"We Live in a Society!"

First of all, I must apologize for disappointing my readers for not posting yesterday, when I promised to post every day. The only excuse I have is that our internet was on the fritz, so now I'm attempting to make two posts for today. We shall see how that goes. Anyway, on with today's post.

The other night I'm sitting on the couch watching one of my new favorite shows, "Cake Boss." I like the show because it's about cakes and cake decorating, but it's also very amusing to watch the Italian owner who is so typically mobster Italian that he could be straight out of "Good Fellows." You constantly hear phrases such as, "Forget abOUTit" and "You gonna bust my balls over that?" which constantly cracks me up. Anyway, it's 9pm, Elisa and Rob have both long been in bed (Rob had to do a super early 2am shift) so I was thoroughly enjoying have both the living room and the T.V. to myself. Then I hear a quiet "knock, knock" on the door and cringe.

I open the door (did I mention that it's 9 o'clock at night on a weeknight and I'm in my pajamas about to go to bed soon?) and it's my landlord. He wants to check the satellite connection on our box because the other tenant's satellite is not working (he gets his satellite from our box). So I let him in, he checks it and then leaves. I'm then thoroughly annoyed. These little invasions of privacy for annoying little reason bug me to know end.

Our landlords are really nice enough people, but there are these little things that really get under my skin. For example, last Saturday my landlord knocked on our door and asked if Rob was home (Rob was at work, working a 10 hour day). I said that Rob wasn't home and then he said, "Oh, I was hoping to borrow his muscle." I said, "Well sorry he's not here" and closed the door. I was really glad that Rob wasn't there, because Rob wouldn't have said no, no matter how tired he was. I constantly tell Rob that it's not right of the landlord to ask his help all the time, Rob always replies, "Honey, how many times do I have to remind you that we live in a society?"

I guess when it comes right down to it, I am a pretty anti-social person at times. When I take the bus, I never make small talk with people. When I'm on my lunch break at work, I never sit in the lunch room for the simple fact that someone might be there who wants to waste my precious 30 minutes of "me time" by talking to me. I also refuse to be friends with someone who is constantly asking favors of me.

I can't count how many times I get annoyed at the landlords or different neighbours for different things. I hate that the new tenant besides us smokes and I have to walk through smoke to get to my own door. I hate it when the landlord knocks on our door, for any reason really. I hate that the landlords play music in their baby's room at night that we can hear in our bedroom.

Of course, the only person I can vent to about these things is Rob, who really doesn't want to hear it. He doesn't mind helping out the landlord once in a while. Rob was helped power washed the house and asked nothing in return. Why, you may ask does he do these things? My guess would be, because we live in a society, a concept I'm not quite sure if I will ever really understand.

Dating Life of a Single Mother

When I think back to when Rob and I first started dating, it really is a miracle that we got together at all. We met online and chatted for six months before we actually met in person. Honestly, if it wasn't for Rob not giving up, we would never have met at all. Rob was going through chemo treatment for cancer, and the "BIG C" terrified me. I was quite disappointed when he told me that he had cancer. I had been quite interested, but then decided it was best to just be friends. I consider myself the luckiest person in the world that Rob would not take no for an answer, and that he is now cancer free.

Of course, the fact that I dated at all was a bit of a feat in itself. I was a single mother from the time Elisa was first born (a whole other story to be told another time). When Elisa was first born, dating was the furthest thing from my mind. When Elisa was two and a half years old, a mom friend of mine from playgroup decided to take it upon herself to set me up.

I had never been on a blind date before. She asked if she could set me up with one of her husband's co-workers. I reluctantly agreed, and gave her my email address to pass on. Chad and I emailed each other a few times before we decided to meet. His first email was a general introduction of himself. The whole email had a bit of a form letter feel, like he'd sent this email many times before (I later discovered his profile on a dating website and his profile had the same email he had sent me, word for word). In one of my emails to him, I sent a picture of myself. He then replied with a picture of himself. I mentioned to my friend, the one who was trying to set us up, that he had sent a picture and that he was wearing a hat in the picture so I couldn't' see him very well. She then commented that when she thought about it, she didn't think she had ever seen chad without a hat on.

