(via Take Your Body Back)

Anyway, I haven’t updated in a while, which is more to do with the fact that I’ve been busy enjoying myself. Trips to the park, cupcake picnics, pony rides, weekends away, joining a gym. It’s all been fun and games for me! Still, something happened on Monday that I felt like bragging about. While out to dinner with my boyfriend and his parents, I managed to eat an entire meal with chopsticks and my hand didn’t cramp up once!!!

(via Global Voice Online)

This is a huge step for me. I’m no stranger to Chinese food, but I am not familiar with Chinese restaurants that don’t give forks to the white people. My first ‘Oh shit’ moment with chopsticks was at a fast food place called Thai Express in Toronto last summer. I had literally just stepped off the plane and was super tired and super hungry. The food was excellent, but the eating utensils were clearly designed for cave people and impeded progress like nothing else. I eventually gave up because my hand got tired and eating one noodle at a time was getting frustrating.

(via Michael Tsen’s Saga)

About a week or so later, I was taken to a family dinner. Nothing formal, just a hundred or so aunts, uncles and cousins, with a couple of grandparents who spoke only Chinese. The usual, you know? Anyway, it’s kind of normal for the King of the Table to order all the food. I don’t understand how you get to be King of the Table, but I want to be it one day. You get to decide what everyone eats and no one can say anything! As Table King, I vow to order peanut butter sandwiches and milk for all!! Anyway, Table King didn’t really notice that I was white or thought there was no way I’d be so unworldly that I wouldn’t know how to use chopsticks.

Long story short, I didn’t get a fork and was too afraid to ask. I was very hungry throughout and at one point, as I was putting a piece of sticky, sweet and sour pork into my mouth, the chopsticks slipped and flicked the pork into the air in front of my face. Bizarrely, in a rare feat of hand-eye-coordination completely alien to me, I managed to grab it out of thin air — with my hand, not my chopsticks — but then I didn’t know what to do. If I’d thought it through, I would have been able to grab it and stuff it in my mouth in one swift motion, but I hadn’t planned beyond “Musn’t let it land in my lap/on the floor.” So instead I grabbed it and then balled up my fist and stuffed my hand into my lap. After about five minutes of trying to left-handed spoon my way through some kind of bean soup that was !!!!!!MASQUERADING AS DESSERT!!!!!! I dropped the pork on the floor and tried to wipe all the sauce off in my napkin without anyone noticing. No one did, but I had sticky hand for the rest of the night, and there was pork sauce under my nails that I couldn’t get out until I showered the next morning.

(via MacBlogz)

Since then I’ve been trying to learn how to use chopsticks properly so I wouldn’t a) go hungry and b) embarrass my boyfriend anymore. On Monday I was scarfing my way through deep fried pork dumplings like there was literally no other food on earth (healthy eating does that to a girl). Both of my boyfriends parents commented at the same time that I was a good chopsticker. And if I may say so, they are right. My next mission is to get good at left-handed chopsticking so I can eat twice as fast.

I will be a SNOWY QUEEN among the Asians. And then? PEANUTBUTTER SANDWICHES FOR EVERYONE!

There are good points and some bad points. I’ll start with the bad and then migrate toward the fantastic once I’m done whining.

Bad Stuff

• It’s really close, so there’s no excuse for not going.
• All the cardio and weight machines are in the same room, which means us lowlifes who like to run/walk/crosstrain/row get stared out of it by all the meatheads.
• Aforementioned meatheads LOOOOVE to grunt. Imagine listening to womens doubles at Wimbledon on the radio with zero commentary. Now replace all those orgasming women with hulking men sporting giant upper bodies and TIIIIIIINNY legs. Each has their own specific mating call.
• The bendy  eastern European lady who comes every day (as far as I can tell, since I don’t go everyday) and uses that weird floaty step machine that I don’t know the name of. She comes dressed in her suit, all six feet of her, and then she goes to the changing room, smiling smugly to herself. Seriously, all the time with the smiling, but never to anyone but herself and not in a “she must be happy” kind of way. In a “she must be happy with herself” kind of way. Anyway, she’s got frizzy blonde and grey hair and a thin-as-a-rail-but-somehow-flabby body. You can tell she goes to the gym ALL the time, but you can also tell she either drinks a lot/eats junky food, because though she can spend an hour on that cardio thinger, she does not look like your average, toned gym bunny. All muffin-top and bingo wings. Anyway, once she’s done, she walks to the middle of the weights part of the room, where there’s this big weird mat thing that stands on it’s side. She then proceeds to lift one leg over her head, up by her ear, and lean it against the mat, while casually smiling at anything with a penis.
• Anything with a penis.
• Having to beg for a quarter because I forgot my padlock and needed to use the vend-a-lockers.
• Forgetting to bring flip-flops.
• Chancing it and getting athletes foot so intense, I’m sure I must have had it before I got into the showers.

