When I got exactly what I wanted.

At this time of the year, while we are busy being thankful for what we have, whining for what we want, and rolling our eyes at our crazy families, I like to reflect on Christmases past and the lessons I've learned from them.

Picture it; it was 1989.

Big hair was calming down but the bangs were staying high. Girls' foreheads all over the Western world were being burned on curling irons. Neon colours were still staking their claim on at least 30% of "fashionable" wardrobes, mostly thanks to the likes of Vuarnet logos. No one in my class even knew who Vuarnet was, but we still had to own at least one thing from that brand (even if it was from the Tiger brand store which meant it had a slight imperfection that made its price 60% cheaper). I went there a lot with my mother.

Seriously, who the fuck is Vuarnet? I laugh now that I know . . . 23 years later.
I detest skiing!

Anyway, I was then at the stage that I didn't need toys anymore for Christmas.
I was mature.
I was sophisticated.
I was fashion forward.
I was 11.

All I wanted was this utterly amazing and outrageous winter jacket I had seen on a previous shopping excursion with my mother. I begged and pleaded for this jacket. It would be a statement piece! To channel my inner Ferris Bueller, "It was so choice." And also? It was over $100. My mother had flat out said no. Even at 11, I realized that that was a lot for a jacket, particularly to be worn for someone of my age but all rational thought had escaped me. I was fixated on that jacket and I needed to have it.

I played dirty.

Being the only child of a deceased only child had given me a particular advantage — I was spoiled as hell by my grandparents. Whenever my mother noticed me using my "powers", she'd rip into me like an enraged mama tiger, so I had to learn to be subtle and crafty with suggestions. Except for this jacket. I was ready to accept the heat as long as I could feel that cool textured nylon/polyester blend against my neck.

The first chance I got, I took my grandmother shopping and got her to buy it for me. I remember the adrenaline pumping through my veins as my grandmother handed the shop clerk her credit card. I could hear my heart thumping in my ears; I knew it was wrong but I never once hesitated.

Needless to say that on Christmas morning, when I unwrapped my present from my grandparents, while busy expressing my phony expression of surprise, I glanced at my mother; I could tell I was screwed. She was biting the inside of her lip like she did whenever she was utterly furious with me. I avoided her for most of the day.

The next day, she didn't yell or scream or do much of anything. She just walked passed me while she was cleaning and passively but coldly said, "I am disgusted with you." It was the first time since my whole obsession had begun that my actions really became apparent to me. Ugh.

The worst part was when I wore my new "spoils of war" to school. It really was a statement piece alright. I mean, I was always one of those that enjoyed standing out a little bit . . . but . . . not like a sore thumb. This jacket was a sore thumb.

I instantly hated it — more than I think I've ever hated a single item of clothing, ever.

But I had to wear it. All. Fucking. Winter.

And the year after as well.

T'was a worthy punishment.

Not the exact same jacket but pretty fucking close.

Seriously.

The lesson I learned from that year? Well, I guess it's pretty obvious. Be careful of what you think you want or must have at all costs — it might not be worth who you step on to get it.

A lot like fame, I would surmise.


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{Etsy image source}

1984, bitches!

My mother has finally decided it's time I get the rest of my crap from her basement, much to my husband's horror. On the plus side, I discovered my school treasures dating all the way back to kindergarten. My mom likes to blame all the hoarding on me, but there's no way I started keeping those things from way back then on my own - all neatly categorized in order by year. Ahem!

Anyway, I have been laughing my arse off at my seven year old self for the past two days, so I thought you might as well join in on the ridiculousness that is mini me.

Loving the fake tan and leg warmers, Cyndi!

I don't know about this one, but the accuracy is amazing.

This actually explains a lot . . .

I was scrap booking before scrap booking was cool!

Holy fuck, I really do love winning!

And it appears my artistic abilities peaked in 1984

because I'm pretty sure I still draw sunsets like this:

Magritte can stick this in his pipe and smoke it.

Colour Me Kilted

This past weekend was the Highland Games in my wee little town, and do you know what that means? Lots and lots of men wearing kilts. More kilts than I'd ever seen at one time, and that's speaking from someone who's lived in Scotland! (Many Scotsmen that I know actually find kilts vulgar and cliché, including my grandfather and father-in-law.) But since I'm not a Scot or a man, I say bring it on!

It reminds me of this time in high school: We had one particular friend in our group that was good looking. Well, that's putting it lightly - he was fucking stunning. He looked a lot like Brad Pitt, but without the "I've been beaten to a pulp numerous times" look. I cannot deny that being arm-in-arm with him at a bar made me feel like hot shit as women would approach him to ask for his autograph, thinking that he actually was Brad (yes, that happened.. twice).

He was a genuinely nice guy too, which just made him more desirable. Friendly, artistic, smart, funny and musical. What can I say, he made my brain soft. It was around the same time in my life when I had to start wearing pantiliners that I also sat next to him everyday in Art class. Coincidence? Doubtful. Ahem.  He didn't seem to affect my other friends as deeply as he did me, (perhaps because they had been going to school with him for a lot longer than myself) but for whatever the reason, I learned to keep my cool around him for the most part...

