Three hundred beers

We make fun of ourselves for acting old. For enjoying a bottle of wine and playing cribbage, boggle or rummy. For making supper together and watching downloaded TV for the rest of the night.

Friday was the opposite of old and boring. It was slow dancing in the living room, a serenade while I wrote in the dust on his guitar. It was wandering over to the nearby pub, where we've never been, to watch the football game. It was being pleasantly surprised that it was also karaoke night. It was feeling popular when random girls asked if they could sing with me when my song came up -- Journey, Don't Stop Believin', of course. It was drinking three hundred beers before wrapping the night up with some Boston [More Than a Feeling]. 

Saturday was a write off. A three-hour nap before watching our Roughriders win, and watch grown men beat each other senseless at a friends' place. 

It was a whirlwind weekend of music, football, friends and a bit [maybe more than a bit] of a hangover. It was a weekend that made my heart swell and my knees go weak. A weekend where you want to say, "I love you" so many more times but it just seems like overkill. 

It's a weekend that makes the resulting week of reading worth it.

So here I am with open arms

It feels strange that after three years of accumulating, of adding to the two suitcases I dragged off the airplane, I'm decluttering.

I'm going through old pieces from my portfolio, deeming them expired. I'm throwing out old goodbye, thank you, and happy birthday messages. I tossed a stack of pictures feeling confident that if I ever care to replace them, printing is only a click away. It's easy to get lost while sitting on the floor with my legs crossed, falling deep into old memories, old decisions, the old me. I got rid of a couple of uninspired knitting projects, but the bin of yarn I keep under my bed is still overflowing. My "to read" stack of books gets unstacked and shoved into boxes, no doubt pushed aside for the next couple of years. I spend time on the phone with anyone who sends me mail, informing them of the change. I take my time walking to work, inhaling the feeling of downtown.

"Maybe it's good you're moving in over time," said Kitty. "That way, maybe he won't realize how much stuff you have."

Juicy, juicy, juicy, juicy fruit

A lot of our time during summers when we were younger was spent among the rows and rows of strawberries and peas in the giant garden on the farm. This lovely gift from the lovely Andrea took me back to those days... sitting in the dirt on the quest for the most perfectly ripe strawberry. I shall cuddle this little glass jar and whisper soothing words to this little green plant, in the hopes that someday it will provide me with even one deliciously juicy morsel.

"A part of you has grown in me, together forever shall we be, never apart, maybe in distance, but not in heart."

Dear Kiki,

You're pretty precious here, with your chubbalicious little cheeks and the coveralls with the crotch at your knees. Part of me will always remember you this way.

We haven't always been the best of friends, or even the best of sisters, but I want you to know that today, your twenty-second birthday, I'm thinking of you.

It's hard to believe how much you've grown up. It seems like when I went away to university almost seven years ago, you were going to stay my very young, very innocent, sister forever. Oh how the times have changed.

Though we're not always the best of friends, I want you to know that I try to protect you because you remind me of me. It hurts to see you make the same mistakes that I did, even though I understand why you have made them. I want you to see what a beautiful, smart (yes, you are), special girl you are. I want you to be able to see that no matter what boys tell you.

I'm glad that you're working hard, and that you've found a boy you like to be with and who thinks the world of you. I'm happy for you. And I hope that you crazy kids have a fantastic time at the concert I'm sending you tickets for. Promise to have a drink and think of me... the old times sneaking out the window of your room and taking long walks down the back country roads in our pajamas (and hiding in the ditches whenever we saw headlights).

I understand you, and you, me. My life is better with you in it.

Happy birthday, dear Kiki.

"Sisterhood is a messy, fragmentary, ambiguous thing, an indiscriminate jumble of love, hate, amity, enmity, to be teased out bit by bit." Penelope Farmer

I bring this on myself

I've been listening to country music all day; one pink earbud dangling from my left ear and my right foot tappin' under my desk. It's my own fault. Summer is on the horizon, and by summer, I mean those things that makes it feel like summer. Warm weather, drinks on the patio, my BFF and the littlest sister (at the same time). The baby, baby sister will be here for the entire summer... she just happens to move here at the end of the month when my favourite lady breezes into town.

