Singing the 90’s

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I can’t sing to save my life, but I love to sing. One of the best feelings in the world for me is the be cruising like a bat out of hell down an empty highway at 2am while I blast all the songs that I know all the words to so I can sing everything horribly and loudly. Except this isn’t a group exercise. I don’t do this with other people in the car. Sometimes I do it in the shower. For me, this is more of an alone activity just because I like to really let go and be ridiculous.

Let’s face it, I don’t like to be judged and therefore I try not to do things that I would get judged for. I try not to care, but lots of times I do. So when I really want to let loose, I make sure it’s just me, loud music, and a place where I can contort in a reasonable facsimile to dancing. Then I do it like no one is looking, because I’m fair certain that no one is looking.

So last night was weird. I wound up talking to a friend for a few hours over Skype and it was just a whole lot of nothing until he got excited about a song that came on his radio.

Him: Guess what song this is!

Me: It’s probably the doom song.

Him: No. Just guess the song when I sing it!

Then he belted out the lyrics from “Truly, Madly, Deeply,” by Savage Garden. I knew that song. Every. Single. Word. I’d like to say I knew every single note, but I can’t read music, but damn if I didn’t know and love that song.

So he came up with the idea that we would sing each other songs from the 90’s. Then we would guess what we were singing. I thought it was an odd idea, but ok. I went for it. And he really went for it. Song after song, he belted out like there was no tomorrow. He shouted my ear drums raw. He sang every single lyric like I do when I’m flying down a highway like a demon escaping the heavens. Every single word that left his lips sounded like he was so excited that he could have probably peed himself if he didn’t have the bladder control of a normal sober man in his mid-twenties.

At first I just kind of shy sang-spoke my lyrics. I chose my songs by skipping through a 90’s playlist that I have on my computer.

We the Cranberries, the Fugees, Nirvana, Sinead O’Connor, Smashmouth, The Smashing Pumpkins, The Backstreet Boys, House of Pain, Marcy Playground, and even the Marcarena.

Back and forth we went. Him singing his lungs raw and being so passionate that he was about to lose control of his bladder and me, just gently singing whatever lyrics I could find.

WannabeUntil “Wannabe” came on by the Spice Girls.

I can’t resist “Wannabe”. When that song comes on, I stop caring about anything because this is just such a ridiculous song from my pre-teenagehood that I have to not care. When that song comes on, the rest of the world can go fudge itself. I have to sing. It’s like a weird singing poltergeist possesses me. I start to contort and flail around while my face scrunches up like it does when I’m having a hard time pooping. My toes curl! My mouth opens ever so slightly. And that’s when all the words to this song come pouring out like some sort of song vomit because this is what I really really want. This weird happy feeling that I only get when I’m having fun or drinking espresso. The hyper, giddy, giggly feeling as all the words ejaculate themselves off my tongue and into the air as sounds.

After that it was on. My friend and I spent another hour belting out our favourite songs from the 90’s. Then with sore throats, and raspy voices we said good night and went on to do other things that normal adults do when it’s 10pm and you have to get up the next morning for work.

 

3.10 – Cleaning

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Most of this used to end up on the floor then get tossed back on the shelf whenever I cleaned.

I am about one of the messiest people that you will ever come across. For the most part it’s not an unsanitary mess, it’s just a lot of clutter on account of me being a little bit of a pack rat. As I’ve grown up my mess has moved from toys, books and forgotten sammiches to being books, clothes and random clutter.

As a result my mom will sometimes clean my room and I do my best to avoid that.

Now that I’m not living at home she waits until I leave for school and then I get a text in the middle of the week saying “I’m sorry” which means she just went in and cleaned my room. Basically she walks into my room and cleans up all the little bits of clutter that drives her crazy. Then I go home on my next break and make another mess.

We’ve gone back and forth like this for a while now. Mom knows that if she wants my room to be clean, she probably has to do it herself because when I clean, I make my room “clean for me” which is a “bloody stinkin’ mess” to her.