Until the day he wore a kilt.

He showed up to school in a plain white t-shirt, black Doc Martens and a Macgregor kilt. It was definitely not a fashion statement that was seen every day in 1996 and I doubt anyone but him could have pulled it off without being made a laughing stock. He was already known for his eccentricities, in addition to his alarmingly good looks, so this hardly got more than a few double takes.

In the middle of the main foyer, crammed with approximately 100 other students all rushing to their respective classes, I snuck up behind him and lifted up the back of his kilt.

Beautiful. Bare. Ass.

He wasn't even startled. He slowly turned around, smiled at my flaming beet-red face and laughed, "You look surprised. Commando's the only way to wear a kilt, darling."

In-fucking-deed.

Sadly, that glorious two seconds would be the one and only time I would get a glance at that man's under carriage, so to speak. Hindsight is painfully 20/20 because if I had known that, and however much I really do appreciate a nice ass, I wish I had lifted up the front.

Instead, I'll just hold on to that regret thought and masturbate to this photo...

The Tsaritsa said... what?

Greetings and salutations, Lady Estrogen readers! My name is Alexandra. I have a blog called The Tsaritsa Sez, and I have a confession to make: I suck at story telling.

Before you click out of this post, please let me clarify: I'm not speaking of my skills in spinning a written yarn, or shooting the breeze with friends and family. My problem is that I can be quite a Nervous Nelly around people who I am just meeting for the first time. I tend to put my foot in my mouth, stutter, say something nonsensical, and generally act like a overly-caffeinated spazoid. It doesn't happen all the time, but it happens enough to be simultaneously frustrating and entertaining.

Just the other day I was trying to describe a funny scene from my favorite TV show, Psych, to my friend Jillian and her friend Anna, who I had only met once before, and I just. couldn't. spit. it. out. I stumbled all over my words, dropped in a lot of "you know"s and "uuuhmmmm"s, and by the time I got to the end I could see that no one really cared or understood what I was trying to convey. Unintelligible-- that's me when I get nervous.

This isn't an uncommon issue. There are plenty of people who get nervous when they have to speak in front of others, which is why improv acting, speech-writing classes, and toast-master groups are so popular, to train people to overcome that anxiety. This might be totally made up, but I heard somewhere that people fear public speaking more than they do death (makes sense, as death is inevitable, but you can sure get out of having to give a speech if you feign a sore throat convincingly enough). 

What is kind of silly about my story-telling flubbage is the fact that I love acting and being on stage. I'm a natural ham.

So what's the problem when it comes to recounting something to a new acquaintance? Maybe it's the close proximity? Maybe I'm worried about how my breath smells? Or maybe it's because I'm too busy wondering if the other person is understanding me correctly and hopefully not thinking I'm a weirdo that the section of my brain that gives me the ability to string together an intelligible and cohesive sentence gets neglected? I have no idea.

One especially funny situation happened when I was fifteen years old and working at the Rita's Water Ice stand on South Street. It was summer, the weather was excruciatingly hot and humid, and there was some big basketball championship going on between the Philadelphia 76ers and the LA Lakers, so there were a lot of people in town, and thus a lot of people perusing the touristy shops of South Street and stopping by Rita's to get a cold treat.

On one of these hot, summer days, I had two guys from Los Angeles come to buy water ice. They told me that they were sports reporters, in town to write about the games, and had never heard of it water ice before but wanted to try it. "It's kinda in-between sorbet and a snow-cone. It's smoother than a snow-cone, but icier than sorbet," I told them. They seemed pleased and picked their flavors, and as I scooped their water ice I tried to think of a funny joke to tell them before they left, you know, just to be fun and give them something to remember about Philadelphia people.

I handed the reporters their ices and, not thinking, said, "Don't worry, I didn't spit in it or anything."

In my head, it kind of made sense. What I thought was implied was: I know you're from Los Angeles and that your city's team is in a big battle with my city's team, but don't worry-- just because we're not rooting for the same team, doesn't mean I would do anything as crazy as spit in your water ice.

It was a pretty dumb thing to say, and might have been funny if I had said it to a friend, but it was not appropriate to say to a stranger, let alone a customer.

The two reporters looked at me, shocked. One of them said to me, clearly disgusted by my attempt at a joke, and said "Great! You didn't spit in it? Is that the slogan here?" I just stared at them with a weak smile,dumbfounded by my own stupidity-- surprised at what I said, and surprised at how they reacted. They walked away with a look of utter horror on their faces.

For reasons which may or may not seem obvious, I haven't told many people this story. I stumble through my words and make bad jokes and say things without thinking on occasion, but this LA/spit ice incident was definitely the worst blunder I've ever made. So embarrassing, which is why I'm telling this story in a guest post.

