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.

Hot People are Completely Hairless

I waxed my eyebrows earlier this week, although I don't know why I waxed them. First of all, it wasn't exactly as though I had a couple of furry caterpillars crawling across my face in the first place, and secondly, I'm generally not doing anything where the state of my eyebrows really matters. The only men I've so much as SEEN over the past month have either been crusty old (or handsome, but married - OR handsome, but unattractively full of themselves) doctors, gay nurses (I know...not all male nurses are gay...just all the ones I've met), and of course, denim guy. Call me picky, but none of those guys really turns my crank.

Also, it hurts. A whole bunch.
This picture is of embarrasingly poor quality and was taken AFTER the esthetician had moisturized the area, AND I had bussed home. So really, it doesn't give the full picture. However, directly after, I looked as though I had some sort of tribal henna tattoo or cattle brand applied to my face...sort of like this:Now, my face is constantly exposed to the elements. Surely, in all these years of snow and sunburn and expired makeup, I've developed some sort of shield for the pain (And believe me, it was still very painful). But it occurs to me that some women wax other parts of their bodies. They wax parts of their bodies that (hopefully) are not constantly exposed to a constant onslaught of snow and sunburn and expired makeup...parts of their body that are very...sensitive.

The reason I'm so concerned is that beach season is pretty much here and I foresee having problems with "foliage." There's really no good way to get rid of it. I have a problem with shaving...first of all, it's a weird angle...and I don't REALLY want to be fooling around with a razor in an area with which I can't make DIRECT eye contact. There are creams...but again...sensitive area...corrosive creams strong enough to MELT HAIR??? The last thing any of us wants down there is a chemical burn.

So my last choice is waxing, which brings with it a few concerns as well. First of all, it pretty much necessitates that I allow a complete stranger to (A) stare at my "bikini area" (what a great "family-friendly" expression) for 30 to 60 minutes, and (B) inflict pain upon it in exchange for money. There's just something a little messed up about that. Especially since there are only a select few who have seen my "bikini area," and that was under the express conditions that they NOT inflict pain upon it (and for the record, I did not pay them).

I'm also still very concerned about that cattle brand. How long will it stay? How hard will it be to walk?

Obviously, I'm not quite ready for the goo, press and pull down there just yet...but I'm thinking by August, I'm going to have to give it a try. Pain is beauty?

Hot People Definitely Don't Go Cougar Clubbing

While there's something to be said for being one of the five prettiest girls at the club, sometimes it just doesn't mean that much.

For example, last night my roommate and I were invited out by a woman nearly twice our age to go out with some of her friends. My roommate unknowingly accepted an invitation out to the club because she thought she was being invited for dinner...not one to pass up free food, she accepted before she knew what she was getting into. Since we've been pretty much caged up in our apartments for the last few weeks, I thought it would be fun to tag along anyway...you know, see the sights of our new city.

Ok, so I should start off by letting you know that we were looking pretty fine (I think so anyway...). Observe. I was pretty proud of my outfit choice and my continued makeup skillz (note my use of blending brush in this gratuitously narcissistic self-portrait)
Don't I look intense? Yeah...but anyway, I understand that I may not look hot just yet by many people's standards, but you really just have to understand where we were. First, meet our chaperone.
We were greeted first by her mushroom cloud of perfume (I say mushroom cloud because it was strong enough to knock us over when we opened the door to her car), then by her delightful hairdo. From this angle it looks almost reasonable, but let me tell you, from the back view you can see that parts of it stand a full four inches above her head. FOUR INCHES!!! It was amazing to behold...not to mention nearly impossible to smother my gleeful laughter at beholding it. She, and she alone, must be the driving force behind Vidal Sassoon's continued success in the world of hairspray.

Upon realizing who we were spending our evening with, I decided that there was really nothing for it but to get completely drunk'd. This may have been my greatest mistake. By the time we got in the cars to go from our hostess' fine abode (it really was quite nice) to "the club" I'm pretty sure walking (let alone anything that might involve any sort of gross motor skill) was more or less out of the question.