I can’t count the number of times my mom has given up on my idea of clean and has charged into my room to clean it herself…including that one time in my first year of university when she cleaned my dorm room in front of my dormmates because it was such a “frickin’ mess”. I helped her, but I wasn’t allowed to stop cleaning once we got to my standard of clean…we had to keep cleaning until she was happy with how tidy my little hole in the wall was. Thusly, I learned my lesson:

When mom comes to visit, clean your room!

So tonight I cleaned my room and it’s…clean compared to what it was before. Sadly, once I hit that point of clean I’ve cleaned my little heart out and I give up. I promise to try and wake up and clean some more and if I don’t…well time with my mom is time with my mom. Even if it’s spent with her telling me to quit screwing around and clean my room!

Day 8.6 – On Muscle Memorization

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The Banana

I’m one of those people who had the “good ole days” of high school and more than that my “glory days” were also in high school. Why? Well, because I played a lot of sports. Basketball, softball, volleyball, rugby and netball all kept me busy throughout my school year. During my regular basketball season I would usually wind up with 3-5 hours worth of cardio exercise squeezed in here, there and everywhere. On a good day I would wind up working out for up to 7 hours. I was so in shape and actually so flexible that I could…bend over backwards!

(I’m the one on the far right)

However, now I’m going on 25 years old and all of those shenanigans are things of my past. I’m no where near as fit as I was in high school and I’d be surprised if I ever got back to that level of fitness. I mean, by my senior year I was living by a Lute Olsen basketball video that said a good post player should be able to run a mile a day…which I did happily, but now that I prefer to think of round as a shape, that mile long run is not going to happen any time soon.

I am happy to report that I am slowly forcing myself back into shape. I’ve banned the idea of “round is a shape” from my mind and I’m attempting to work out on a consistent basis though my work outs are different from the ones I did back in high school. They are slower, more controlled and involve more pain than I remember going through as a teenager. The pain is a given in my mind, however, because since high school I’ve dislocated my right shoulder twice, tore up the ligaments in my right knee and all around damaged and destroyed my body to the point where I can almost feel the rain in my bones now.

The thing that really amuses me though is the fact that my body still remembers how to do everything to an extent. It’s amazing how all the muscle memorization exercises that I put myself through have paid off through out the years. Here, check out the upsides of my muscles instinctively knowing how to do somethings even though I may not mentally be all there through out my growing up years:

High school: No matter how tired I got in high school, I always had perfect form on my foul shot. Not only that, but I could close my eyes while standing on the foul line and consistently sink 6/10 foul shots with my eyes either closed or blindfolded. Yes, I tested this out a number of times just to see if I could do it. I didn’t have much of a life in high school, but whatever I gave a new meaning to “taking a shot in the dark” in my  teenage mind and that was cool enough.

First and Second Years of University: I could do it drunk! It’s not my proudest admission, but there are a couple of instances in my university years where I had a few too many drinks, would get suckered into playing strip something or ruther and would eventually con some over eager guy into playing strip basketball with me. Not only could I make a great foul shot with my eyes closed, but my I had trained my body so well in high school that I could play basketball or basketball shooting games while completely drunk of my ass and actually look sober doing it.

My Early Early Twenties: At this point my parlour tricks of shooting foul shots blindfolded and playing basketball drunk had gotten old. But for intramural and drop in basketball, being able to play basketball with a decent amount of basketball intelligence and not being a total klutz was awesome. In fact, I made a little bit of money off of it in a few cases. For those of you who have seen “White Men Can’t Jump” know how the hustle works. I’d show up at a gym, get onto a pick up team and everyone would whine about having “the girl” on their team…so people would toss some money around and then “Oh snap!” I was actually really good and I’d make a little bit of money for all my troubles. Plus at this point I was still flexible enough that I could bend over backwards and do some other bendy things and I wound up meeting a few men who thought a girl who would literally bend over backwards for them was darn neat.