Thanks for reading! If you like what you've seen so far, please check out my blog. In addition to writing nonsense about the nonsense I encounter, I publish a literary zine and am working on my first hip-hop EP. Much love to Lady Estrogen for letting me share my story on her blog xox

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Thanks so much to The Tsaritsa for hanging out over here this week while I'm slumming it in NYC.
We have been bloggy mates for quite a while now, but it was THIS VIDEO of hers that made me fall in lust. Watch it; so funny! And you'll probably want a peanut butter, Nutella and banana sandwich afterwards - just be warned.

When is young too young?

"I want us to have sex."

"Nope, sorry. I don't want to have sex until I'm older, and when I'm in love."

"That's lame. Sex is fun."

"That's nice. I'll find out when I'm older. You aren't going to change my mind."

"Fine. How about in your ass?"

I laid there naked, and as he groped my right breast I paused to think about it.
"Mmmmm. OK, I guess we could give that a try."

The look on his face was nothing short of pure excitement. His beautiful crystal blue eyes that initially attracted me to him were widened with anticipation. He grabbed my ass and hoisted me up onto all fours to assume "the position". I didn't really do much to help him out - not that I knew what the fuck to do anyway; I just thought he would know.

He pretended to be so experienced, even though I was fairly intuitive and saw right through his bullshit. For some reason or another, I found his phony act of "studliness" oddly endearing... however briefly.

He pushed his dick between my butt cheeks and just started pounding away - like a drunken fool trying to get their key into the hole by ramming it in the general area of the key hole.

Yes, that.

And let me just say that he never got in the door.

I just stayed there on all fours getting pounded from behind, but aside from the force of his body hitting mine, there was nothing. And I knew it. It was quite obvious to me, but apparently not to him.

After he had, umm, finished? He collapsed on to his bed beside me and with an exhausted smile, he rubbed his hand on my stomach and said, "You're officially my twentieth lay. Congratulations, sexy!"

Charming.

And so not true. It took everything in me not to call him on that clusterfuck, but by that time, I had ZERO interest in having him trying again. I just let him have his moment.

I was twelve.

And he was thirteen.

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And this happens more than parents want to know or are willing to admit, but it's out there. It's going on right now, and even though parents find it uncomfortable taking about sex with their adolescents, they need to. It's a part of life and growing up and learning and exploring.

I thought it was time I wrote this post as a response to the latest controversies of what constitutes going "too far" with sexual education for children at the grade 7-8 level (12-13 years old). I cannot believe this is STILL going on. The legislation has been in place since 1988, people! Get the fuck over it and talk to your children about sex.

This is my story, and this event took place 22 years ago.

A lot has changed in 22 years but two things will always remain the same: Kids are curious and dumb - and it's a terrible combination.

Please educate them.

I'm a Cyst'a

For as long as I can remember, I have had cysts. I'm a cyst'y bitch all over.

I have polycystic ovaries.
I have fibrocystic breasts.
I have cystic acne.
And I have pelvic lymphocysts.

For most women, they will tell you that experiencing childbirth is when you lose all dignity - with your legs in the holsters and no less than 2 people looking up close and personal at your steaming snatch. And I ain't talking about ménage à trois here, people! In my case there were 7, but who's counting...

Well, for me it was a long, long time before that.

Let's completely ignore the fact that I had 12 interns present at my first pap smear at 14, all staring intently and taking notes as the chosen student proceeded to insert the vaginal retractor IN-COR-RECT-LY. Yes, that's right. I know you're all crossing your legs right now - and so you should. It was NOT a pleasant experience. Every time I've heard the line, "This is a teaching hospital" on shows like ER or Grey's Anatomy, I have done an involuntary Kegel. Fucking students.

So, indeed, let's all forget that.

But if it wasn't from that, then it would be from the two dozen times I have had a lymphocyst bordering dangerously close to my holy grail that was so painful that I couldn't walk. Then in 2006, one impacted so badly that I had to have an emergency operation... while my then current fiancé was back in Canada for a cousin's wedding. I had to call him from my cell phone on pain killers to tell him I was in the hospital. Plus, we didn't really know anyone well enough to call to help me in the UK, so I had to look up my neighbor's phone number and get his adult son's wife (that I barely knew) to come and drive me home after the surgery. It was a humbling experience, to say the least.

Try explaining THAT one to a bunch of nosy pupils that all wanted to know why I had been off school for 4 days and am now limping. Why, Miss, why, Miss, why, why, why?

BECAUSE I JUST HAD MY MEAT CURTAINS OPERATED ON - HAPPY NOW?!

(You must be shocked to know that that was my final year teaching. Uh huh.)

So I have done everything to try to help with these cysts. I've changed my clothing. My detergent. My soap. I've lost weight. I've gained weight. I've soaked in tubs with Epsom salts. I've seen dermatologists, homeopaths, plastic surgeons, you name it. Nothing has made them occur any less frequent.

I had a doctor recently nonchalantly tell me that all I would need to do was lose weight - because the old scaring that would indicate exactly how long I've had this issue was apparently irrelevant. So that doctor could take his 'professional opinion' and go eat a dick.

Thankfully, my husband is very understanding and is so used to my occasional giant band-aid that he barely even notices now. He's explained my condition in the most perfect way:

"It's not the cave that brings the real estate down, it's the neighbors."