The Good

• The eastern European lady. She may be full of her own self importance, but watching her in the weights room is HILARIOUS.
• Getting TWO bottles of Gatorade from the vending machine. That’ll teach you to charge me $3.50 for a bottle!!! ONE. I can get SIX in Walmart for $5.
• The ginge with the slamming body but a wrecked face. You can come every other day, but exercise canNOT make you pretty. You know what can? Being NICE TO PEOPLE. I may be jealous of your muscles, but you missy, are jealous of my face. And the fact that I CAN CLEAN THE FUCKING MACHINES WHEN I’M DONE!!! IT’S A RULE FOR A REASON! No one likes to touch sweaty buttons/handles when they’re just arriving at the gym.
• Watching a kid measure the outside of the building with a banana. He looked like he was on some kind of scavenger hunt so it wasn’t THAT weird, but it was entertaining for everyone at the gym.
• The entire front of the room is glass, allowing us to watch the aforementioned kid, puppies in the park, bums by the river and of course, feel like we’re actually pedaling somewhere.
• Using my charm to get a quarter from a beefed up guy who didn’t even make me take off my clothes.
• DISCOVERING CROSS TRAINERS.
• Taking up weight machines by trying to figure out how they work.
• Taking up weight machines by only lifting a puny 30lbs. It counts!!
• Accidentally forgetting to clean my sweat off the machines. Yes, I know slamming-hot-ginge does this and I hate her for it, but really, there’s no point beating yourself up over something you can’t change. SOMEtimes, if I remember in time, I act like I was just casting a very WIIIIIIIDE spray-bottle-and-towel net, and come back to clean it, but if I’m already on another machine, fahgedabowdit. I just vow to be better next time. See, constant self-improvement is what I’m all about.

I feel like I’ve learned so much, despite only having gone four times. What will I learn/encounter next week?? WHO KNOWS!!

After the horrible colossal mistake that was “the carnival diet” (I actually gained 3 kilos in 10 days, according to Wii Fit), I decided I needed to nip that shit in the bud. Considering I’m practically allergic to running nowadays (we outgrew eachother), I decide any bud-nipping would have to be of the nutritional kind. I bought all kinds of vegetables and various different kinds of leaves and ditched all the white bread. I had good INTENTIONS.

Unfortunately, my sister arrived for a 12 day holiday a week into my healthy eating stint. This, coupled with the fact that the car broke down on the Tuesday evening and I needed pizza to feel better (her battery was sad and now she has a new one) means I didn’t even make a dent in the rabbit food. As in, two whole heads of lettuce damn near went off until they were recovered in a late-stage sandwich-making operation by my thrifty sister yesterday afternoon. Anyway, while my twinny-poo was here we literally ate like pigs. I’m talking, if we weren’t full to the point of feeling sick, we ate. One day we went for “hot dogs” (mine had two layers of chilli, bacon, cheese, peppers, onions, mustard, fake cheese and ketchup ALONG with the sausage) and right after, crossed the road and ate at a place called Buttercream. Let me tell you, if you’re at a point in your life where you’re eating lunch in a place with ‘Tubby’ in the title and eating lunch dessert (??) in a place with ‘butter’ in the title, you know you’ve gone too far.

(Image via Food Beast, and yes, this is a picture of the actual hot dog that I ate. It’s considered one of the more naked of dogs they do.)

Anyway, the nice Wii Fit board (read, HORRIBLE because you’re just never fucking good enough for Nintendo), told me yesterday that I’d gained MORE weight during that 12 day binge, so I ate leaves all day and I feel fabulous, and curiously, more full than when I was surviving on corn dogs all day. Well, not MORE full but a different kind of full. I didn’t want to vomit, poop, and die all at the same time. I just wanted to not move for a while.

I do miss chocolate, though. And this green tea stuff isn’t a patch on regular tea.

You know what will make it all better though?

Wait for it ….

….

My Cousin Vinny on BLU-RAY, BITCHES.

It’s okay to be jealous. It’s completely natural and it can only serve as inspiration for your own pathetic movie collection.

Example:

Did you know the human brain cell can hold five times as much information as the Encyclopedia Britannica?

I did not. That sounds like an awful lot, sir.