Anyway, after a few emails we decided to meet for dinner. This is where dating gets complicated for a single mother. Going on an actual date, is a lot more complicated than just saying yes and going. First, I must make sure that I'm able to get a babysitter. Since the only people I trusted to watch Elisa were my parents, this also involved basically asking my parents' permission to go on a date, as if I was a 16 year old girl, and not a 28 year old woman and mother.

So, after all my parents nosy, oops, I mean caring and concerned questions regarding this "blind date" I was about to venture on, they agreed to babysit. So, I then need to find something to wear other than the sweat suits and t-shirts that had become my mom uniform. I even go to an accessory store and treat myself (I never treat myself) to a new necklace to wear for the occasion.

So, it's the day of the date and I meet Chad at the restaurant like planned. When I walk him, I see him already at the table and walk over. It's when I get close that I discover why Chad always wears a hat. He's totally bald and has a huge, dark birthmark on his head resembling one similar to Mikhail Gorbachev. Now, don't get me wrong. I really am not a vain person, but let's just say that the instant attraction was definitely not there. I then decided to try to get to know him and see if we had anything in common or any kind of connection.

It definitely did not take long for us to run out of things to talk about. The only thing Chad seemed capable of talking about was sports, which might as well have been Chinese as far as I was concerned. However, I'm not sure what was worse, listening to him talk about sports, or the long, awkward silences. When I did try to fill in the long silences, the only thing I could think to talk about was Elisa, which was when I saw his eyes glaze over as if I was speaking Chinese.

After we were done eating and the check had come, there came the longest awkward silence in history. We had absolutely nothing to talk about. Then, much to my relief, Chad suggested that we call it a night. It was 7:30 pm. I think if I checked somewhere it might go down in history as the shortest date ever. Chad said that he would email me. I never heard from him again and I was not surprised.

When I got home, my parents (who were over to babysit) asked how the big date went. "Well," I replied, "I think the first clue to the answer would be the fact that I'm home by 8 pm."

As bad as my first blind date was, I didn't let that stop me. I did let my friends set me up a few more times so I could enjoy making awkward small talk over sushi or souvlaki. Eventually, I decided to try the low of all lows, the internet.

I really had my doubts about dating sites and the whole internet dating. I definitely had to fish through quite a few losers. You know a guy is a real winner when he asks you your bra size the very first time you're chatting online.

So, it really is quite lucky that I found Rob, especially considering the sea of crazies we had to wade through.

Story of a Hair Cut

Today I got my hair cut, which is always a little bit of a terrifying experience for me. If you ask any woman, guaranteed that at some point in their life, they have a haircut gone bad story. Another guarantee, is that a woman considers a good hair stylist to be a rare and valuable thing. The importance and significance of finding a good hair dresser really cannot be stressed enough.

Women will go to great lengths to find and keep a good hair stylist. I can remember when my mom was on the hunt for a good hair stylist. We would be in the mall, and when my mom saw someone with hair that she liked, she would walk up to them, tell them that she liked their hair and ask where they had it done.

Of course, women are not the only ones that know the value of a good hair stylist. My dad had been going to the same barber since the time he was 11 years old. When my parents were first married, they lived in the same neighbourhood as when my dad was young, so he continued going to his same barber. It was easy because he didn't have to explain anything. He could just walk in, sit down and the barber knew exactly how to cut his hair. Eventually, we moved further away from my dad's barber. At first, when we moved to Langley, my dad would still drive the 30 or so minutes to see his barber. Eventually, we moved to Mission, which was over an hour away. My dad tried to keep up the barber visits even after moving to Mission, but eventually gave up. My dad's barber was the one person he could really trust. When we all told him that he was going a little thin on top, he asked his barber, who of course said he was not, and whom my dad believed over his family.

