Hot People Aren't So Sad and Lonely

Alright, so the title may have been a wee bit dramatic, but I've been in this new town for about two weeks, and it's been a week since I last saw someone I actually know (and I've run out of the lasagna my Mommy made when she was here. See? Sad!). This is no way to mark the approximate one-year anniversary of Hot in 6 Months.

All resolutions have been put on hold until I get my feet wet at work and, more crucially, get my first paycheque - though that's already earmarked for professional fee renewals and car payments (crippling ones!). In the interim, I've been getting practice with the manual transmission on my new automobile (Why did I think THAT was a good idea?) by going to Wal-Mart to buy odds and ends like paper towel and windshield scrapers, watching movies (note to self [and others]: Mamie Van Doren, though busty and beautiful, does not make good films. Period.), going to bed before 10 p.m. like a 73-year-old, and eating far more candy than is reasonable for a normal person, let alone a dietitian who counsels diabetes sufferers exclusively. Basically, I'm a lazy, sleepy person who eats garbage - but at least I've got a brand new
car (note that under my coat and boots, I'm wearing pajamas and haven't brushed my hair)!

No guitar-playing, no French-speaking (yet!), and only slightly better taste in music. And of course, plan ab-tastic has been put on hold once again. It's hard to get rock-hard abs if your most vigorous exercise consists of walking from the bedroom at one end of your apartment to the bathroom at the other.

And, if that weren't enough, my relative laziness has manifested itself in significantly more internet-surfing. And that's when I came upon this! Hottest Blogging Babes 2010!?!? And I'm not one of them?!!?!?! This is, truly, a failure.

Obviously, something must be done about this. Luckily, despite living in a pretty teensy town, it's relatively well-appointed in the amenities department. Apparently, there's a gym here with personal trainers. It is my plan to meet with one of these trainers as soon as financially possible. It is my further plan to relate to this trainer my quest for hotness and plan ab-tastic. I will do this by telling him or her that my fitness goal is to "look good naked." Hopefully the not-so-thinly veiled reference to one of my favourite movies will not go unnoticed.

The knowing-more-people problem is not so simple to rectify. Like I said before, I don't know what the cool kids do around here for fun and I don't know how to find out. I'm seriously considering going to church tomorrow just so I can get to know some people who HAVE to be nice to me. Has it really come to this?

Hot People Turn Over New Leaves

I alluded (ok, more than alluded) to a new job and a subsequent need to be adult, yes?

Ok - so I've moved (for the third time in the last 12 months) to a small town in Northern Ontario for this new job. And jeebus I'm scared.

Forgetting that my next paycheque is going to multiply everything I earned last month by infinity (and any paycheque I made in the last three years by a factor of approximately 25...for serious), I've had to do so much adult stuff in the last two weeks that all I want to do is sleep for the rest of time.

It's been a big jump:

Occupation

Last month: Layabout
This month: Registered Dietitian

Transportation

Last month: bus, when I could afford tickets...otherwise, feet
This month: a brand-spanking new car (but feet most of the time anyway - hot people are environmentally-conscious)

Housing

Last month: mooching off my very generous relatives in exchange for my portion of the grocery bill
This month: a two-bedroom apartment in the downtown core (ok...in the interest of full disclosure, the downtown core should just be called "town")

Finances

Last month: couldn't buy bus tickets on a regular basis
This month: just got approved for a credit card that would more than cover a year's rent in 2006.

Ok - so I think most people will agree that most of the above is pretty awesome. But moving has been scary for a few other reasons as well. It's very strange to be the only person you know somewhere. When I was a student, this wasn't such a big deal because there were social constructs in the university environment that made it very easy to make friends. So far, the most familiar face to me has been my insurance broker. I've been seeing a lot of her, but that's because getting auto insurance has been something akin to being repeatedly beaten with a blunt instrument (note: it is NOT GOOD to be 26 and never to have been insured on any vehicle).

I almost feel like I'm starting from scratch with the hotness thing. I mean - I have to learn what hot people do here (I'm hoping like hell it's Wednesday night karaoke at the local watering hole). It could take a while, especially considering that my neighbours have homecare workers and names like Duke and Smitty (not that you can't be hot with names like that...I just feel like possibly there are age categories of hotness).

Then again, I've come a long way so far. And I should never underestimate the big fish/small pond phenomenon. 'Cause this is definitely a much smaller pond than I've been in for a while, and I'm a big fish, right?

Hot People Win, Even When They Lose

I've been noticing (mostly because it is completely obvious) that the growing up/goodbye to my youth process has involved a lot of "one last debate tournament"s. I know, I know. Nerdz!