And we're going to a country music concert. Montgomery Gentry. Row 20. Because we're small town country girls.

We like corn fields and the smell of fresh-cut hay. We went to Buck and Does before we went to the bar and we were raised on blue jeans and flip flops. As far back as I can remember, I remember doing chores in the barn to the tune of country radio. Taking breaks to dance beneath the radio and belt out our favourite songs. Staying out of licking range of the cows. Belting out those tunes in the mows even when we couldn't hear them from the radio.

I remember road trips with country on the radio. No matter whether a song is new or old, it all sounds familiar. It feels familiar. It's legs dangling as you lean back on a swing, letting the world wash over you. It's a big hug from those who've known you longer than you've known yourself. It's Mom and Dad's patio with a cold beer after a long day of doing hay. It's long walks in the middle of the night down the backroads. It's home. It's summer.

And I couldn't be more excited.

Ooooh mountains!

I took this picture last June when a bunch of us braved a torrential downpour (and snow) and foolishly headed to Nordegg for some camping. We were rewarded with gorgeous weather on Saturday and took in a hike to see some waterfalls.

I want a vacation. I don't need anything tropical, the heat and sun are no friends of mine. But I want to explore. Maybe it's just that I'm so sick of winter. I would settle for Edmonton if there was an abundance of sunshine and a lack of snow. The thought of walking around outside without a jacket just blows my mind.

Throw back

I feel like I'm in highschool again. Or maybe more like university, wedged between political science and public relations. Edging up to graduation, deciding where the future will lead and collecting bits and pieces to plead my case.

It's been less than a week and an application has been sent, transcripts ordered, references acquired, resume updated and one puzzle piece still looming: my personal statement.

I need to hammer out at least three pages about my personal and career goals, my expectations, and my strengths. I've been carrying information around in my purse all weekend hoping for an epiphany. Hoping for the words to just pour out.

Somewhere around 3 a.m. last night, between a messed up nightmare that left me afraid to return to dreamland and succumbing to my heavy eyelids, it did.

Now I'm just scrambling to piece those words back together and hoping it doesn't come off too hokey.
I can't rock a headband like Blair Waldorf, but maybe as a reward I'll shell out for one of these... while I still have a very small bit of disposable income. Check out LovMely on Etsy for more gorgeous headgear.

The F-word

There's been an ongoing discussion over the past couple days, spawned by the lovely Sarah about the big F-word. Feminism.

International Women's Day seems to have gotten more than a few of us thinking about feminism: where it's going, where it's been, and if we agree. I've already blabbered on enough both in Sarah's comments and on the 20-Something Bloggers' discussion board.

To sum things up: yeah, I'm a feminist. I think that all women are, deep down. Feminism, to me, is not about refusing to shave your legs, or burning your bras -- I would fail miserably if that were the case. It's about wanting the best for all women (and even men). It's about standing up and supporting other women around you. It's about the desire not necessarily to be treated exactly the same as men, but to be given the same consideration, respect and opportunity. It's about being able to make your own choices and be confident in those decisions. It's about being able to walk down the street with your head held high because yes, you can do anything you set your mind to.

All this talk about the F-word has taken me back to my undergrad days. I minored in philosophy, because I'm somewhat of a nerd and I found that a lot of my electives quickly became philosophy courses. Those philosophy courses included women's studies and feminist philosophy and both enraged and thrilled me (which is probably why I kept enrolling in them).

One of the best things I took from my first year women's studies course was this poem:

Phenomenal Woman

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
The palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Maya Angelou

We've heard one too many over-used pick up lines

I haven't been to a bar to shake it like a Polaroid picture in some time. One of the last times I put on the high heels and sauntered out of the house while showing a bit of cleavage to entice the fellows was way back in the summer of 2007 before I realized I had a colossal crush on the Boy.