I can without a doubt recall my worst hair cut incident. I was blessed with poker straight hair that most girls now with curly or wavy hair spend hours straightening with a hot iron. Anyway, when I was thirteen, it was the early nineties. This was a time of spiral perms being all the rage. I permed my hair so much in my teens that most people thought I had naturally curly hair. I had hair that was past my shoulders with long layers, short bangs and it was constantly in a tight poodle perm.

I had begged my mom to take me to get my hair cut. My mom finally gave in and took me to Magic Cuts. As I sat in the hair stylist's chair, I explained that I wanted to keep the same long layered style. I simply wanted "a trim." That "trim" turned out to be the biggest disaster ever (well, in thirteen year old girl terms, this was definitely up there with the treat of nuclear war). I saw the hair stylist pick up the first handful of hair to cut. She picked up a chunk of hair just behind my bangs, and in one swift cut she proceeded to cut about five inches of hair off, leaving about two inches of straight hair behind (my poodle perm was in the growing out phase which I tried to make last as long as possible before re-perming) as well as my jaw on the floor. The damage had been done and there wasn't much else I could do. She couldn't very well glue my hair back on.

When the butcher, er, I mean hair stylist was done, I was left with the worst looking mullet I've ever seen. Short straight hair on top, with longer curly hair at the back. I walked over to where my mom was waiting and she knew that I didn't like the cut. She asked me what happened and I said I just wanted to go. My mom paid and we left the salon. Once we got outside, I explained what had happened to my mom, who marched me back in to demand her money back since the hair dresser clearly didn't listen to what I wanted. The woman tried to argue that she needed to cut off more to give a good quality cut, but in the end my mom got her money back. I however, did not get my hair back. My grandma suggested that I simply fluff it up with a little bit of mousse, since mousse fixes everything. I spent that year wearing very wide cloth hair bands to hide my hair while it grew back.

Anyway, back to my hair cut today. Ever since moving to New Westminster two years ago, I have not had much luck in finding a hair dresser that cuts hair the way that I like, and does not charge an arm and a leg to do it. Of course, Rob does not understand why I don't just get my hair cut by our landlady up stairs, who has a salon in their home. Of course, what I have explained to him is that the relationship between a hair stylist and their customer is a very fragile one with so many possibilities for awkwardness. There are certain rules that you just can't break. For example, if you get your hair cut by a particular stylist in a salon, you can't decide you want to try someone else and go back to the same salon to do this. Trust me, I have broken that rule and seen the look on the original stylist's face as you're getting your hair cut. It's the equivalent of cheating on a boyfriend. So, I explain to Rob, that if I don't like the way the landlady cuts my hair, she will know if I don't get it cut by her again, and well, we do have to live here after all.

So, I decide to go to the Great Clips that is five minutes from our house for many reasons. It's fast, cheap, and since I had Elisa with me it's also a bonus that they always give the kids toys and a lollipop to keep them entertained.

When I sit down in the chair, the stylist asks me the usual questions. Being used to trying out new stylists, I am prepared. I know exactly what I want, and I even have a picture of the exact cut that I bring with me every time. Well, it didn't take long for me to get a little anxious. The stylist seemed so nervous and unsure of herself, never a good sign. She asked way too many question, especially considering the all important picture that I had been so considerate to bring. I can tell right away that she's not cutting short enough (most don't) but the thing that really scares me is that her hands are actually SHAKING! With each piece of hair that she picks up, her hand is shaking as she cuts. Not a good sign.

The picture I provided was of a very short, very spunky do with chunks of hair spiked up all over the place. When she was done cutting, She asked if I'd like some styling product. I said, "sure" and was expecting for her to try out some cool hair wax or putty and do something really funky with my hair. Instead, she blow dried my hair with a round brush (which she managed to get tangled badly in my short hair). She brushed my bangs (did I mention that I don't wear bangs?) straight down, parted my hair and brushed it straight down on both sides. She then proceeded to spray on hair spray to hold this helmet shape.