If I ever find myself back in the dating game for whateverthefuck reason (I like to be prepared), I would most definitely have to add that to my profile description.

What's so fun about dignity anyway?



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This post was inspired by the TMI chatter that I just love so much over on The Twitter -
with the lovely Momofthreeunder, jlweinberg and kdwald.

~Muah~

To Bully or Not to Bully

9 times out of 10, the concept of bullying is fairly straight forward… except in my case, of course. I would like to think, or rather, I would hope that in today’s more holistic understanding of a child's psyche that the situation I found myself in would have been handled differently than it was in the early 90s. (Although I believe even back then it was poorly dealt with.)

It began in grade 5 with a girl named Lynda; Lynda was not even in my class. People, whether it be peers or adults, always perceived me as the leader, and though I may have leadership qualities, I wasn’t really ever at the driver’s seat of the girly mob… I was just the loudest, that’s all. Some of my friends in Lynda’s class decided to pick on her. She was shy, homely and had less-than-cool clothes – the typical prey for a pack of vicious 11 year old girls. My friends wanted to make a song about her – to make fun of her. Now, I’m not proud of this, but obviously I was the prodigious song writer behind this project. It was to the tune of “Bad to the Bone” and went like this:

One day I came to school, Du-na-nu-na-na
Lynda was dead, Du-na-nu-na-na;
A bus came down the street, Du-na-nu-na-na
And ran over her head, Du-na-nu-na-na.

I know it’s terrible, but I have to laugh about my thought processes as an 11 year old; I guess I’ve always been a poet, a fucking little bitch, but still a poet.

Now after admitting that less-than-stellar moment from my childhood, I can honestly say that was the ONLY mean thing I EVER did to that girl – but unbeknownst to me at the time, I had inadvertently begun a 4-year war, however completely controlled by Lynda.

It started with her small, petty tattling, like I had said something or took something from her; stupid shit like that. By the time grade 6 rolled around (and the cruel fates then had us in the same class now) it had escalated so badly that I was a regular fixture outside the Principal’s office. It was ridiculous and frankly annoying the fuck out of me considering I wasn’t doing or saying anything – to which the teachers would then accuse me of lying. In fact, I would go out of my way to avoid her; not ignore her, AVOID her – she was crazy and completely out to get me. By the end of grade 6, I was threatened with suspension if I didn’t start “making an effort” to be nice to her. My parents had to get involved by this point.

There was a bit of a lull in 7th grade, but the tension was always there. They made sure we were separated into different classes. Boys had begun harassing her by then and they were being out-rightly cruel to her, yet she NEVER complained about them, not even once. The climax didn’t occur until grade 8 when, during a school trip to Quebec, she had proclaimed to the teachers that I had threatened to kill her and her family.

WHOA! We were getting into serious shit now. 

You would THINK that some alarm bells would have tingled by this point, but nope. I was completely screwed over that particular incident. They never believed my word; the word of the popular and outgoing girl against that of poor little Lynda. This event also ruined my once-positive relationship with my teachers; it was a nightmare.

The last so-called altercation with Lynda that I distinctly remember was near the end of that year. I was in the hall with a boy from our class and we were laughing about something. She came around the corner and dramatically threw herself against the opposing lockers and screamed, “WHAT NOW? WHAT ARE YOU SAYING ABOUT ME NOW, STEPHANIE?” Both me and the boy I was with just stood there, stunned.

I made the decision to go to a different high school than everyone else; which even trumped a reunion with Kevin! I had many reasons, but one of the top 2 was to get the hell away from that girl. I knew that her obsession with torturing me would follow us into high school and I had to put an end to it. How bizarre that I was perceived the bully throughout all of this. There I was, the “bully”, changing schools to get away from the apparent “victim”. Isn't it usually the other way around?

Fast forward a decade. I had become privy to some top secret information: Lynda had been hospitalized for being a paranoid schizophrenic. NO, REALLY? Again, I would like to think that with today’s greater understanding about mental health that they could have, no, they SHOULD have caught it sooner instead of automatically assuming that it was a simple case of bullying, with ME being the bully.

Do I feel different about her now that I know she was sick that entire time?
Of course.
Does it change the fact that 4 years of primary school completely blew donkey nuts for me?
No.

Is there a lesson in all of this? 
YES!
Don't always assume that kids are lying, or disregard their opinions and concerns solely because of their young age.
They know more than you think; listen to them.

A Bad Movie Choice

One of the earliest memories of my birthday parties is easy to recall. It was my 10th birthday; grade four.
In fact, I really wish I could forget it.
Or rather, rewind and do one tiny little thing over again: Choose a different fucking movie.

The party was going along nicely.
Games were played.
Presents were opened.
Cake was eaten.

My mother has purchased a huge makeup kit for the 'gimmick' of the party. We all applied hideous amounts of eye shadow, lipstick and rouge on each other. By the end of it, we closely resembled a group of midget zombie clowns rather than 10 year old girls. I have photos - they are terrifying.