I remembered this story when my friend and I were contemplating locales for drinks on Friday eve. One of the possibilities (Stir!) used to be Overtime. A bar we discovered that summer because it was a) within stumbling distance of my apartment, and b) a mid-twenties crowd -- we were sick of drunk 18 year olds... a side effect of the low drinking age in Alberta.

You better believed we picked up that night.

We don't do one night stands. We don't do skeezy boys. You can do it, I don't judge, it's just not my style. We had been chatting up cute Maritime boys, recent imports to Alberta. It was a situation Roomie and I remembered all too well. We all giggled together at the fact that their female friend was making out with a really short boy, really hard. And then, when the night was over, Roomie asked Twinsie and I if we wanted them to come back to our place.

Duh, duh, duh.

We tumbled out of the bar, and I collected my flip-flops from underneath the porch of a nearby commercial building -- an act that made the boys' jaws drop in awe. "What? I'm not walking home barefoot, and my feet hurt", I commented while holding up my beautiful houndstooth heels. Apparently they were impressed with my foresight.

We discussed the Maritimes, being new Albertans, and trash-talked how badly we were going to whoop them at boys versus girls Cranium when we got home. Roomie made after-bar snacks, we had a couple more drinks, and laughed until nearly 5 in the morning, when we proceeded to send the boys home with hugs and the exchange of phone numbers.

We hung out with them a few more times, and talked fairly often, later befriending their sweet female friend, who had been too busy making out to play games with us. It was a legendary night, one that would be later be referenced in that time we picked up a girl at the bar. Memories like this one remind me of summer, good friends, and how refreshing it can be to meet those who aren't about hooking up at bars, but who are truly about getting to meet new people.

That, and I miss flip-flop weather. *sigh

Sparkly!

It's been a while since I've posted here; Google Reader has made it painfully clear how long I've been away. I was in Ontario, celebrating love with my Valentine and having a family meal on Family Day, the first family meal since Christmas break 2007. It was wonderful.

I'm picking up where I left off, with a Monday Memory that flooded back when I opened my Valentine's present.

Don't get me wrong, sparkly things distract me to no end. I used to run into walls because of my sparkly, sequined purple flats. But the thing inside the box that brought the biggest smile to my face on Valentine's Day was not the beautiful, sparkly, heart-shaped, pink and white sapphire necklace The Boy picked out (seriously, he has become a master at jewelry giving), but it was the circular object accompanying that necklace.

It was a pink, sparkly jelly bracelet.

Shortly after The Boy and I started dating, we went to the arcade in West Edmonton Mall. We played silly games for quite some time before cashing in our tokens on some prizes. Mine was a pink, sparkly jelly bracelet, which adorned my wrist for months before it finally broke and fell off.

The fact that The Boy remembered this when it had nearly slipped from my mind completely, and went back to the arcade to play games some afternoon so he could replace my cheap, albeit beloved, bracelet warmed my wee heart. Though I may not wear it every single day non-stop, it serves as a precious reminder of the beginning of our relationship and how far we've come. I love it. And I'm wearing it now.

Heart.

Monday Memories: "there she was just walkin' down the street"

Shocker: I hate doing dishes. I always have. This menial task was always a source of contention in the Bee household with Momma explaining that we didn't need a dishwasher because she had three of them: one to wash, one to dry, and one to clean off the table and put the dishes away.

As soon as a meal was finished, the competition would begin. No one liked to dry. Clearing the table and putting dishes away was the easiest of the tasks, so it was the most highly coveted. Kiki, the world's slowest eater, often seemed like she was merely taking her sweet time to get put on the latter task by default. Those who had to skip out of the house early for soccer practice would rejoice in the fact that they had been saved.