I paid and got out of there as fast as I could.

Once I got home and played with my hair a bit with some proper product I discovered that the cut was not all that horrible and it would certainly work until my next torture session, er, I mean hair cut.

Neighbourhood Parking War

As I sit on the couch looking out the window, I notice that the truck from across the street that was parked in front of our house has just moved. I run to the door, tell Rob that I'm moving my car, throw on my shoes, grab my keys and fly out the door.

Why would I go to the trouble to move my car ten feet closer to the house you might ask? Why not just stay parked where I am until the next time I need to go out? No, no, no, that is what a sane person would do. I, on the other hand, am not ashamed to admit that I am a little bit of a neurotic obsessive about the situation. Of course, I am validated in this obsession by Rob's equal partnership in crime.

Rob and I live in a suite in a rather large house. The main floor is divided into two suites, and our landlords live on the top floor. Being that we are the second class renters of the house, we are subject to the first come first serve parking available on the road. This was a non-issue when we moved here one year ago because we did not have a car. That changed when I got a car a few months later.

It took some trial and error to find a place to park near our house. The other tenants in the house usually got to the one spot in front of our house before I did, so I usually opted to park in front of the neighbours. Well........ this is where all the problems began.

I usually parked in front of the empty lot across the the street from us. This was not a problem until they started construction building a house on the empty lot. To avoid the risk of my car being crunched by a bulldozer, I opted to park elsewhere. The first time I parked across the street in front of a neighbour's house, an older gentleman living there told me I couldn't park there because his daughter usually parked there. I replied with, "Oh, I thought parking on the road was first come for anyone?" to which he answered that people had first dibs on parking in front of their home." Rather than argue, I moved my car.

So, a few months go by. Our neighbour tenants move out and I am able to start parking in the road spot in front of our house. Then one day, a truck (from the same house across the street where I was told I could not park) starts parking in my spot in front of our house that I'd waited so patiently for. "O.K." I tell myself, "the road is first come first serve. I will just park there the next time." However, this truck kept consistently parking there.

After a while I get really frustrated. I come home from work one day. The truck is in my spot and nobody is parked in front of the neighbour's house. I decided, that if it's O.K. for the neighbour to park in front of our house, that I can park in front of theirs. I park in front of their house. I get out of the car, O.K. nobody is causing a fuss about it yet. I walk to my house, get inside. I tell Rob that I parked in front of their house, and he says, good, since they always park in front our house.

A few moments later, we hear the woman who lives across the street screeching about my car. This woman has the shrillest voice in the world that I'm sure the whole neighborhood can hear for miles. Her husband has come home and isn't able to park in front of their house because I am there (of course, if her dad, who lives in their basement hadn't been constantly parking in my spot then I wouldn't have parked in front of their house). Rob then yells out the window at her that I have no where else to park because their truck is parked in my spot. She then goes on to say how we have no rights because we don't own this house (because, home ownership is the real issue). Meanwhile, all I can think about is how we are all just a stick's throw away from a reality T.V. show about the antics of a trailer park trash.

So, ever since this incident, the truck still insists on parking in front of our house. There really isn't anything I can do about it (well anything legal that is). So just to be petty, whenever I temporarily lose my parking spot, I obsessively watch the window to see the first opportunity to take my spot back.

Ya, I'll be the one in the nursing home with the collection of troll dolls that I talk to at night about my roommates that are stealing my imaginary things.

Playing Hooky

Today Elisa and I are playing hooky from work/daycare. O.K. we're not really playing hooky. When I woke Elisa up this morning to get ready, she had a really hard time getting out of bed. I then let her sleep an extra five minutes. I was stressing out a little bit about getting out of the house on time, since I still needed to stop at Safeway and get a fruit platter that I'd promised to bring for the potluck lunch at work today. The occasion that warranted today's potluck was that one of my co-workers was leaving to move to Calgary to be with her boyfriend that she met online (not that I'm knocking online dating, since that is how Rob and I met). If you are a Seinfeld fan at all, then you will know that episode when Elaine is so tired of all the parties at her office involving cake. Every opportunity to have a party, they take advantage of, and it gets old really fast. That is how I feel about potlucks.