Image from stacktv.stack.com/Football/Darren-Sharper-Workout/Darren-Sharper-Ladder-Drill-1.html

Present Day Twenties: I’m grossly out of shape. Unless you count round as a shape…then I am very muchly in shape! However, I am banning that way of thinking from my mind, so I’m sticking with the fact that I am grossly out of shape and trying to fix that. I can no longer bend over backwards, but you know what? My body still remembers how to do somethings really well despite the fact that I’ve packed on more pounds than anyone should ever pack on, I’m still somewhat bendy. That and my body is much happier jogging up and down a court dribbling a basketball than it is running on a treadmill. Slowly as I push myself to get into shape, my body is remembering what it feels like to run hard, jump high and do all sorts of other things that I get sore doing…or even just thinking about. I find myself running harder than I had originally planned. I also find myself laughing because I’ve also taken a couple of Zumba classes and in those classes I look like a total fool because I’m a total klutz and can’t seem to wiggle my hips while moving to music even though I can easily work through some old ladder exercises that I have.

My body remembering how to do all the old things that I used to do on a daily basis has been my saving grace in getting back into shape. I honestly think that if I had relearn how to run, jump and move as an athlete I would give up faster than I can say “round is a shape”. Thankfully that’s not the case and all that’s left to do is to get back into shape and try not to giggle as my extra pounds on my butt bounce and jiggle as I work out.

In all seriousness, when I run, jump or walk quickly, I can feel my butt moving. It feels like I have jello stored in my shorts or something.

Day 6.6 – My First Pregnancy Scare

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Shortly after I broke up with my first boyfriend I started getting sick. I was tired all the time, my tummy hurt and I felt like I was going to throw up all day and I’d missed two periods. Oh and my tits hurt like a mother truckers. Seriously, I could barely touch them without wanting to scream in pain. My nipples were worse and I went bra-less everywhere I went and was topless at every opportunity. Now I figured I was just sick because I was living in dorms that summer while I took summer courses and my room was easily 25-30 degrees (Celsius, because I’m Canadian) in the afternoon. Who wouldn’t be sick when you were living in that heat and not eating properly because you had an upset tummy and puked at least once a day?

Now, missing my period wasn’t a big deal to me. In high school I often would miss periods during volleyball, basketball and rugby seasons because I worked out a lot and was constantly stressed because I’m a spazz. So I figured that I was missing periods because I was stressed. I mean I’d just broken up with my boyfriend, was stressed from school and all sorts of other things were going on in my life that left me frazzled. Plus, like I said, I’m a spazz.

I went on like this until I rolled up on the week before missing my third period. I was talking to one of my friends from back home (This friend is now also my dental hygienist) on MSN Messenger and mentioned how I was feeling. Right away she read how I was feeling as something else. Soon another two friends were added to the conversation. Both were friends from back home. One was a new mommy and the other was a good friend from high school. Boy, did I feel like an idiot. I’d reasoned all pregnancy symptoms to other things when chances were, I was knocked up.

Now this was back in 2007 when I’d just turned 20 and hadn’t quite figured out a plan for if I ever wound up preggers. I’d spent the last year in a committed monogamous relationship where we planned on getting married and having a life together. I knew that a pregnancy would eventually happen – either not using condoms (I’ve been on birth control since I was 16) was going to catch up to me or we were probably going to deliberately try to make a baby. But what the frick was I going to do if I wound up knocked up outside of a relationship? Would I turn it into a dumpster baby? Would I have it, keep it, name it and attempt to raise it into functional member of society? Would I have it and let someone adopt my bastard child? The frick would I do if a sea monkey decided to take root in my uterus?

After talking to my friends they had me convinced to take a pregnancy test. The Hygienist insisted that I go and get a test right then and there. She told our other friend to take one and she turned out pregnant. But that other friend is an amazing month. Me on the other hand…I was kind of thinking ignoring the fact that I might be pregnant in the hopes that I might just…pop the thing out in a toilet and I could flush it away. It’s awful I know, but I wasn’t ready to be a parent and attempt to rise a womb monkey and hope that it would be a good person.

In the end though, I bowed to peer pressure and wound up busing to the nearest drug store and picking up three different pregnancy tests. I got home, pulled my friends back into our MSN group chat and sat there reading the instructions for First Response which was going to be the first stick that marked up with my urine. Well, that was the plan until I read that I had to pee on the thing for thirty seconds. Now I had to pee, but hold the phone! I didn’t have to pee that much. I mean my longest ever pee lasted a solid 45 seconds and that was after several litres of water and not being able to pee for thirty minuets. Not only was I potentially knocked up, which was stressful enough, but now I had to try and pee on a stick for a set period of time?