There was one thing that could save us from killing each other during dish time -- Mom's old Solid Gold cassettes. It wasn't possible to be bitter when you were busy shaking your hips and singing "Lollypop" or "Do Wah Diddy Diddy". Singing along to those tapes made us seem like friendly siblings between the brush-throwing and hair-pulling. It provided a glimpse of what life would be like when we all surpassed the "bitchy teenage girl" stage and moved away from home. It's not saying that we're perfect all of the time now, but the way that we get along is much more as it was when we were dancing together to those old hits than it was when we were hurling random objects and mean comments at each other.

So, little one, if you want to maybe do your big sister a favour and make her a copy of those old tunes that you've scrounged up... she'd make sure you were rewarded appropriately. Hint, hint.

If

This week's Monday Memories is not a cop out, I swear. I've been busy at work, and at life, but the following is something I've been meaning to post for a long time. It was one of the first poems that really spoke to me, I'm pretty sure it had some influence over both my writing and the kind of life I wanted to lead.

This poem is one of those things that serves to ground me when I get stressed out. It's relaxing to recite the words over in my head, calming my nerves. It sends me back to the primary grades, where it was initially taught, and then forward to fifth grade when we were forced to memorize and recite poetry. It's always been a favourite, so today, dear readers, I'm sharing it with you... in hopes that you'll share your favourites back.

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!

Rudyard Kipling

Also, check out the video I posted over at www.intervivos.ca. A co-worker emailed it to me this morning and it just amazed me.

Not quite the first

I've already told the tale of my first kiss, but it's Monday Memories day, so I thought I'd share my second.

I went into tenth grade with a plan. The Ontario government had decided that it was doing away with OAC (grade 13) and that the year I finished highschool would be its last. This decision would result in a dramatic influx of students graduating my year, and because I am not fond of competition, I was going to get out fast. It would mean a lot of trickery, like taking my necessary grade 13 credits in grades 10-12 and taking grade 11 and 12 English at the same time. It would mean missing out on things that I would have liked to do, but that weren't necessary courses to take, such as photography and family studies (aka the class where you carry around the screaming doll). I wasn't in love with highschool, so the thought of getting out in four years rather than five worked for me.

Grade 11 English Writing (which I took that year, in grade 10) was quite possibly my favourite class ever. Mr. B was the most hilarious teacher, he once forced my grade 9 class to purposely snort while laughing just to send us on a laughter rollercoaster (once you start laughing at people snorting, the laughter is impossible to stop), he opted to have us act out the whole of Midsummer's Night Dream rather than doing any grammar, he plied my friend and I with chocolate-covered coffee beans when he spotted us in the hallways, and we had a class where we did nothing but turn out the lights and tell ghost stories. With my love of writing, and my adoration of him, this class was bound to be a success. I didn't even anticipate meeting my first "official" boyfriend there (more official than having your whole relationship last the length of recess, or longer, but without actually hanging out or talking, as was the style in elementary school).

Brent was a comedian with a sensitive side. We sat beside each other, spending much time reading Matt Good's manifestos, and chatting, and not quite so much time writing. This was fully acceptable in this class. I worked with Brent's ex-girlfriend. Customers constantly mixed us up, thinking that they had been talking to one of us when really it was the other, regulars would think one of us had been working the longest shift in the history of coffee-pouring, merely because we looked somewhat alike. It didn't hurt that we both had the hideous uniform and a ponytail. Sarah and I became fast friends, and it's only 900-and-something days until I'll be walking down the aisle at her wedding as her Maid of Honour, a job she bestowed upon me because "any trouble we got into we did it together, so I know you won't give yourself up and tell embarrassing stories about me!". She ended her relationship with Brent because she had a thing for one of his best friends, the man she'll be marrying in July of 2010.

Apparently, Brent saw the similarities in Sarah and I. As we started to hang out in a group, he started spending more time around my locker and wrote me love notes. One day, he had a pack of SweetTarts in class, and I took a blue one when he offered, telling him that they were my favourite. The next day, he brought me every last blue SweetTart that he had uncovered in the roll. It was the sweetest thing my 15 year-old self had ever experienced. It was young, dizzying, puppy love.