But for serious - debating has been an invaluable and defining part of my life for almost a decade (yipes, I'm old!). Many readers will know this, but my main focus is actually judging the debates, and I've gotten pretty good at it over the past few years. So this past weekend, I was strong-armed at the last minute by some friends to judge at a pretty major tournament. Although geographically, I found myself in Toronto, I also inexplicably found myself (metaphorically) in a place called, by those in the know, the bin. The bin is where the bad debates happen - the ones devoid of reason, organization or articulation, let alone any sort of panache. It's a place I haven't found myself in a few years, and I've gotta say, it put me into a bit of a tailspin.

First of all, I've had some...exchanges...with a few of the people in charge. It was almost as though they were holding something against me. Like perhaps I had written some scathing and untoward things about them on a public internet site or something...hmm...so for a while I thought it was just vengeance.

Here's where, in retrospect, it gets a little cringe-worthy and unattractive. Soon after I came to my senses and decided nobody could be so petty (right?...nobody would be...) as to seek vengeance for a blog post from months ago in which all parties (except myself) remained more or less anonymous, I started to have a small (Seriously, it was only tiny. And I definitely kept it to myself as well...) personal crisis about my skillz as a debate judge. There might have been some moist eyes threatening tears at a few moments. This is cringe-worthy for two reasons:

1. Who likes emo-girl traipsing around like a 17th century poet? I don't. I'm pretty sure I could have dealt with things a little more gracefully (although shit, I saw some bad debates this weekend). For example, I might have avoided referring to the complete injustice of my shitty weekend to everyone I met, or at the very least avoided opening every conversation with that topic. I might also have opted NOT to require everyone to list my accomplishments at top volume, in unison, before I unlocked the door to our accommodations and allowed them to enter.

2. It points to a greater problem with my life. When someone gets uppity because they've lost a debate, I go on an oft-ranted tirade about how the outcome of a debate round has no bearing on real life and nobody in real life is going to care whether you won your fifth round at the 2007 eastern invitational. Despite this firm belief, I've really made debating THE major priority in my life and I've done it for too long. Although my success in the field of debate judging (which, frankly, only a select few would even count as a REAL success) has served me well, it has been something I've cultivated to the exclusion of all other things and I think this is a little bit alarming. Like, I used to be good at other shit. I used to be an awesome lip sync artist (at high school dances, with my thumb-rophone), and I would kill at trivia contests (Reach for the Top FTW!) but I haven't done either of those things in like, forever. In conclusion, I really need to diversify my talent portfolio. Learning to be a french-speaking guitar hero is obviously already on the agenda...but I need to think of some other things to incorporate into my life so I can one day be awesome at them. Ideas? Anyone?

On the other hand, my relative abandonment of all reason and sense of purpose meant that, on balance, the rest of the weekend was pretty awesome.

First of all, I learned that I am effing amazing at playing damsel in distress (it helps when the distress is real). A number of dashing young men came to my aid. I think I only paid for half my drinks and I wasn't allowed to leave the dancefloor (in fact, I was forcibly removed from areas not technically dancefloor on a number of occasions). I also had one of the nicest and least "pressure-y to do more" makeout sessions I've ever had, and that was really refreshing.

Secondly, I drank my face off. The results of this were epic (although, recognizing that I already used my last chance to drink stupid amounts of alcohol, the hangover on Sunday was just as epic). I definitely danced like a rockstar that night. I also definitely fell out of a bunk bed. The resulting bruises (reflecting the pattern of the carpet) and rug burn are totally badass. My successful attempt at mounting the bunk bed ladder post-fall without the help of my two very concerned friends was just as badass. And I definitely spent the rest of the night spooning my friend's girlfriend to avoid a second fall.

In conclusion, while daytime Miss T wasn't very hot at all, I feel like my Saturday night was burning up just a little (at least, I felt sorta hot...). Now, how can I keep that fire ablaze?

Hot People See the Signs

No, that was not just a reference to another hilariously bad song of my youth (oh...Swedish Pop...so campy). I was back in Halifax over the holidays and over the time I spent with some of my friends I realized that I really do need to be a big girl soon. Last time we chatted, I was talking about how I really need to be a big girl...and I've gotta say, I'm off to a bad start.

Although my resolve to have better taste in music has gone well thus far (I've downloaded all but one of last installment's suggested albums...I'm listening to one now...I am such a hot music-listener), my first instinct when at HMV was to make a beeline for the Glee soundtracks. Not that Glee isn't excellent television viewing...but for serious...how many 14-year-old girls also bought not just vol. 1 but vol. 2 as well? How many? I mean...Finn's just so dreamy, so how can you blame me, but still!?!