I wasn’t a guy! I didn’t have any practice aiming my pee at anything at any time.

Well my friend solved that by saying that it helped if you peed into a cup and dipped it into there for the amount of time you had to.

That led to my next problem: I didn’t have a cup to pee in. Thus began my search for a cup to pee in. I refused to use any of my cups that I drank from for obvious reasons. After that there were a few slurpee cups laying around from 7/11 but those were kind of sticky and I didn’t feel like washing anything. Maybe I could use my soap container? Eew no. Shampoo bottle that I emptied? Again, I didn’t feel like washing anything. Then my eyes fell on a cup of gum that was in my gym bag. It was Dentyne Fire and I figured that I could empty out the gum, give it a quick rinse and then use it as my pee cup.

This entire time my friends were doing a great job of keeping me relatively calm as I found my pee cup, dumped the gum out of my cup, tossed a couple pieces into my mouth and ran off to my dorm bathroom to pee into my Dentyne pee cup.

Thanks to my friends, I’d gone through the stress of peeing in the cup and then letting the stick season it for the directed amount of time and waited the amount of time it took my urine to tell the stick whether I was knocked up or not. Keep in mind these were also the girls that I peed with behind bushes in high school, strung up tarps horribly while camping in the rain and skipped school with for the bulk of my senior year because KFC fries and gravy were too good to turn down. After that day I also added survived my very first pregnancy scare with despite the fact that I was 400 km away from them.

Naturally I wasn’t pregnant, but frick the idea of knocked up was a frightening one. As it turns out I was suffering from a mild case of heat stroke. Though I still have no idea why my boobs were as sore as they were. That eventually went away too though.

Day 5.6 – I always forget something

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I moved away from home the August after I finished high school. I was 18, I’d packed and loaded up my Uncle’s truck that we were borrowing with all of my stuff. I had everything that I could possibly need living away from home. Teddy bears, blankets, my blankie that I needed to sleep at night and pretty much everything out of my bedroom except for my bed and bedroom door. With all of that in the truck, I was ready to move away from home and start my journey as a pseudo-adult who lived on her own.I kissed my dad goodbye and me, my mom and my sister were on our way.

Or at least we were until we stopped in town to get money out of the bank and my dad drop up behind us.

He approached the truck and leaned in the window and asked if I had everything.

I replied that yes, I did.

Then he asked what I was going to wear.

I replied clothes and turned around to look in the back of the truck and noticed that the suitcase and bags that I’d packed with my clothes weren’t there. I’d forgotten to pack my clothes! All of them. As in, I was on my way to university that was 400km away from my home without any clothes except for what I had on my back. No shirts, no pants, no underwear, no socks. And I needed my socks!

So we turned around, drove back home, picked up my clothes that were packed and waiting for me and we were off again.

Ever since then I seem to have a habit of always forgetting something. No matter how many times I come back to the west coast of BC I have managed to forget to something, be it little, barely noticeable or integral to my existence, I forget one or two or many things. The point is, something always gets left behind. These things include: my dorm room keys, make-up, rugby boots, birth control, a favorite shirt, cell phone charger, glasses, basketball shoes, jackets, pants, my favorite teddy bear, Zoodle, hair ties, head bands, mittens and my wallet.

My mom drove me back to school today and after unpacking and making a right mess of my hobo hole, I came to realize that I’d forgotten two of the things that I really need and want in my life. The first was my Cartman (from South Park) pillow that is soft and covered with my drool so it’s perfect for sleeping on. The second was my iPod touch which has all of my music and is needed so that I don’t kill the people around me when I’m stuck in transit and need something to keep me amused while I wait for my bus or get stuck sitting next to another stinky person.

Sadly when my dad finds out he’s going to call me and tell me that he asked if I had my iPod. Which I thought I had. I was darn certain that it was in my little backpack. Apparently it wasn’t so dad gets to gloat because I forgot something even though he took the time go go everything that I could possibly have forgotten.

As I was heading down the steps to load up the car he asked me if I had my birth control, my books, my chargers, my phone, my iPod, my clothes and everything else that I usually forget to pack. Dad and I do this every single time as I head out the door to leave home once again and every single time I wind up getting a phone call from dad asking me to name what I forgot and then he teases me for forgetting whatever it is that I’ve forgotten.