My aunt and uncle lived in town, and I'd stay there when I had to work in the morning, to save my parents the trip. It became routine that he'd walk me back to their place after hanging out with the gang. We flirted constantly, he poetically attempted to woo me, the only thing stopping us from being an out-and-out couple was the fact that he didn't have the nerve to break up with his short-term girlfriend. I know. Me, being the good girl I was, refused to let him make a move while she was in the picture.

Eventually, she found out that he liked me and took care of things for him. We were in the clear. The butterflies that had accumulated all of that time had been easy to tame with the constant reminder that he was taken, but now that there was nothing restraining us, those assholes were fluttering around all over the place. One night, he walked me "home" as per usual, stopping to kiss my hand and be his charming self, and we sat on my aunt and uncle's porch for hours talking. Hours. As the sky started to lighten, he finally got the nerve to place his lips on mine. And that's when the bathroom light went on and I nearly jumped out of my skin thinking my aunt or uncle would come outside looking for me. God forbid they find me outside kissing a boy! A couple sweet, innocent kisses later, I was sneaking into the house to catch a couple hours of sleep before work, completely infatuated.

Our little relationship didn't last long, as I don't take peoples' crap and he ended up being fluent in bullshit, but those moments of anticipation and innocent flirtation made my little heart beat, beat, beat.

Why I Relay

I must admit, before I interned at the Canadian Cancer Society cancer wasn't a bit concern of mine. I had very few people around me touched by this disease. I had never held the hand of someone I loved as they underwent chemotherapy or radiation. I had never had to see the health of anyone close to me deteriorate before my eyes. I had never seen the fight that survivors go through, or experience the victory when all signs of cancer have left the body.

The only real experience I had with cancer was when a girl in my elementary school died of the disease. And we weren't close. I chose the internship at the Canadian Cancer Society because it was good experience. Because the women who worked there were friendly. And because the City of London had decided not to take an intern, afterall. I knew I'd not only be a part of the public relations team at the office, but I would be the entire public relations team. You'd better believe that looks awesome on a resume.

I loved working at the Society. I got so involved in the cause that I started working extra hours, I started volunteering for events like Daffodil Days. I started hosting volunteer training sessions in the evenings. The women who worked there became my family. We didn't just share a job, we shared our lives, our stories, and in some cases, experiences with cancer itself. I met so many people who were in various stages of cancer treatment, so many survivors, and so many families and friends of both those who beat the disease and those who lost. These people changed my life.

I volunteered for the Canadian Cancer Society's Relay for Life that year, and seriously guys, I never expected one event to touch me so deeply. When the cancer survivors started off Relay with the Survivors' Victory Lap, we cheered and applauded with tears in our eyes. Their victories were the victories of the thousands of people who showed up that night. Their victories were proof that cancer could, and will, be beaten. Their victories held hope for those who were recently diagnosed and their friends and families who put together teams to support them. It was an amazing high.

Later, at dusk, when the luminaries were lit around the track, casting a glow over the field as Amazing Grace rung out, friends and strangers united in their common grief. They lit candles to remember those who couldn't be at the event because their bodies weren't able to beat the disease. They lit candles in hope that those they loved would kick cancer's ass. They lit candles for friends, for family, for people they had never met. To walk around that track and feel the presence of all of those who lost their battles, to see the tears in everyone's eyes, to see friends and family grasp their loved ones tight in support, it was overwhelming. It no longer mattered that cancer wasn't overly close to me. What mattered is that we find a cure.

In 2008, it is estimated that approximately 166,400 new cases of cancer and 73,800 deaths would occur in Canada. That's an average of 3,200 Canadians diagnosed each week, and 1,419 Canadians who would die of cancer every week. Every one of us will be touched by the disease in our lifetimes, if not personally, then by dealing with the disease attacking a friend of family member.