But my hilarious taste in music isn't the only thing I've been having trouble shaking. I've spoken a few times about my penchant for debating (and also my complete acknowledgement that it's a sport for NERDS!!!). Without going into the details and the ins and outs of parliamentary debate, it is an activity that has been with me since my first day of frosh week (when I was accosted by a girl telling me I looked intelligent...she had me at hello) and has continued for the last 8 1/2 years. Some of my best and oldest friends were made through this activity and I owe it a lot. Unfortunately, the trade-off that comes with having these great friends is that I find myself the oldest person (by far) at social gatherings, telling stories of debating debauchery past, only to realize that I'm talking about a time when they were still in junior high (and increasingly, under the age of 10...eep). To illustrate, I was invited to an illicit New Year's Eve party. I only discovered the host's Mom didn't know about it the next morning, after a significant amount of destruction had occurred. It's really an "I get older, they stay the same age" kind of thing...which would be find if I was just contributing my time and expertise to the craft of competitive debate. Unfortunately, I sometimes find myself attracted to boys who make me feel, when I think about how old they are, like this:

(Get it...I'm a cougar...hilarious!).

Sometimes, it's hard to remind myself that I am not impervious to the powers of time and that I DO get older, despite my best efforts. Sometimes this results in childish behaviour in hilarious attempts to recapture my vigorous youth, like buying Glee soundtracks, or kissing boys with ABANDON.

My friends say that hot people do whatever they want, and I've gotta say that I definitely wanted to do both of those things. But I also really want to be an adult. Stat.

Last week, these colliding desires faced off in real life. It was kind of messy. I agreed to judge at a high school debate tournament hosted by my old club...you know...just one last shot in the arm. Although many of my very best old friends were there, I found myself increasingly surrounded by people reminding me of how old I was...like...I was alive when the Berlin Wall fell or I remember a time before the widespread use of cellular telephones. Truthfully, they were just being evil. At the same time, I knew that in three days I had an interview for a big girl job.

It was super difficult to reconcile my wish to stay an adolescent forever with my wish to actually grow up and do something constructive with my life. So difficult that it actually made me sorta depressed (and cranky...sorry guys...). At some point over the evening's post-tournament social, one of the party-goers reminded me of something that's just amazing for drowning ones' sorrows. This was my first of the evening:

To be perfectly honest, I don't know how much I had to drink that night, and there are some patchy parts of the evening. We know this is not a completely new phenomenon for me.

I am sure of a few things.

1. I definitely drunk-dialed my Dad's girlfriend. I did this for two reasons. For one thing, I thought it was 12:30 a.m. and not 2:30 a.m. I was wrong. For another, I thought she was out with my Dad and not at home sleeping. Wrong again.

2. Drunk Handsy Miss T made an appearance. My old friends are familiar with her; she's the me who gets in her cups and then puts her arm around everyone and stands too close and leans on people. Especially when they're boys. Typically I just cite drunkenness and an inability to control my extremities due to the extreme liquor-soakedness of the motor control parts of my brain. But let's be honest. I'm flirting. I've always been flirting. I've always known I was flirting. I've just never admitted it. On that evening, though, I was called on it. However, instead of sputtering about how it's the booze, I came clean. I said it was fun. And that it didn't mean anything more than that. And it was true. And super liberating to say it. And I felt pretty smooth (perhaps in real life it wasn't smooth at all...but my memory of it is the most important thing). I feel like hot people are unapologetically flirty, and often without an agenda. Even the grown-up ones.

3. I grossly overused a number of stock phrases. I need to stop saying the following: "You're my faves" (said to anyone who amuses me...pluralised so other faves don't get jealous...whispered to people for extra effect when I really want them to know I appreciate them) and "Fair..." (response to any statement for which I have no adequate response, or any statement with which I disagree but for which am too drunk to formulate an articulate counterargument). I hope nobody was following me around with a tape recorder that night.

I'm not entirely sure how I got home, though I'm sure it was at the hands of a very understanding and benevolent cab driver (or, at least, I was missing a cab-fare-ish amount of cash from my wallet in the morning). I'm sure you're expecting that the next day was distinctly unpleasant for me. Not so. When I awoke, I was, though a little slow on the draw, miraculously unhungover.

I take this as a sign...or a gift...or a gift-sign. That was the last time I am allowed to do that. It was my last hurrah of ridonkulous drunkenness. The powers that be are trying their damnedest to make my coming-of-age as painless as possible, despite my best efforts to make it hurt so bad.