The final wind-down was movie time. We all nestled in various positions around the couches and pillows on the floor, like a pride of lionesses; colourfully painted lionesses.

I had chosen 'Fine Things' for the movie. It is a Danielle Steel tearjerker but with some action and a love story. Even at ten, I really got into dramatic story lines like this one; I loved it. In hindsight, a Danielle Steel movie probably wasn't a wise decision for our age, nor for a party, regardless. I'd like to try and blame that one on my mother, but I know how stubborn I've always been and there was probably a "warning speech" that I chose to ignore, I'm almost certain of it.

We were all into the movie; it is definitely a roller coaster of a plot. Once the main characters were finally together, the woman gets cancer. It gets drawn out and is very revealing about the ugliness of cancer. The problem? One of my friend's little sister had recently been diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor and was under-going chemotherapy at Toronto Sick Kids.

Needless to say, at the dramatic scene where the mother dies, (If you haven't seen the movie, sorry for ruining it. It was made in 1990; get over it.) my friend goes into a complete meltdown. Extreme. We had to call her mother to come and pick her up.

I felt like a fucking twat. I still do, even to this day.

There really wasn't much of a party after that. We didn't watch the second half of the movie. We just kind of sat around in awkward silence... crying... and waited out the final hour before other parents arrived.

Worst. Party. Ever.

The next year? I think we watched 'House Party' with Kid n' Play.

Camp Guilty

My mother always told me that I had "one of those faces" that always made me look guilty - even when I hadn't done anything. I didn't really get into a lot of trouble growing up, but I sure had my moments; when I went out, I went out with a bang, bang, bangity bang ba-bang!*

In grade 8, there were two fairly major trips that we looked forward to: the Quebec trip and the camping trip. Every grade 8 class for decades had been going to the camp that our school district owned; it was the traditional 4-days and 3-nights 'right of passage'.

We all arrived excited and ready to do all the camping-oriented activities... but what was really the best part? The nights by the camp fire, or more specifically, cozy co-ed nights by the fire. It was a huge deal for most hormonal pre-teens, such as ourselves.

The first day when off without a hitch.

We did crafts.
We orienteered.
We went rowing.
We did lame-ass group trust exercises.
We sung songs around the campfire - awe, so snugly.

Of course, the only guy I wanted to snuggle with on that trip was the counselor, who was 21 and mighty fine. What can I say? I had good taste. What's 8 years difference anyway? When he's 48, I would be 40 - no problem! I guess I didn't win him over with my 13 year old feminine wiles; which in hindsight is probably a good thing, because that would have made him officially a pedophile... but I digress.

Time for bed; lights out.
There was only one rule: Girls stay in their cabin; boys stay in their cabin.

I still don't know who had the Jason mask or how the hell I got a hold of it, but about 1/2 an hour after "lights out", I put on the glow-in-the-dark mask and left the girls' cabin. I crept up to the windows of the boys' cabin like a lioness approaching her prey and then I jumped up and in my scariest voice, I yelled:

"ALL YOU MOTHER FUCKERS, GET READY TO DIE!" 

OK. So, as you can well imagine, they all went berserk; I was a god damn legend that night. My shit-disturbing antics then caused them to open their back emergency door, leading to the girls' adjacent emergency door... which was then, of course, also opened. It rapidly escalated into a complete free-for-all.

Pure unsupervised pubescent chaos.

The next morning, the teachers gathered us all together and we were told we were getting sent home; the entire class. In the past, they had had to send specific students home, but NEVER the entire class.

Not once in over 30 years.

The best part? For some miraculous reason, I was never busted or ratted out as being the main instigator. I guess on that particular morning, my guilty face blended in nicely with everyone else's.

* Bang Bang Bangity Bang Ba-bang is from How I Met Your Mother - watch the song here - so damn funny.

White Girls Eat Hot Dogs

One of my best friends in elementary school was from Hong Kong. Her family had moved to Canada when she was 3 years old, so she had a little bit of an accent, but her English was great. Her mother, on the other hand, did not speak English. Whenever I would go over to their house, she would do one of two things: Either smile and nod her head quietly in my general direction; or yell at Zoe at the top of her lungs.

Or at least I always thought it was yelling.

I was only 8 and to be honest, that women scared the shit out of me. I just assumed she was angry all the time - or even worse, angry that I was there. Aside from the mother issue, I was fascinated by their house.

The colours. The smells. The décor. It was all so very different from my house.

My favourite was their pantry. It was fully stocked with goodies - well, the bottom 4 shelves, anyway. Every sugary treat of goodness you could think of - and everything I wasn't allowed to have at my own home.

Wagon wheels. Jellybeans. Twinkies. Cookies. Fuzzy Peaches. Coke bottles. You name it; it was there.

I was in heaven.

In complete contrast, the top 2 shelves were filled with items such as seaweed, dried fish heads and chicken feet. They looked like terrifying science experiments to an 8 year old Caucasian girl who's understanding of multicultural food was that Chicken Parmesan was Italian.

