the problem with living where I live. My roommate calls it No Funswick and she's more or less correct. To put it into perspective, one of the more popular drinking establishments here is called "Cougars." To put it into even better perspective, our cougar-clubbing expedition did not include a stop at "Cougars." Yeah...that's where I live.

As much as I loved going to Calgary, and back to Halifax, it really wasn't good for me because when I returned here I realized how much I would much rather be just about anywhere else. But, for my friend who wanted more posts, I'll illustrate why I go for quality rather than quantity. Here's my last few weeks in the port city:

Happenings:

Work - this is actually going quite well. It's not actual work so much as a work term required in order to practice as a professional in my field. If this was not going well, nothing would be.

Bike Rides - continued failed attempts at getting up hills. I started this because I was going to ride in a charity bike tour (because hot people do nice things for other people) but decided instead that hot people don't embarrass themselves by attempting to ride 96 km when 20 km is a challenge, nor do they find themselves lost, alone and dehydrated on the sides of country roads. Therefore, I ride only because my roommate reminds me of my hotness goals and that bike riding is my only form of physical activity - and also because going downhill is the shit.

TV - most days I watch it. I'm particularly partial to the offerings on Slice, and Law & Order: SVU reruns.

Finding neat stuff - I realized yesterday that the ditches on the sides of the roads are full (FULL!) of wild strawberries. I ate one the other day and it was really good. I am a full-on daughter of nature. I also found $3.25 in change on the corner where the bus stop is, and nobody around to claim it. Somebody's lost bus change is now my load of laundry. Score. Today I found a cat's eye marble embedded in the dirt path to the grocery store. In my elementary school days, this would have been a prize of value second only to one of those super jumbo marbles. I'm not sure why marbles were such a prize at the time, since none of us actually knew how to play marbles. I only ever used them in our marble run, which, while awesome, did not require "special" marbles like a cat's eye to function properly.

Musings:

Is straight hair hotter than curly hair? I can have both, but straight hair requires much more work. Fewer people have really curly hair (uniqueness is hot, yes?), but I always get more compliments when my hair is straight. Is that just because it's a different style, or because it's hotter?

Is it cool that I'm a bit of an outdoorsy type (see Finding Neat Stuff: wild strawberries)? Is that a universally attractive feature, or does it appeal only to the similarly outdoorsy? Because seriously...I'm pretty proud of the fact that I know a bunch of different types of birds and butterflies, can tell you most of the time what berries are edible, and am pretty awesome at starting bonfires. I think the fact that I'm the resident bug-killer in our apartment takes away from any hotness I might have (perhaps I should start refusing...hehehe!), but I'm really not sure about that other stuff. Is reeling in a three-pound bass by myself something I should brag about? Would it be better to be more demure?

How the crap am I going to get out of here? I'm moving again (to Ottawa, this time) in a month and a half and I really haven't a clue how I'm going to get there. U-haul? Van? Rental car? Sell my stuff in a yard-sale? Stick it on the side of the road? Thumb my way? Help!

AND - is it ill-advised to look for jobs out west solely because I think I'm hotter there? My friend is moving to another city, one where his girlfriend lives, but the GF is actually his fourth-place reason for moving (meaning that really she's his first reason, but he wanted to have other very good reasons also). Hrmm...
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And now you understand my dwindling post frequency. Although THINGS are happening, and I'm having actual THOUGHTS, I'm not sure any of them are really worth writing home about. Unless you found my marble story REALLY interesting...

Hot People Get Hotter with Altitude?

I was away this weekend for a conference, and I have to say, it's pretty close in the charts to the best weekend of the year so far.

Granted, it's been a pretty rough year - obviously beginning with my previously mentioned break-up - but there have been a few other things that had suggested a continuous stream of shittiness was headed my way. Therefore, I was not looking forward to this conference. First of all, last year's conference was abysmally bad for me - I was so sick I was coughing up crunchy stuff, and a lot of people were not very nice to me. Secondly, the conference was in Alberta this year, home of big oil and our Prime Minister, with the eerily close-set eyes (clearly, he is not a hot person). I'm not a particular fan of either of these things, and automatically assumed that I wouldn't be a fan of Calgary, either. And yet...

The reason I was at this conference is because I am the outgoing president of a student chapter of a national professional association. It was a job I took reluctantly, and my bad time at the conference last year pretty much confirmed that I would hate it. While I worked hard at the job (or at least as much as I could given certain other stresses in my life), I was still pretty convinced I had done a bare minimum quality job. Awesome moment #1: Finding out I was wrong.

Granted, not all the moments were completely awesome. Most of my wake-up calls (coming no later than 7:15 a.m.) were decidedly un-awesome.

My continued loss in my battle with high heels also was not awesome (I wore them two days ago and I've not totally regained feeling in two of the toes on my right foot).

Explaining to the ladies from our professional branch that the tall drink of water (their words, not mine, though I would tend to agree...) I went to supper with was, SERIOUSLY, just my friend was also kind of sucky.

Wearing a rain poncho at Stampede Park was not awesome - first of all, because it was raining out, and secondly, because for much of that time we were actually inside - making us look like some kind of weird plastic (but patriotic) cult. The hospitality suites, hosted by branches from across Canada were not very awesome except for the copious amounts of free wine (of which I frequently availed myself), and the fact that many of the games resulted in pictures like this:

And this:And this gem, which my friends have captioned "Hot People Get Down on Their Knees (When Necessary)", which is unfortunate, since getting on my knees resulted in nothing more successful than not being on my knees had and also got me into a really stupid conversation about vector calculations and the skill involved in a ricochet (which happened by chance and involved what I like to call my anti-skill at hockey). Obviously, trying our best (which is what our team chant promised we would do), was not enough.

Other, more awesome moments, include unabashedly eating ribs and steak in the same meal, sleeping in a bed that was MADE FOR ME every morning, and of course, singing back-up on Mustang Sally for what looked like a very hard-working big band. I totally felt like a rockstar...which is awesome, because I secretly wish I was one.

The real awesome, though, is what I discovered upon partaking of some of Calgary's night-life and drinking establishments. I've been to a lot of bars before...a lot of them. And I've been dancing before, piles of times. And usually my friends, who are all totally hot (hot people hang out with other hot people?) get hit on by lots of men while I hold their purses. This weekend was definitely not the case, and it makes me wonder what exactly I was doing differently. Whatever it is, I'm totally hot in Calgary.

More awesome moments:

1. Getting hit on by (and making out with) an Irishman in an Irish bar.
2. NOT being the wing-girl who pretends our cab is here because some creepo won't go away (I mean, the creepo wasn't awesome...it's just that usually not even creepos are interested in me)
3. Getting free drinks because a friend at the conference knows the manager of basically every bar in the world.
4. No longer having erotic daydreams about the cable guy because, yes, I finally got some. A lot of it. And it was excellent. So excellent I seriously contemplated missing my plane home.

Slightly less awesome moment:

1. Doing a mirror-check after a pitstop an hour and a half into work the following Monday morning and discovering you have a hickey and no scarf. I'm totally fifteen and a half.