Guys, I don't like to ask anything of you, but it would mean the world to me if you would pledge me for Edmonton's Relay for Life event this year. On the right sidebar, I have a link to my personal, secure page where, if you want to, you can make a donation. If you're in the area and want to join my team, give me a shout. The event is absolutely incredible and I encourage you to participate in an event near you (by the way, the Canadian event is based off of the ones done in the United States -- so even if you're not Canadian, you probably have one of these things taking place in your area).

Let's fight this disease for those who haven't been able to, for those who don't have the strength, for those who are too busy supporting their loved ones to have the energy. Let's make cancer history.

Dear Facebook: Oh no you didn't!

Facebook likes to recommend friends for people, as anyone who subscribes to the social networking site knows. It also likes to rub old relationships, and old friendships, in our face. As well-intentioned as Facebook is, it just has no idea of the reasons why I'm not friends with Leah T.

To be honest, neither do I, really.

We were best friends in grades nine and ten. We were enrolled in nearly all the same classes, and we were both pretty smart and fairly shy, which was probably why we were drawn together. We didn't drink. We had sleepovers. We watched Much Music, back when it was all about the music and less about the reality programming. She lived down the road from my great aunt and uncle. We shared lunch hours and a locker. We went to dances together to gush over boys we were crushing on and bop awkwardly while boys asked us to dance, or we got up the nerve to ask them.

Somewhere along the lines, I got a bit more outgoing and picked up friends in a different crowd through work and she found more smart, shy people in art class. No big deal. We were still best friends, and nothing could change that, right? That's what I thought, until the day a boy came between us.

No, no, it wasn't like that. It wasn't necessarily the boy that came between us per se, it was more our attitudes toward boys. I was of the opinion that boys were lame and didn't pick up on subtle hints that you were into them, and she was of the opinion that letting a boy know that you liked him would result in a fate worse than death. She had a thing for this cute blond boy in our grade, and wouldn't shut up about him. After a while, I got sick of the whining about how he never took an interest in her and so I did the good best friend thing, I chatted him up casually to see if he was interested.

A mutual friend had overheard me and put two and two together, and went to ask Leah if she was into him. And that was the last day that Leah talked to me. I explained myself, and neither of us ever did find out if he was into her or not, but she never forgave me. They remained friends, but we didn't. I was heartbroken. I was also outraged. She always had such similar advice to boys that I was into, telling me to put myself out there and whatnot, and not only was she afraid to do the same but she was willing to end our friendship because of it? Ridiculous. She moved her stuff out of the locker, and after a while I quit trying to talk to her.

Facebook, I don't want to be friends with Leah T., as interested as I am to find out where she is and what she's done with her life, I'm pretty certain she's still not over it. Thanks for trying, anyway.

This post is part of my new feature "Monday Memories".

I dare you...

It wasn't far into my grade nine year when I developed a crush on Shep. He was cute, incredibly nice, and absolutely hilarous. The boy that everyone liked.

He was a friend to everyone and didn't have a malicious bone in his body. He was a flirt. As we became good friends, working together and hanging out, the crush part stayed in the background, though the feelings that I had for him (and those that he had for me) were never acted upon. We were never available at the same time, such a dramatic and tragic tale in the world of highschool.

The girls he started dating hated the fact that we were friends and surmissed that at any time, we'd realize we were head-over-heels for each other and they'd be left in the dust. At least, that's how it seemed when they commanded him to stop talking to me. He never did. He was just sneakier about it. It floored me that girls I had known since the sandbox and building blocks now saw me as a threat. The same girls that ran away from me and mocked me in elementary school were terrified that I'd snag their man out from under them.

One even went so far as to get her posse to follow me around the halls. He was sick one day, so stayed home from school and they followed me around thinking that I might bail and meet up with him. Um, no. They called him from the school pay phone, and in their fakest, sickenly sweetest voices, informed me that he wished to speak with me.

"What's going on? You wanted to speak with me?"

"Um, no, they said you wanted to speak with me!"

"They think something's going on with us, I think we're being monitored."

I looked behind me at the smiles smeared over their sneers and agreed this was the case.