Every time I stayed over for dinner, which was often, her mother would make an elaborate traditional Chinese dinner for herself, her husband, her son and Zoe... and then she would place 2 boiled hot dogs with ketchup on my plate. I never questioned it; I was being polite... and I was 8.

Every. Single. Time. It was a damn good thing I liked hot dogs.

It took me THREE YEARS before I finally got the courage to ask my friend about her mother. It was just after she had yelled at Zoe through the wall, in her usual fashion:

"ZZZOEEEE, NÊN XIANG CHI RÈ GÔU MA?"

Zoe slightly rolled her eyes and replied to her mother, "Ya, ya!"

"Zoe! Why is your mother so angry at you all the time? Did I do something wrong?"

She looked at me like I was an idiot. "Nope. She just wants to know if you want hot dogs for dinner."

The Teddy Bear Diva

This is one of my favorite old photos of myself that I will share with you. It brings back a lot of memories for me, such as... 

1. It was taken in our first house, before my mom got re-married; it was our bachelorette pad.

2. Those elasticized sleeves were annoying as hell. They were really tight and felt like itchy, deflated personal flotation devices.

3. I loved my tutu. I loved all of my tutus. When I graduated to the level in ballet where we had to wear wrap around skirts instead of tutus, I was throughly disappointed.

4. Apparently, at the recital, I pushed the girl beside me off the stage because she wasn't doing the routine properly. If I was to re-enact the scene, it would have gone something like this:

"Pssst. You're not doing your Grand Plié right! You are making us look bad."

"Leave me alone. I'm trying to concentrate on my Demi Detourné."

"You're not succeeding. You suck. And so does your Port de bras."

"Waaaa. Stop picking on me. I'm only 5! I'm doing the best I can."

"I'm 5 too; that's no excuse. Your best just isn't good enough."

"I'm going to tell on you. You're mean!"

"That's not mean, honey. THIS is mean..." And then I give the silly little bitch a quick shove off the stage. She was cramping my style.

Besides, I'm pretty sure that I was destined to work center stage as a solo act, even if I did it in a tacky, brown polyester/satin blend costume, handmade by my mother. We all have to start somewhere, right? 

AGENT! WHERE'S MY AGENT?

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This post is for Monday Memory

The Horny Trembler

I had gotten myself into another ‘secret’ arrangement with another boy at school – although this was much tamer than my rendezvous with the older boy I had the year before. What can I say except to quote Joey Lauren Adams from Chasing Amy, “I was an experimental child, for Christ’s sake!” The strange part of this awkward relationship was that he was actually the best friend of my sweetheart, Kevin. Maybe in a way, I thought that this would be as close as I would ever get, like a consolation prize. Meh; second place sucks.

What I found to be the most entertaining element of our little touching sessions was how incredibly horny this kid got. He would actually be quivering with his tongue very close to hanging out – and all I was doing was letting him feel my little boobs with my top off. Wow! I found it pretty amusing but also with a dash of creepy. I wasn’t overly eager about attending these private sessions, but I didn’t have anything better to do on a Saturday afternoon, so we kept it up for a few weeks.

I found my ‘out’ when he broke his wrist and had a giant cast on his right arm. We usually did a lot of our groping sessions in his pool, so I suggested we called it quits since he couldn't go swimming for a long time. He begged me to come over one last time and I reluctantly went. At least with the other boy, I was getting some physical pleasure out of it – with this boy, it was mostly just him ogling over me, not even any kissing! Although I enjoyed the attention, it was getting old and I got bored, fast. So, I went over this one last time. We went to his basement where they had the traditional old, crappy family couch that had been demoted down there when they bought a new one for the family room upstairs.

His horny trembling commenced like clockwork the moment I took off my clothes. I laid down on the ratty couch and he knelt down beside me and started to feel my body...with his cast-bound hand. I tried so hard not to laugh but all I could think of was that it felt like a crab was crawling up and down me. He had tried to feel my vagina but I could still only picture a little creature extending his skinny legs from his shell and frantically trying to burrow into my lady bits.

Sorry buddy, you ain’t going to find what you’re looking for doing that!

I had to sit up and put a stop to it – it was either that or breaking out into hysterics, but I really didn’t want to hurt his feelings. I let him have one last boob squeeze and I left.

The one thing I always wondered was whether there were a few bright auburn short ‘n curlies stuck inside his cast when they cut it off.

We'll always have the postbox

There were really 2 childhood sweethearts in my life – some would quickly say it was “typical” for me, but there were unique circumstances. As I have already mentioned Paul, which would be the first of the two, but our timeline was made up of isolated meetings that spanned over a decade. The more ‘traditional’ sense of the concept of a childhood sweetheart was with Kevin. Oh Kevin!

He was the only boy in the 3rd grade that weighed more than I did – although there was no way in hell anyone but me knew that factoid – and I don’t think that was why I took a shine to him, but it did help. He was slightly awkward and quiet but extremely intelligent and had a fantastically mature and dry sense of humour. I think I was one of the few kids that understood his quirkiness – and there were definitely no other girls that I had to compete with for his attention; most of the girls all liked Justin or Kyle – both of which were your typical good looking jock-asshole-in-training type of boys. These boys, of course, were also the 2 that would make fun of my weight whenever possible – those little fuckers. Yeah, the other girls could have them!