I said at the beginning that we were among the five hottest people in the bar. I think your introduction to my hostess has put that into perspective, but if it does not, perhaps the fact that the result of me trying to look sexy (at least I think that's what I'm trying to do here...the two drinks in one hand really adds to my appeal, no?) had only negligible effect on my standings in the hotness rankings.

That being said, I learned many things last night.

1. The DJs here will play anything you want if you first bait them about how the DJs where you're from do it better, then subsequently provide them with hugs (I'm not really sure that EVERY hug was worth the songs he played).

2. The stripper pole is harder to use than hoe-bags in shresses make it seem.

3. Even if you dance with the best looking single guy in the club, it doesn't really count for much if he's clad head-to-toe in denim. (I actually also danced with another man who was much better looking, but my roommate was too intoxicated to use my camera properly, so unfortunately, no record was kept of that delightful encounter). I'm not sure what we're doing here...

4. ALWAYS have a quarter in your pocket for when shit gets real (or in this case, you start to realize that you're not only among the prettiest, you're actually also among the youngest people around, by a sizeable margin). It's also helpful to remember a cab number or two.

So in conclusion, our first night on the town was a moderate success, but I think we'll try somewhere a little more age appropriate next time...and possibly will forego hearing Flo Rida's "Get Low" if it means I can keep my hugs to myself.

Hot People "Dear John" Their Vices

Dear Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Ice Cream,

I don't know how to put this gently; it's over. We have to stop this on-again-off-again thing we have.

You have to stop "accidentally" meeting me in the freezer aisle while I'm looking for frozen blueberries. You have to stop pretending you need a ride to the check-out aisle in my basket. You REALLY have to stop showing up in my life during moments of weakness and depositing your life in my freezer, taking up door space and using up all the cold air.

Being with you is bad for me. You encourage me to lie on the couch all evening and watch Top Model reruns. You suck me into your lazy game.

Tell your friends Fuzzy Peaches and Chocolate Mint Rosettes to leave me alone too. I mean, at least they have the decency to be gone the next day, but they're toxic too and all they leave me with is empty cardboard boxes and torn up cellophane bags.

I know we'll both have to be strong these next few months. This hurts me too. I'll miss your creaminess, your bitter chocolate chips, and the slight saltiness of your doughy bits. But it's not meant to be. This has to be goodbye.

Miss T

Hot People Don't Have Inappropriate Thoughts About the Cable Guy

I moved this past weekend, which explains my notable absence from all things internet (save for a brief sojourn thieving wireless from a gas station near my grandparents' house, in the home of the Canadian swine flu outbreak). I don't really want to talk about packing or moving too much, because as you can see, I enjoyed it thoroughly.

This is my response to our successful packing of our cargo van rental. The rest of my stuff was packed into a storage unit, which according to my Dad looks like "Bugs Bunny's closet"...I'm not sure what that means, and I can find no youtube videos to demonstrate, so you'll just have to understand that when I open the door, I might be buried forever under my chattles.

One of the many joys of moving is reinstalling the phone, internet and cable, which I'd been without for 6 entire days until yesterday. My roommate was especially excited because her stories (Big Bang Theory & HIMYM) were on that night. We watched from our third floor window to see if the van was coming down our cul-de-sac, fogging up the windows and making hand-prints on the panes like kids looking in at the animals in the pet store. Finally he came, but he stayed in the van for like...forever! My roommate went to her room to steal wireless from a neighbour, asking me periodically if he was coming. I kept saying no, until finally when I looked out, he was bent over into the back of the van. "I can see his bum," I said.

After we finished giggling at that, I thought...this really is the perfect set-up for a porno...two studious girls in the health professions and a repair man? Classic! I could hear the bow-chicka-bow-wow running through my head right away.

We giggled silently as he installed our cable in the living room. Then he went to my room to plug in the phone and internet. Here's where things get interesting: I didn't bring any furniture with me when I moved except for a bed and a collapsible table. Serously, my clothes are mainly in boxes on the floor of my closet because I didn't have room to bring a dresser. This meant that the handy spot for my trusty (and slightly mashed up) box of lubricated condoms was not in the top drawer of my bedside table (because I didn't bring one), but rather on the floor directly beside my bed, in totally plain view. Fab. Now it wasn't just an hilarious porn in my head, but also in the cable guy's head...only the biggest of hoe-bags keep condoms NEXT to the bed, ON THE FLOOR IN PLAIN SIGHT.