Then came the school dance. Getting dropped off at the doors, to walk with ease past the security guards. Neither me, nor my friends drank in grade nine, we had no fear of their breathalyzers. And he asked me to dance. I no longer remember the song, but I remember the angry grimace on his girlfriend-of-the-moment's face. I remember him whispering to me about how controlling and crazy she was, and that he wanted to be my friend, so gosh darnit he was going to be my friend regardless of how she felt about it.

They broke up soon after, and my crush blossomed. He was a great friend, we'd have amazing talks about everything under the sun, and he defended my honour when it was needed. For a highschool girl, he was perfection.

We never talked about the rumours. We were just friends, after all.

It wasn't until a end-of-the-year bonfire at one of our other friends' house that there was even a glimmer of it being anything more. After roasting hot dogs and marshmallows over the fire, someone came up with the bright idea to play truth or dare. A friend was dared to jump into the lake. "Would you rather?" questions were answered. And then it was his turn to "truth or dare" someone.

He picked me.

He stammered, and was it just me, or was he blushing? Maybe it was the light of the bonfire. No big deal. He baulked. People urged him to get on with it. I picked dare.

"Elle... I dare you... *ahem*...

I rubbed my hands together in the warmth of the fire, trying to suppress my own heated cheeks. Looking at my shoes, wondering what torturous thing he would make me do. Hopefully not jump in the lake.

"I dare you... to kiss me."

My eyes popped open, and I'm sure my jaw dropped. There were maybe only four or five other people at this "party", but really... my first kiss in front of all these people? My heart started beating faster, my cheeks got rosier, my stomach was just swarming with clichéd butterflies. It was my turn to pause. And attempt to remember how to breathe.

"If you don't want to, you don't have to."

"It's okay, a dare's a dare... I'll do it."

I walked over to him, grabbed his face, and gave him a chaste peck on the lips.

Though we were friends long after that, that was the most to ever happen between me and my first highschool crush. So much drama for so little story.


This post is for the 20-Something Bloggers' January blog carnival: First Kiss.

Pictures to Burn

Lately, old memories have been rushing to me like ocean tides. People who have come in, and out of, my life. Experiences that I had, or wished I hadn't. So, like any normal person, I've decided to broadcast them on the Internet for everyone to see, in a feature of "Monday Memories".

Many people know that I worked in a popular Canadian coffeeshop for 7 long years, but what most people don't know, and what I frequently forget, is that it wasn't my first real* job.

The summer before highschool, I remember being told that there would be no more money coming to me for clothes, and other things parents buy for you when you're young. I'd be given a monthly stipend for my work on the farm, though I was encouraged to seek employment elsewhere to cover any new costs I'd incur.

So started my first job hunt. Resumes and cover letters passed throughout the town. My first experience with being offered every job I applied for, which would cause a lot of confusion later on, when jobs didn't come so easily. When I went to drop off my resume at the bakery in town, I was immediately offered a position. And I took it.

Walking past the little restaurant in my work building this morning, the smell of fresh-baked bread brought images of the bakery flooding back. I did everything but actually bake anything. Long days of washing dishes, serving customers, stocking the shelves. I was the only employee, other than the owners (who did all the baking and none of the other work). A lot of responsibility from open 'til close, with unattractive pay. A job that resulted in tears, and a discussion with my mother that it was probably time to look elsewhere, even if the owners were friends of family friends.

It was just one summer, but it was my first foray into working for a boss that you couldn't curse and cry and scream at when you felt your job was "not fair". It felt good to have money of my own, and buy things for myself. It also taught me that dreading going to work every day wasn't worth it. I searched around for other employment, and got in with Canada's largest coffee chain, a job that was with me for nearly one-third of my life.

*Real meaning someone paying me other than my parents. Growing up on a farm, you'd better believe we had our own jobs to do. We were given tasks that matched our abilities at a very young age.

Air Canada is not awesome. Surprise!

In the news yesterday and today: Some Edmontonians have still not received their lost Christmas baggage from Air Canada. Air Canada is acknowledging it dropped the ball over the Christmas season and did not respond as it should have during the weather-related travel delays.