Did you know that the storage capacity of the human brain is thought to be between three and 1,000 terabytes?

MIND.BLOWN.

*For the record, this actually shows up when you Google ‘mind blown.’

Hypnotized Chair Sex

This is fantastic. I’m don’t quite know if I believe in hypnotism, but I genuinely don’t know if there’s that many people who would be willing to embarrass themselves by fucking a chair on stage.

The Truth About Sushi

I fucking knew it.

The Laughing Baby

Bitches Be Crazy!

The number one reason I am predominantly a cat person.

It’s Hard Not to Hassle the Hoff when He’s Acts Like a Complete Tool

I actually love this song, but it makes me sad that it was only released last year. Worst career defibrillator EVER.

Folding T-Shirts the Japanese Way

I may have had to watch it about 8 times, but I can fold like her!

Practice is Important

Wait … What were we talking about it?

William Hung She Bangs

I love this video because my Asian boyfriend sings, “Talk to meeee, tell me your name!” in this accent when I’m sad.

The Shiny Guys Always Worries

Obi-Kanobi is a way better name. Fact.

Christopher Walken Reading the Lyrics to Poker Face.

This is hilarious even especially if you don’t like Lady GaGa.

Stealth Cat

This is my favourite YouTube video of all time. Maybe because it reminds me of my Cujo. The only improvement would be a teeny, tiny meow at the end of the video.

Years ago, I was with my dad and my sister and we decided to drop in on some family “friends.” I say “friends” because they invited us over a lot for special occasions, like Stephen’s Day dinner, and were amazing hosts (my dad and their dad used to “retire to the study” for whiskey and fine cigars after dinner) but I’m not sure were they actually our friends. It was just that feeling you get when you’re a kid, that you’re not sure why you’re going to see these people, because the kids are kinda of bratty and even your parents don’t really seem that into it. They were more friends-out-of-obligation; it was just a happy accident that they happened to be fiiiiilthy rich and really friendly. Hospitality and TONS of money make for great hosts. Even if you don’t really want to be there, you’ll have a good time anyway because the parents have all the best booze and the kids have all the best toys.

Anyway, we decided to call in one day, I’m not really sure why, but I think my dad wanted to see their dad about some book or something. So we roll up to the castle house, ring the bell and the lady of the manor answers the door. Straight away, we can tell there’s something not quite filthy-rich-and-friendly about her. She seems kind of disappointed to see  us, which is probably the most UNfriendly reaction you could have to people on your doorstep. She starts and finishes with: ‘Oh hello, guys! *fake smile* … … dotdotdot … ‘ Eventually, after what seemed like ages, she seemed to remember most of her manners, and halfheartedly invited us in. Unfortunately, she didn’t seem to remember the rest of her P’s and Q’s. Once we’d taken her up on her lacklustre offering and the door had closed behind us, we weren’t invited any further than the hall.

This is probably when I should explain that my dad has a really weird sense of humour and having grown up in a house with just my dad, and no mother to say, “John, that’s not appropriate! You can’t say that around the children!!” I have never learned that it’s not okay to be a complete wanker just because it’s funny.

Example 1:

Starting from when I was 5-years-old, I would come home from school everyday and when my dad got home from work, he would ask me how my day had gone. I’d launch into some enthusiastic story, usually starting with, “DAD, guess what!!!” He’d ask what and I’d get all excited and start, “Today, my friend said-” This is when my dad would cut me off and tell me, “You don’t have a friend!! Who would want to be friends with you!? They’re probably just pretending.” And me, knowing my dad’s sense of humour (even at five), would go, “Daaaaaaad!!” and then he’d laugh and say, “No tell me, what did your friend say?” Sometimes he’d play at it for longer, and insist I tell him how I actually managed to make friends (“Really? You? But you’re so STUPID!”), but I knew he was joking.

So now you get it. My dad was kind of a prick, but in a nice way, and it was funny.

Sensing there was no exquisite dining in our collective future, and the house was startlingly quiet for a place where nine (yes, NINE) kids were raised, I asked for the first kid that came to my head, hoping to get away from the awfulness. We’ll call the kid Tom, because that’s not his name and his family is very rich and probably kind of powerful. Tom happened to be around my age and we sometimes played together (although, I think once you reach about 13 or 14, it becomes “hanging out”), so I figured at least I could get away from this awkwardness. Sadly, my fall-back technique for letting the air out of painfully awkward situations was “being funny.” The following conversation was the result of the aforementioned methods of relieving uncomfortable circumstances. Both went down like lead balloons filled with marbles for good measure.