THEN, the cable guy was experiencing some "technical difficulties," so he had to call in a friend. That meant TWO repair guys, TWO studious girls in the health professions. For reals, now, the only thing keeping this from reaching traditional hardcore territory was that we were all wearing clothes, and none of us was wearing platform shoes or deep v-neck shirts.

Now, neither of these cable guys was particularly interesting, from a looks point of view. They were ok, but certainly not jaw-droppingly hawt. This can, therefore, mean only one thing about my current state of mind. To coin a tired "You know you [insert quality here] when [insert hilarious incident here] phrase," you know you need a little somethin' somethin' when you start having inappropriate thoughts about the cable guy.

Ironically, when I finally checked my email, there were 69 messages in my box. Do you think that's a sign?

Hot People Don't Get Lost in Potholes

I'm moving next week to a city I've never been to before. Therefore, my soon-to-be roommate and I thought it would be a good idea to take a little roadtrip up there to get the lay of the land. I'm sure you can imagine what kind of hijynx I could get into on this kind of caper.

The first snafu happened before we'd even left home. I got a call the night before from my soon-to-be roommate saying that her car had stalled in the middle of the road and we couldn't take it the next day. Because my roommate's mother gets a corporate discount, she booked a car in my name, necessitating that my credit card information be used for the most convoluted game of telephone ever (if I see that she's gone to Costa Rica on my credit card - unlikely, since it's maxed out anyway....). I was told we'd be driving a Chevy Cobalt or a Ford Focus, or something of the like...which was fine. Those are run-of-the-mill domestic cars, both of which I've driven before. When I got there, they gave me a Mitsubishi Galant. Hmmm. Instead of a $16000 car that didn't belong to me, I'd be driving at $28000 car that didn't belong to me. That's not the least bit stressful.

I took it on the road and it was a nice drive. You can tell by how excited I am.
The ride to our destination city was pretty uneventful. We checked out our apartment, got directions from our building manager in the smokiest rental office I've ever been in (seriously, we couldn't see each other from two feet away...our airways closed up in disgust!), and then headed to the gas station to fill up. That's when things got...funky. I pulled up to the pump, got out, and then realized I couldn't open the gas cap because there was no little pull-spot on the door. I got back into the car to look for a release in the driver's console...nada. I looked again on the door. I looked again at the console. I pulled away from the pump because, at this point, there was a small line-up of angry-looking motorists awaiting their fill-up while I was fannying about between the trunk and the driver's seat. Then I got the manual out - a trick I'd seen before during an hilarious "Are the lights on, or aren't they?" situation on a previous road trip. While I'm perusing the manual (I'm sucking my finger here because I bent my fingernail back trying to close the door of the car)...my roommate checks out the front console, then heads back to the gas tank to see what's up. She figures it out by accident. Apparently, you push on the wrong side, and the right side of the door opens. Genius. So intuitive.

Once we were filled up, we headed into the greater city to set up our power bill, tenant's insurance and figure out where a couple other essentials were (the gym, the grocery store, Cora's Breakfast and Lunch). Despite having a map and a small arsenal of Google Maps print-offs, we got lost like, a zillion times. To illustrate, we drove over the same toll-bridge twice. Once on purpose, but I thought we were getting on the bridge to cross the river back to our original point, and as it turned out, we had already crossed without my noticing (concerning, when you consider that I was the one driving). It did allow me some practice at tossing my quarters in the bin, though...which I'd never done before and it made me more nervous than driving in a strange city.