Incidentally, when I did go to that job interview, I did act particularly adult. So adult that they offered me the job. And I'm gonna take it (resolution #2, complete within 20 days...score!). This means another move...but probably not for a few weeks. In the interim, I'm taking this time as a period of last hurrahs. Just as that night was my last night of sloppy drunk Miss T and the Glee Soundtrack was my last bad music purchase, the next few weeks will be spent enjoying the now guilty pleasures of my late teens and early twenties, so I can say goodbye to them in style and embrace my new life as an employed, adult (and hopefully, one day) hot person.

Hot People Continuously Improve

Just after Christmas, I was sitting in the airport waiting for my flight with Porter, wearing the hat I had just knit for myself (it's hilariously too big, but I guess that's how the kids wear them these days) and an American Apparel bandeau under my carefully colour-coordinated scoop neck and cardi, with my well-used bags and my brand new ipod.

As I was sitting there, engaging in self-reflection, I realized I had achieved something special. I SO want to be the kind of girl who wears American Apparel merch and handmade outerwear. I want to be the girl waiting at the gate of an alternative discount airline (where the flight attendants wear pillbox caps), listening to music on a $300 piece of digital genius.

The only thing that wasn't quite right is that I was definitely listening to Aerosmith (circa 2001, no less...embarrassing) and not Belle and Sebastian (or some way indie-er indie band that I'm too out of it to have even heard of).

So in the spirit of never quite being perfect, I started thinking about my New Year's resolutions.

1. Plan Abtastic. Obvs. This must start in earnest in 2010 (I know it's already started, but I'm on vacay...so by 2010, I mean January 12th, 2010). This may mean I have to stop eating Brie wheels like one might eat an apple. It may also mean that I can't pretend that kissing boys is a reasonable alternative to actual exercise (although I keep finding myself making this justification, despite the ill-advisedness of the kissing in general).

2. Be employed. Ok...so I've been working on this since late November, but it's one I desperately need to fulfill. Desperately. I've been a student for 8 and a half years, and while I would never say I was "starving" (see: plan abtastic), I'm starting to feel the pinchy, and I'm starting to feel like I want to be (gasp!) an adult. One with adult furniture and plates I bought myself and haircuts I didn't get in somebody's basement.

Interestingly, yesterday I kind of got a job offer. It was an interesting paradox, as I was getting a ride from my Daddy to meet my friend so I could stay for supper, and talking on the cell-phone I needed help from my Mommy to get (yes, even at the tender age of 25!). As I was talking, my father kept whispering at me to say "Yes." instead of "Yeah, uh-huh, awesome, etc."

I'm pretty sure I'll be employed by year's end, but this adulthood thing is concerning to me. I can't even stop TALKING like a 14-year-old.

3. Learn to speak French. My Dad's a French teacher. It would then follow that I can speak French. Not so. I remember being cornered in grade 10 by a student teacher while I was waiting outside my French class (taught by my father...yeah...high school was kind of messed), and she asked me in French if we spoke it at home. She was super disappointed when I answered, in English "No, we don't. We're English," as my classmates snorted at me with ridicule. Well, it turns out my unilingualism is finally biting me in the ass. It'll be difficult to attain resolution 2, job offer notwithstanding, without achieving this goal. but French is the language of love, yes? So I should think of night-school French classes as hotness lessons, right?

4. Learn to play the guitar. Last year, I kept only one resolution, but made about ten. The only one I was able to keep was learning to knit. Anyway, I feel like hot people play open mic nights, and lead the chorus at beach bonfires, etc. I also feel like a guitar is way more portable than my piano (which I actually play very well, thanks). So, I'm going to learn to play guitar (at least a few songs). Step 1, get guitar. Step 2, learn to play it. I feel pretty confident because my track record with "learning to" do stuff has been pretty good. Like, 100% success over one year. The hidden advantage of this is that I also kind of feel like guitar instuctors are hot (since they also, obviously, play guitar), and this is obviously a score for me.

5. Have better taste in music. I was actually super-ashamed to say what I was listening to in the airport just after Christmas. There is really no excuse for my embarrassing taste in music. I know it's bad. The worst of it is I have a number of friends who are musicians and one who is actually quite a well-respected music critic. I must listen to better music. I must.

In that spirit, I have opened up the comments section of the blog. Please contribute to the late music education of this girl who has extended her adolescence (including its music) far too long, by posting your personal hot people can't live without this album pick. Please.

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.