For When I Miss You

As far back as I can remember, my Uncle Lynn loved to tease me. He got a real kick out of it and we loved to banter. For a reason that I still don’t know, he called me “Peggy Sue”. Everytime he saw me, he’d call me Peggy Sue and ask for a kiss (This is already hard to write). As a child, it was funny. I’d respond with “That’s not my name” and run away. As I turned into a surly teenager, I’d scowl at him and mutter how it wasn’t my name and not to call me that. It eventually turned into me not even responding to him until he used my actual name. When I was a young adult, I tolerated the name, rolling my eyes at him as I said hello. As I matured, I really started to see how special the name was.

It wasn’t long after I started enjoying the nickname that my uncle wasn’t feeling well. It was cancer. Lung cancer. He was a heavy smoker and had spent most of his adult life working in the mines. He had just retired earlier that year, his plan to be at home with my aunt, enjoying his family and friends. It didn’t look good and we were all preparing for the worst. This was in October, 2008. Days before Christmas, my aunt and uncle got a call from his doctor. The cancer was operable! What an amazing gift. They scheduled him to have surgery in January. The surgery went smoothly and they were able to remove all the cancer from his lungs. But he wasn’t improving.

The cancer had spread to his brain and he got weaker and weaker and smaller and smaller. He died in June. My heart broke watching my aunt and cousins at his funeral. I only remember bits and pieces of that day. I remember picking up my grandma from the nursing home to attend the funeral. I remember how green the country side was. I remember I wore a blue dress. I remember my dad speaking. I remember the tears. And I remember thinking I’d give anything to be called Peggy Sue just one more time.

1st World Problems: Searching for Eyeliner

So, I love Shopper’s Drug Mart. It’s one of my favourite stores. And most of the time, I find the women in the Beauty Boutique to be very friendly and helpful. Most of the time.

Back in December, I needed a black, waterproof, liquid eyeliner. So I went in to Shopper’s. The lady asked if she could help me find something and I told her exactly what I was looking for. She pointed me in the direction of Lise Watier. I love Lise Watier cosmetics. There is some great stuff there. And the beauty rep told me they had a really great waterproof liner that was new for the holidays. Great. Sold. I get home and try it out and it’s sparkly. Not really sparkly, more shimmery. It’s quite lovely, but not what I wanted. However, it was the holiday season so I kept it.

This past weekend was a Shopper’s points event where I could spend my points and get up to $100 worth of free stuff, instead of the $85 that I had accumulated. So I decided to look for a black, waterproof, liquid eyeliner again. I went to a different Shopper’s drug mart and told the beauty rep (the bitchy one who is working every single time I go in there) exactly what I was looking for. Since I was already in front of the Lise Watier display, she suggested that brand and found me a black, waterproof, liquid eyeliner. I said to her, “Now this is just black, right? It’s not sparkly or shimmery or anything like that? It’s just black?” She responded with, “Yes.” I said, “Are you sure?” Again, she said, “Yes.” I believed her. She should know what she’s doing, right? Wrong. I get home and open up the eyeliner and it’s the exact same shimmery liner the other rep sold me. What are the chances?! How hard is it to give me what I want when you’re the expert and I detail for you exactly what I am looking for? This time, I returned it. At a different Shopper’s. And that rep exchanged it for me. I haven’t tried the new one out yet, but my hopes are high.

Captain Sweatpants

I was hesitant to write this post, but then I came up with a very good argument for which to write it: Fuck ’em.

I got involved with a man that I should not have and I ended up hurt. That’s another reason I waited to write this. I don’t like admitting when I get hurt. It makes me vulnerable. I don’t like giving another person enough power to hurt me. It’s probably why I don’t enter into relationships. And why I’ve devised a plan and put it into action over the last week or so. I call it…Project Super Sex (I’m still working on the name. It may change.) It involves me having more casual sex. And it’s making for some great stories so far.

Remember Captain Sweatpants? I said I wasn’t going to date him, and I’m still sticking with that. I have absolutely no romantic interest in this man whatsoever. But physically, well, like I said, he’s pretty good-looking. Before I made the decision about CSP, I wouldn’ t have ever talked to him again based on my reasons for not dating him. But, since I made my decision around the same time that I met him, I figured I’d better put my plan into action. So when he kept texting me after our “date”, I agreed to let him come and see me and decided I should be wearing sweatpants when he came. It’s only fair, right? He showed up at my house around 10pm, in sweatpants. What a surprise.  We had a couple drinks and listened to music and he talked. A lot. I know a lot about this man. Including the fact that he is afraid of cats, even sweet, tiny, wouldn’t even think about scratching or biting, Baby Kitty. Every time she came near him, he jumped up off the couch. At one point, he got up to change the music and I was checking him out. Imagine my surprise when he bent over and it appeared that he was wearing jeans UNDERNEATH his sweatpants! Yes, you just read that correctly. I asked him about it. He said that he wears sweatpants over top of his jeans to stay warm. And also so that he’s always ready. For instance, if he’s at work, and wants to go out afterwards, he doesn’t have to go home and change. Or, you know, just carry a pair of jeans in his car and change on the fly like a normal person. Because that would be silly. Also, a friend just mentioned to me how fitting it is that for someone who often goes pantsless and prefers to not wear pants, of course I’d find a man who likes to wear multiple pairs of pants at once.