Anyway, back to my morning..

After getting myself dressed, I went back to get Elisa out of bed. I had a tough (well, tougher than usual) time getting her out of bed. Once Elisa was finally dressed, she complained of a tummy ache and feeling icky. I felt her forehead and it felt a little warm. She wasn't deathly ill, but I certainly didn't mind keeping her home and using the opportunity to take the day off work.

First we passed the time by watching "The Jungle Book" Elisa curled up on the couch under my fluffy blue house coat. I found it amuzing when the Elephant patrol marching song came on. Elisa used to sing that song all the time after the first time she saw "The Jungle Book" but instead of saying, "... in the military style" she would always say, "... in the middle of terry style" which of course we thought was adorable.

After "The Jungle Book" I was looking for some kid shows for her to watch. "How about Dora?" nope, too old for that now. Nothing seemed to interest her, so then I found that teletoon was playing "retro" cartoons. I saw "Bugs Bunny and Looney Tune Friends" and thought "great, these are great cartoons that I used to watch as a child and Elisa will love this."

All I can say is, wow, I had no idea how politically incorrect cartoons used to be back in the day! Sylvester the cat is feeling guilty for trying to eat Tweetie Bird. He's having a conversation with his conscious, in which he tells he conscious to "SHUT UP" which bothered me a little bit, but I let it slide. A little while later, I see Sylvester chain smoking ten cigarettes at the same time while throwing back cups of coffee. That's when Elisa said, "oh mommy, he's smoking, that's not good."

My fond childhood memories of Saturday morning cartoons were definitely changed. I remember the coyote falling off huge cliffs while chasing the roadrunner, and never having a scratch on him, and it was funny. I remember Popeye eating a can of spinach (spinach from a can, ew at just the thought) and having super human strength. I guess the good old days are gone, or is that a good thing?

Day One, it Begins...

I used to love to journal. I had many different journal books throughout my teens. I would pour my heart into my journal. When I was upset, I would write. When I was happy, I would write. You get the picture. At times when I thought nobody in the whole world cared, my journal was there to console me.

I was never a consistent in journaling every single day. It was only something I did out of necessity, when the mood hit. It was a sort of therapy, when I needed it.

As life has taken over, there didn't seem to be time for the journals or the books. Now my life seems to consist of spending my days in a mind numbing office job that seems to be sucking the very brain cells out of me with every phone call that I answer or faxed order that I enter into the computer.

I look back at those care free journal days, when the biggest crisis in the world was that I might not have a date for the prom. Now I spend my days answering phones and answering the same questions over and over, only to pick up my six year old daughter from daycare and try to come up with something edible for dinner. By the time I get my daughter into bed the only thing I seem to have the energy for is to zone out in front of the television and let it suck a few more brain cells while we're at it.

I recently began reading "Julie & Julia" by Julie Powell. In a nutshell, it is about a girl stuck in a dead end office job (sound familiar?) who decides to cook every recipe in Julia Child's "Mastering the Art of French Cuisine" in one year and writes a blog about it. She wasn't sure why she was doing it, but she knew that she had to do something. She changed from a person who went home lamenting about her horrible job and horrible day, so someone who looked forward to the next meal she was going to cook and how it would turn out.

I felt inspired. I felt that I could relate to Julie so well. I wanted to have something worthwhile to look forward to as well. While I was at work today, talking about the book and how inspirational it is, one of my co-workers asked me if it made me want to make a goal to stick with for one year, like Julie did. I thought about it for a while, and it occurred to me...

I would commit to journaling EVERY day for one year. I may not always write a lot, but I would write something every day.

Let's see what happens, shall we?