Big shock, Air Canada is garbage. Unlike the smiling West Jetters who have been known to care so much (my friend Mary upon arriving in Edmonton last year marvelled at how the flight attendant took the screaming baby and sang to it, nearly lulling the whole plane to sleep -- "just like in the commercial"), Air Canada is not so passenger-friendly.

I had my own heinous experience with them last year, without the whole snow-storms-so-flights-are-cancelled issue. I had gotten to the airport in tons of time, signed in, got to the gate before I realized I didn't have a real seat number on my ticket, but a smattering of numbers. When I went to talk to the attendants at the desk by the gate, they had responded, "Oh yeah, we were on the look-out for you -- someone will be around to talk to you soon." Soon ended up meaning after half the plane had boarded.

The airline rep who came to talk to me broke the news to me that I would not be getting on the flight that I had paid so ridiculously much to board. Apparently they always overbook by 40 per cent, so myself and two gentlemen who were landing in Toronto would be hanging around Edmonton until further notice. Seriously, at Christmas you don't take into account that less people will be missing or cancelling their flights last minute? We were told when the next planes going to Toronto were (the earliest was 8 hours away), and assured that we were most certainly not guaranteed a spot on those overbooked planes either.

The news I wasn't going to be home, coupled with the extreme exhaustion from going out the night before and working all day to run home, pack, and head to the airport, led me to shed a few tears. I'm a crier. I'm not going to deny it. I had to hope that my luggage filled with Christmas presents would actually meet me in Toronto, since there was space for it on the plane -- just not me. Then I had to inform the family that they should not drive the two hours to the airport to pick me up, because I had no idea when I'd be there.

The holidays are stressful enough, airlines should be more considerate around the holiday season. I understand it's important to overbook to an extent to pay for expenses if people do back out, but it's all about the attitude with which you handle a situation. West Jet spent loads of money putting people up, sending them home and picking them up for a future flight, and generally doing their very best to accomodate people and make them comfortable.

Other than the lame $200 voucher I received from Air Canada (which I couldn't use to book online, making the trip just as much as if I had just booked through West Jet in the first place), I haven't booked anything through Air Canada since.

Holly Jolly Christmas

Christmas was pretty fabulous, though most of the present opening was done before the actual day. I totally won Christmas, according to the Boy, receiving lots of board games and Wii games and wine and a pretty shiny necklace and so on. I then insisted that everyone play every game in the universe with me, multiple times. Because that's how I roll.

We went for a walk around the lake and it was very cold. But then we drank to get warm. Hurray.

There were deer everywhere. No mooses, but I saw more deer than I ever needed to see in my life, a herd of antelope (after I told the Boy to wake me up on the way home if he saw another one... he commented on how we had passed two already), and some elk. All kinds of antler-ed creatures. When I was taking things to the car as we were about to leave, about a dozen deer were starting to move in on me. Zombie deer after my brains. Fortunately, the Boy opened the door and since he has no brains, the deer backed off. Phew. Kidding. His brain is real big and full of math and science. The wii told us so. And even more importantly, it said my brain is even bigger, even if math and science are no good.

Canadian Badlands are much prettier and kind of less badass when everything is covered in snow.

Rawr! It's the world's largest dinosaur!

And the world's tallest teepee.

One more day of work and then it's off to ring in the new year in the Canadian Rockies with 10 of our most-available-for-spending-New-Year's-in-the-mountains friends. I would kind of like a nap. All of this travelling has made me exhausted.

Me, I want a hula hoop!

Heights of Fashion: A history of the elevated foot is definitely something I want to check out before the exhibit's March 8 best-before date. The hise and fall of the high heel in Western fashion over the past 500 years. Gorgeous shoes and history? Sign me up.

The other thing keeping me going today is this classic Christmas tune. I remember the movie from when we were kids, even more than that, I remember the book. With the lyrics to this song. Please Christmas, don't be laaate! Only two weeks!