Kevin never said anything mean – to me or to anyone. He was genuinely a nice boy and I was hooked. By the 4th grade, we had become fairly close. Of course, my sexual feelings were far more advanced than what he was probably thinking, but that was OK with me. I had my little fantasy world to go home to, in which I would imagine taking things ‘further’ in my own way. In reality, I just really enjoyed spending time with him after school... almost every day. It was the best time of the day and I looked forward to it every afternoon and some days I wouldn’t get home until after 5 o’clock, welcomed by my unimpressed mother. I can’t remember what we managed to talk about for that long, but it was fantastic. 

No one else in our grade really socialized with members of the opposite sex – that were not related anyway – we were the only ones. Even though we never kissed or even held hands, we were the unofficial ‘couple’ in our class. If we ever had to do any boy-girl partner activities in class, it went without saying that we would be together. The other kids would joke about us and surprisingly, he didn’t care – and it didn’t deter him from continuing our after-school meetings by the postbox. 

It continued for another year – 3 years with the same crush when you are 11 is like an eternity! Most of my friends had cycled though at last 3 or 4 crushes by then, but I had remained faithful to my feelings for Kevin. Then, the unimaginable happened... our school was too small for the population and we would be getting a new school. We were being allocated according to where we lived, with the main street down the middle of our town acting as the dividing line. I lived on one side and Kevin lived on the other! I begged my parents to move. I was hysterical and angry at the thought that we would be split up. It would mean no more after-school time, ever.

So, the move inevitably happened and I was dragged kicking and screaming to the new school which was just horrible without Kevin; I was stuck with the jock-assholes-in-training instead. I was resigned to only seeing him at sporting events and Friday night skating, which even that was only in the winter, but I took what I could get. He usually played hockey before the free skate, so I would go early and sit with his father. For those 3 wonderful hours every Friday, I got to spend time with either him or his family – which was the same thing in my mind. 

Years went by and we went to different high schools as well. Our special ‘thing’ was pretty much a distant memory to most – although still to this day, I can recite his entire address, postal code and phone number. I would mail him a birthday card every year, no matter what.

We had 1 bizarre encounter in grade 12 when we were both incredibly intoxicated at a Christmas Hockey party that his team was hosting. Late in the night he found me, or rather, he practically fell on me and put his arm around me. With shamefully slurred speech he asked me, “So, why didn’t we ever fuck?” I just laughed and replied, “I don’t know, babe, we totally should have!” I doubt he remembers that gem of a moment ever happening, but it surely did.

He recently got married last summer and the funny thing is that although I am sort of happily married with 2 children, I found myself experiencing a tingle of jealously when I saw the wedding photos on facebook – no matter what, he will always be MY Kevin - and that skinny bitch totally stole him from me ;)

PreSchool Passion

Whether it was because my babysitter had me second-hand watching soap operas from the time I could walk or perhaps because I was just born with an over-active libido – but either way I knew I had a special and early developed love for, well... love.

I remember taking Scotty behind the toy shed in the playground during PreSchool. I enjoyed re-enacting scenes from whatever soap I had seen the day before, and he was a willing participant – which I might add as a side note was extremely rare for a 5 year old boy to be up for. There was also another girl that insisted on coming with us for our secret activities. I wasn’t overly impressed about sharing Scotty, but I let it slide. She was cute with loosely curled red hair and a tiny cluster of freckles across her nose – and I knew that she had a crush on Scotty too. Why wouldn’t she? He was hot stuff – as far as 5 year olds go.

The 3 of us would sneak behind the shed and we girls would take turns kissing Scotty and I was in charge of directing the re-enactments as I remembered them from TV (from what a preschooler could grasp of the plot, anyway).

If you have ever experienced small children role playing to be like adults, you would know that they can be overly dramatic. Although it was close to 30 years ago, I know that our little ‘love scenes’ were completely ridiculous. I also know that it was during the fall, because I can remember Scotty and I rolling around in the leaves while switching our heads from side to side, doing what we thought was passionate kissing. I’m sure the gods were watching from above, shaking their heads thinking, ‘This girl’s going to be trouble!”

Biking with Sandals

When I was 12, appearances were already very important to me.

I was going to go for a bike ride with a close neighbour friend of mine, and I was wearing my cool new sandals. My father had taken to yelling at me in front of my friends, and stopped us before we left. He instructed me to change into socks and running shoes if I was going to ride my bike. Are you kidding? I was wearing shorts! Shorts with socks and shoes were so uncool; nevermind the sock tan I would get!

Oh Em Gee! Like, totally, for real.

I ignored my dad, even when he continued yelling at us from the driveway as we rode off.