Someday, I’ll remember everything…but today was not that day.

Day 3.5 – Condom Shopping

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Of all of my periods that I have ever gotten, I easily remember my third one. That’s the one where my mom figured out what was happening. We were driving home one night and I was sitting in the back seat and we had this extremely awkward coming of age talk that mothers have with their daughters when their daughters start their monthly reenactment of a volcanic eruption…except it’s upside down. The gist of the conversation was that if I ever thought anything was wrong then I should talk to my mom. I was eleven at the time and I didn’t have a whole lot to say to my mom since I’d yet to lose any shame that I had for whatever brief period of time that I had it. It was just a damn awkward moment to say the least.

But it wasn’t the most awkward. Having my dad on one side of the underwear section of a Wal-Mart, holding up a bra and shouting “HOW ABOUT THIS ONE?!” during my very first bra shopping trip might have been the most awkward moment of them all. However, for every awkward and embarrassing moment that I had as a pre-teen and teen meant that as an adult I would be comfortable with a lot of things. Bra shopping (It was a big deal for me because I didn’t want to start wearing bras), buying tampons, getting on the pill and staying on the pill and condom shopping.

One condoms are my favorites...they're pretty.

As my life worked out, being able to buy condoms turned out to be a skill that was much needed among myself and several of my first and second year friends. Not only that, but my comfort level with condoms was a huge asset for me and my friends. After countless trips with my dad and my sister down the “Family Planning” aisle to look at and buy condoms for our various jokes, I was ok strutting into any store and buying  a box of condoms. Sure, I was more comfortable turning condoms into balloons and science projects, but after watching my friends walk into a store to pick up a box of condoms and then fill a basket with all sorts of useless crap to hide the fact that they were buying baby stoppers I was happy for this skill I’d acquired.

One of my favorite outtings was with a girl that I lived with in dorms who was planning on having sex for the first time. We went to a Shoppers Drug Mart that was near SFU campus and my friend being the shy and easily embarrassed girl that she was, wanted to go look at everything else in the store. Suddenly she needed cover up, shampoo, batteries, toilet paper and all sorts of little things that are useless and way to expensive for an average student to be buying at Shoppers. Finally I managed to drag her to the condom section in the store and not only was the poor girl freaked out at the prospect of having to buy condoms, but she looked so damn squirrely that a security guard kept walking past us as we stood there quietly arguing over whether or not she was actually going to buy any condoms.

While I was waiting for her to actually build up the courage to look directly at the condoms, I grabbed a box of my favorite brand of rubbers and tossed them into my basket. I love One condoms. They’re pretty and they come with a cute case that I now have a small collection of. I even tried to collect the wrappers for a short period of time because they were all really neat looking, but I soon realized how icky and weird that was so I tossed out the 30-odd wrappers that I’d accumulated.

It literally took my friend 15 minuets to work up the courage just to pick out a box of sperm dams and by that time a security guard had come and stood at the end of the aisle we were in watching us. I think he was waiting for us to do something bad so after making sure my friend hadn’t picked out crappy condoms (She chose a box of Durex…the ultra thin kind) I dragged her up to the cash register to traumatize her by making her pay for her little box of naughty deeds on her own. As we were leaving the aisle I glanced over my shoulder, saw the security guard was still glaring at us so I did the only thing that I could do:

I mooned him.

And was promptly asked to leave the store which left my poor friend to pay for her anti-pregnancy devices on her own.

It took her 20 minuets and she came out with 6 bags full of stuff…but at least she got her condoms, yea?

Day 11.1 – Role Modeling

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I woke up early this morning (early for a Saturday: 9:00am) and while I was going about my morning routine I decided to check Facebook. One of the first things I saw was that in addition to 6 notifications, I had a message. It was from one of my community members back home who had seen my blog on another friends page and had been reading my various postings on here. Firstly, you should know, this community member is not on my Facebook friends list, nor do I like or respect them very much. Apparently this person had read all of my Everyday Tangents posts and was not impressed with my style of writing. Basically the message said that I was disgusting because I wrote about my sex life, posted a picture of my bra, talked about my undies and all around proved through my writing that I’m a horrible role model and should not be allowed to work with the youth of our community.