We spent way too much time talking. I do not care what kind of music he listens to, or how his mom and dad met, or what his roommates do for fun. I just want him to get down to the business of taking my pants off. And his. ALL his pants. So when we finally did make it to the bedroom, I discovered this: Underneath his jeans that were underneath his sweatpants, he was wearing a pair of shorts. And underneath his hoodie, he was wearing 2 t-shirts and an undershirt. This man is all about the layers. Not only that, he told me that sometimes, (are you ready for this?) he will wear up to 6 pairs of pants at one time. Now, in my defense, he told me this AFTER we had sex. I’m not sure that it would have been weird enough for me to kick him out of my house, but you never know. I may have said, you know what, 6 pairs of pants is just too many pants. Get out. I’m not sure if I’ll see him again. He’s in Saskatoon for work right now, so maybe if he comes home on the weekends. After we finished, he wanted to go at it again. I told him to put all his pants back on and go away because it was 1:30am and I had to work in the morning. He also wanted to get together again the next night and asked me to message him. I did neither. One of us has to play the part of the disinterested man.

I had never thought about it before, but is it too much to ask that I find a man who wears only one pair of pants at a time? And if he does wear a second pair of pants, that they be skipants because he’s riding a sled or going ice fishing? Are my expectations just too high? I’m going to have to add this to my list of things I’m looking for in a dateable man.

I’m developing a list of the types of men I should be sleeping with. I like to make up little games to play. It’s very fun for me, especially when all the players don’t even know they’re playing. For instance, I used to play a game I called “Email Suck”. It was with a friend who really sucked at emailing. I’d ask her how her weekend was and she’d say ‘good’ or ‘it was a shitshow’. No other explanation as to what she did. Then I would say, ‘why was it a shitshow’? And she would say, ‘oh, just all sorts of crazy things happened’. So one day I came up with this game, but obviously I did not tell her. Our conversation went something like this:

Me: Good morning! How are you today?

Her: Morning! I’m good. How are you?

Me: I’m alright. How was your evening?

Her: It was good.

Me: Good.

Her: How was your night?

Me: Good.

Her: That’s good.

Me: lol (At this point, I thought, “I’ve won!” There’s no way she can get simpler than that!”)

Her: 🙂 (Are you fucking kidding me?!)

Me: *blank email* (That’ll fucking show her!)

Her: Are you ok today? Your emails are kind of weird. (Success! I win!)

One time, I went on a roadtrip with this same friend and some of her girlfriends. At the time, there were about 3 phrases that they all used over and over and over. So I thought it would be fun to play a little drinking game and drink every time one of them uttered a phrase on my drinking list. How did it go, you ask? I lost my phone, left my purse at the bar, left the bar by myself around midnight, don’t remember how or if I paid for the cab, threw up all over the hotel bathroom, and woke up with my pajamas on backwards and covered in vomit. Success? Success.

So, any suggestions on the types of men I should put on my list? It’s like a sexy scavenger hunt. I can already check off number 1: Man who wears more than one pair of pants at a time.

The Bar Was Weird

So, I had kind of a weird night. I had 3 birthday parties to attend, but I only made it to one. I’m still not feeling quite myself so I wasn’t all pumped up to be going out. I didn’t even plan on drinking. Once I got there, the birthday girl was happy to see me, and as is often the case, I felt a little pressure to bring out a certain side of me: the fun, party side. Normally, I’m happy to do this. But with the way I’ve been feeling, it just wasn’t in me to be that person tonight. I tried. I had more drinks than I had planned on, and got a nice little buzz going early on. I decided to surtay where I was because I was too drunk to drive anywhere else, but I was also too sober to really enjoy myself. And the bar was weird.

O’Hanlon’s is a nice pub atmosphere. Except on Saturdays. On Saturdays, it turns into every other dirty club in the city. The people there confused me. Hipster boys in plaid with their bar star girlfriends, men and women pierced and tattooed on every visible inch of their bodies, douchebags in sideways hats and Ed Hardy, men in suits, women in 5 inch heels and mini skirts, and the 3 black guys. And every single one of them was trying so hard to look like they weren’t trying. It felt like, if you were to interview all these people, they’d all bitch about the caliber of people who go to Habano’s or Pure, and how they hate clubs and would never be caught dead there, but they ALL immediately start singing and dancing when Destiny’s Child’s “Say My Name” starts playing (I witnessed this tonight).

I came home at 1230. That was enough for me.

PS. I’ve noticed a new trend in the men who are interested in me. Middle eastern guys are all up on this these days.

PPS. Even though I didn’t particularly enjoy the men I encountered tonight, I did enjoy their height. All the tall men in Regina are hiding out at O’Hanlon’s on a Saturday night.

Weigh Day

I’m down 4.2 pounds! It’s actually probably around 10 pounds though since I didn’t record my weight gain during my 17 days with pms. And although the weight loss is sweet, it’s not due to any kind of hard work or dedication. Pure flu virus. So, yayfluforgettingmebackontrack?!

BTW, I STILL have the flu. That’s right. This is day number 8. Nothing is simple with this body anymore.