We were no more than 2 blocks from my house when I hit a tiny pot hole in the pavement and my bike when slightly out of control. Instinctually, I put both feet to the ground, dragging my toes. Now, if I was wearing shoes, this wouldn’t have been an issue, but since I was wearing my “cool” sandals, I succeeded in taking about 10 layers of skin off both of my big toes. It was repulsive and I think the combination of disgust and adrenaline masked the actual pain. There were 2 narrow but noticeable trails of blood on the road. I immediately fell to the nearest lawn and screamed in horror. It looked like my toes had just been mutilated by a meat grinder. I begged my friend, “GO GET MY DAD!”

She rode back to my house to get him. It couldn’t have been more than 5 minutes later, but it seemed like forever. She came back, accompanied by my father. He could run faster than we could ride on our bikes – he had very long legs. He said nothing and threw me over his shoulder, fireman-carrying me, while he did a brisk walk back to our house.

I had to get 2 mini cast-like wrappings on both of my toes and they ached for a long time after. I couldn’t walk for a couple days. My father never said “I told you so”. He didn’t have to; but I’m positive he was thinking it the entire time he was carrying me with my skin hanging off my toes.

I loathed my father that day, not for being an unreasonable jackass (this time), but because he was 100% right.

Going down to munch-town

I have always had an over-active libido; even as a young girl. I managed to find a boy at my school, (1 year older), who was mutually curious about sex. We weren’t a “couple” by any sense of the word– it was our secret. His parents were away a lot, so I usually went to his house to fool around. We usually got naked and did a lot of oral sex activities. Despite my eagerness to explore the opposite sex, I still managed to maintain that I didn’t want to lose my virginity that young; or to this guy!

The time I remember the most was a rare occurrence that he came to my house. My bed was positioned under a window that faced the front of the house. I straddled his face and he went down to munch-town while I watched out the window the entire time to see if my parents came home. I was 12 years old.

Switching shorts

When I was in grade 8 there wasn’t too much difference in the fashion that there is now. Really short cut-off jeans were the thing to wear in the summer... and my mother was having NONE of it. It had taken me so long to get the fraying just right on them too. I guess I had put up enough fuss about it that she had become suspicious of me when I quickly left for school (wearing my lame just-above-the-knee-length shorts). Of course, I had taken the cut-off jeans with me, with the intent that I would change into them when I got to school... which I did.

It was second period and there was a knock at the classroom door. It was my mother. “Sorry to bother your class. Can I speak with my daughter? I have a change of clothes for her.”

Are you fucking kidding me? I was totally embarrassed! My close friends knew why she had come and they were giving me some pity smirks, but the rest of the class didn’t think anything of it. My mom was a frequent volunteer and familiar face at school, so it didn’t seem weird to most. I didn’t care. I was so angry with her; I couldn’t believe she did that to me...in front of everyone!

I followed her out into the hall. My face was on fire and I wanted to punch a locker, or anything that would make a lot of noise...something to release the rage that I had boiling in my stomach. She shoved the more “appropriate” clothes in my arms and only said one thing to me before she walked away: “Do you think I’m stupid?”

Aunt Flow is a bitch.

I did some math to figure out the odds on when any one female is likely to get her first menstrual period. Let’s say there is an approximate 6 year window (roughly) when a girl can start at any time, so therefore that would mean there is a 1 in 2190 chance that it would arrive at any particular date within those years. ONE IN TWO THOUSAND, ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY! So when did my body choose to start the big flow? When I was 12 years old... and oh yes... the first friggin’ day upon arriving at friggin’ DISNEY WORLD. Friggin’ Awesome!

The first few months, of course, it’s not a bright red colour; neither is it the consistency of that pretty blue liquid that the use on the maxi-pad commercials. It was brown and clumpy and disgusting. It was so dark that at first it didn’t even register that that is what it was– I had no idea what it was. I was pretty freaked out; I called for my mom. She came running in and paused, then tilted her head, smiled with a kind of pity-look and put her hand over her heart. “Awe Cutie, you’re a woman now!” ...SAYS WHO?

She ran down to the gift shop in the hotel and got whatever they had – which were these old lady monster pads that looked more like they were for geriatric bladder control (it IS Florida, after all). I don’t know if it was those pads or that I was just paranoid, but I felt like I was just about to leak through my shorts all day. Then, I would check and there would be the tiniest spot or nothing at all; it really sucked. So, including 2 adults and 2 kids, my parents spent approximately $350 that day for admission into the theme park, in which we spent the vast majority of it in line-ups to the ladies washroom. My father had no idea how to take in this new information, nor how to combine it with being where we were. I think he blew a fuse or two that day trying to process it all.

How ironic that my parents made a point to reserve a room at the hotel that had the giant Mickey Mouse-shaped pool – seeing as that I never was able to use it the entire time. It was a bit too soon to attempt tampons at that point, especially when my mom only had the “O.B. no-applicator” type. At 12 years old? Eww, gross!

So, to conclude with my original point– what the heck was wrong with the other 2185 days for a start date? My mother said that it’s a rule of nature that it tends to choose the most inopportune time, so we remember it. Screw that! I would have much rather enjoyed performing a big cannonball into Mickey’s giant ear.