This actually reminded me of the time when I was 17, in grade 11, and stuck a snake in a girls bathroom toilet. There were others involved in my shenanigans, but I was the one who got the snake from the grade 8 boys and I was the one who physically stuck the snake in the toilet. No one knew who did it, but after some searching and threatening our vice principle found out it was me who did it and found me in a foods class on my spare block mixing drinks with a couple of my friends. I was the one in trouble and according to my vice principle and I was in double trouble because I was a role model in our tiny little school.

I told him that I didn’t ask to be a role model so I shouldn’t get in trouble because of that.

I am fair certain that plain argument saved me from my first school suspension.

However, I still got lectured on the fact that I had to be better than everyone else because I was a role model and that putting snakes in toilets was wrong because I could cause a heart attack. In a high school. There was more to this talk but I zoned in and out until he started threatening my senior year sports. I probably earned that threat because the guy was a tool and I obviously had no respect for him. Eventually our talk on being a role model ended after I showed a slight amount of contrition and I was given detention the next lunch where I had to write an essay on why I shouldn’t take snakes out of their natural habitat.

The point to this story is simple: I’ve never asked to be anyone’s role model. Over the years I’ve wound up in positions where I am a role model for younger youth and I’ve become ok with that. However, over the years I’ve made a lot of mistakes, had a lot of fun and have come out of it all with a lot of stories to share. Not only that, but over the years I’ve become a fairly decent writer and I want to continue to grow as a writer, so here I am. And here I shall stay writing about anything inspires me even if it happens to be the freakiest, nastiest and most kinked up sex I’ve ever had. Even if it means I write about drunken shenanigans, dating all sorts of men, women and mixes of the two. Even if it means that I’m writing about underwear, failing out of university and burping in public. I’ll write about all of that and more because I am perfectly comfortable with the person that I am today.

Not only that, but I have spent years working up the courage to write something that people who I know in real life and people who I have known since childhood are going to read. Now that I’m at this point, I will happily flip off anyone who doesn’t like it because guess what? It’s a free world and you don’t have to read me or anything that I write.

I realize that I’m handling a little criticism very poorly, but you know what? I’ve put a lot of thought and passion into my words. I can understand constructive criticisms, but I will not let a mean and malicious attack go unnoticed.

So onto the main jist of this entry: I’ve never asked to be a role model, but I am and I’m happy to be one. However, one of your jobs as a parent and guardian is to teach your children how to choose their role models. It’s my job not to be a truly awful person and I accept that.

It is also my job to be perfectly who I am. I grew up in a community that believed it takes an entire community to raise a child…and they did. Not only did they raise me, but they brought up a lot of us. Through support, education, lots of encouragement and letting us be exactly who we are, we all grew up into amazing individuals. Not only am I different from the girls my age, but I’m different from the girls older and younger than me. Sometimes it’s deliberate because being different is fun, and sometimes it’s not so deliberate because I can’t help being exactly who I am.

Ergo, I am who I am and I’m not going to apologize for it. I’m happy with the person that I’ve become and not only am I happy, but I’m healthy and doing what I’m passionate about. Not only that but I don’t think of sex as a dirty thing, I don’t do drugs unless they’re prescribed by a professional and I’m not an alcoholic. I’m a forward minded, First Nations woman who is proud of exactly who she is, who she was and who she is becoming. I realize that I’ve made mistakes, I know that I’m going to make more, but because I’m the strong woman my family and community raised me to be, I’m going to keep on growing and fucking up and fucking around. I curse for emphasis because I believe swearing teaches us what we value in our lives. That all works for me.

I’d hate to advocate any of my shenanigans, but they’ve all worked for me and I think I’m pretty freaking amazing.

However, if you don’t like what I write, what I say, what I think or how I go about living my life, you don’t need to be a part of it, nor do you need to read about it. And if you think I’m a crappy role model for your kids, then that’s your issue and not mine. My issue is figuring out what the hell I’m going to write tomorrow and what I’m going to burn for dinner.