After a number of 87-point turns in strangers' driveways, we were headed back to our happy homeland (and we were happy to be headed back...we're moving to a dirty, dirty city...it's going to be a long summer). While I thought the worst was over, driving-wise, Mother Nature had something else in store for me. It had been threatening rain all day, but after a few hours in our destination city, it had seemed to clear up. However, once we were on the highway, we were met with torrential rains the likes of which would decimate a divinely-protected ark (our ark, which only had two of one animal in it, was obviously doomed). My roommate is a nervous driver, and moans with extreme urgency when she's worried we're going to hydroplane (also when she sees dead animals on the road, and when she's excited to see live ponies in the fields next to the road). The moaning surprised me every time, which meant I jumped to alertness every time, which meant I did a small fishtail every time, which meant she would moan again...it was a vicious circle made worse by vicious rains.

Even when the rain cleared, though, we weren't quite safe. Our next trial was to endure the giant potholes of Eastern Canada. Most of them were of reasonable size and depth, but since they're EVERYWHERE, it's useless to swerve to avoid them (otherwise, you'll end up in the ditch or the median). At one point, I decided to put my tires on the shoulder to straddle them - which frightened my roommate because she thought I was driving off the road. "No, I'm doing this on purpose!" I cried, just before a large-ish crater came into view. Totally unable to avoid it, I braced for impact, my roommate screamed - the car dipped - I prepared to be lost forever because surely THIS pothole was a portal to another dimension - but soon we were driving on solid ground again. We had conquered it! We braved the pothole and lived to tell the tale. All other potholes seem like pockmarks in the road in comparison!

I'm home now, safe and sound, despite the rains, the potholes, and the gale-force winds that met me at the Tantramar marsh (some of them nearly pushed me into the other lane on the highway...good thing it's twinned). I'm pretty sure my roommate will never drive with me again, or go out in the rain. And I'm definitely not looking forward to the move in a week.

Hot People Don't Have Visa Limits

Based on my friends' horror at my lack of makeup skillz last week, I decided to call in a professional. I got my colours done. For those of you who don't know what this means (I told one friend and she thought I was getting my hair dyed), getting your colours done means you have a professional...colour-finder?...tell you what season you are, and then they tell you what colours look best on you. The season thing kind of makes it sound a little voodoo-y, for sure...but my friend had hers done last spring and since then she's been wearing clothes that make her skin look slamming (she wasn't exactly leftover lima beans before, but she looks extra-smokin' now).

So I had my appointment and the lady told me, with such excitement, that I'm an autumn. Apparently, they're very rare. Awesome, I thought. I'm an autumn! I'm a diamond in the rough! I felt really special when she told me that. It also explained why I looked like I was dying every time I wore foundation - I'd been wearing the wrong colour. Observe (faces blurred out to protect my friends):









I am neither drunk nor deathly ill in either of these pictures...I'm just wearing foundation.

So you can see why I was pleased to learn that I could cover up my redness without also looking like the undead (Hot people look like the living living). Then she told me that autumns are hard to find clothes for. And then I remembered something about my Mom telling me I was a winter, and buying me all kinds of hot pink and ice blue and I thought, shit...this means I'm going to have to buy a whole new wardrobe. Balls. I'm already treading water in a sea of student debt with Ursula the Octopus Queen yanking me down with one of her slimy tentacles. Then the lady told me how much the makeup I agreed to buy would cost. I threw up a little in my mouth before she took my credit card. On the other hand, makeup makes me look smashing!

Just to pile on the debtor's remorse, I went shopping for sexy work clothes (new job starts in less than three weeks!) today. I took along my little swatch book that came with my consultation, and a list of absolutely necessary items. I had a budget of $200, not including shoes - but who brings along a calculator when they're going shopping?

The upside of the shopping trip is that three strangers complimented me on my dress/jeans ensemble, which I thought was kind of iffy when I put it on (it was, actually, a clever way to economize the fact that I accidentally bought a shress and forgot to take it back). However, the colour lady was right - autumns are hard to buy clothes for. My friend and I went to every store in town (I am very nearly being literal here), pulling out my swatch wallet (they give you a wallet full of little bits of fabric with the right colours for you on it!) and holding it up against the fabric of the item I wanted to to buy. YARGH!!!! The things I wanted weren't the right colour, and when I found the right colour it was too expensive. My Visa is now racked up to its limit...again, and I didn't even buy everything on my list. Jeez...being hot is expensive!