Plan A – the Escape

Me: Hey, so where’s Tom?

Already-slightly-hostile-mother: He’s down the garden, reading a book.

Okay, so he wasn’t quite busy, but I wasn’t cheerfully instructed to go out and see if he wanted to hang out. Time for plan B.

Plan B – Be Acerbically Funny

Me: Hah, Tom can read now?!? Really?

By-now-VERY-hostile-mother: Well he is almost 14-years-old. *snooty-snooty hoity-toit*

Right as she said this, I got a very intentional foot-stomp from my sister. As is pretty much ALWAYS the case when someone ‘subtly’ tries to shut someone else up with physical abuse, I shouted “Ow!” straight away, and followed up with, “What was that for??” My dad didn’t say anything, suggesting he was in support of these not-so-subtle measures to keep me quiet. He asked for his friend, saying he wanted to talk/drop off/pick up a book and when he found out he wasn’t home, we were finally offered a cup of coffee. I don’t really remember the rest of the visit, so it can’t have been important. I do know that it wasn’t a long one, like they usually were, and we left after about half an hour.

We got  a fairly cheerful goodbye, and Mrs. Moneybags seemed to have recovered enough from whatever was pissing her off to invite us back “anytime we wanted.” We got into the car and the discussion immediately turned to, “What the hell was up her nose?” I very usefully pointed out that she seemed pissed off from the second she answered the door, and opined that it was kind of rude to invite someone in, but not let them any further than the hallway. Either commit or tell them you’re busy and to go home, you know? Anyway, right about then, my sister chimes in with, “WHAT did you say that about Tom for?!” My dad joined in and asked, “Yeah, what was THAT about? Was that necessary?” This reminded me that my sister had likely broken all of my toes with her stomping and instead of answering her question, I retorted with, “Yeah, why the fuck did you kick me!”

“Jane, Tom is dyslexic. His mum is ALWAYS telling dad how unfair she thinks it is that he has to go do the reading program at school.”

Of course,  I had no idea. Or had forgotten. It rang all kinds of fancy church bells as soon as she’d said it. I screamed and buried my face in the backseat of the car, while my dad and sister laughed uncontrollably.

We didn’t go back to their house ever again and years later, Tom kind of half stalked me and bought me a soldering iron as a gift. I felt less bad about the whole thing after that.

*Posted as part of Mama Kat’s weekly writer’s workshop.

I read a post over on SirJolt.com about Bruce Willis’ moustaches and the only thing that struck me was, ‘I can’t believe he hasn’t linked Bruce Wilis’ ever changing state of facial hair affairs to Nicolas Cage’s AWFUL hairstyles.’ It’s been said that you can judge how bad a Nic Cage movie is by how bad his hair is in that movie. It’s probably true.

Top 5 Nicolas Cage Hairstyles

[My boyfriend and I are having a mild disagreement as to whether these could best be described as "best" or "worst" hair-dos]

5. Raising Arizona

A movie with a full and lustrous plot and a folksy, funny-but-sad hair-do to go with it. It’s not quite stylish but it doesn’t have to be. The ‘chops, moustache and eyebrows round the look out quite nicely without overdoing things and this look’s impact is heightened by the movie’s ever-present bald and naked babies. It’s the hairiest he’s ever been.

4. The Sleazy Pervert

Nicolas Cage has had a lot of hair-dos but the Sleazy Pervert is a look he revisits often. I have no idea why, but I hope to sweet Jesus it’s not because someone told him it looked good. Perhaps it’s because he was at his hairest and best in Raising Arizona and thinks he can make up for the lack of all-over facial hair in length. This is not the case. He looks as awkward as a shaved cat. Naked but clothed in the worst possible way.

3. The un-Mullet

Nicolas Cage, the only person who can have a mullet without having a mullet. This look is questionable business practices in the front and lame 37th birthday party in the back.

2. The Rapunzel-style Widow’s Peak Cover up

This is an unreleased look for his upcoming movie The Sorcerer’s Apprentice. Apart from looking Like Gandolf and Rapunzel’s grown-up love-child, it does quite a nice job of covering up the fact that his hair line starts at his ears by employing the old, “part ‘er down the middle” trick. Too scruffy to be a magician, too wigged to be a homeless person.

1. The Faux-Fro

As seen in Adaptation, this is the kind of hair-do that only looks good on music teachers. Music teachers and people with weird jobs, like golf ball divers (for those of you who don’t know, they scuba dive for golf balls at the bottom of golf course lakes). I don’t think anyone ever thought we’d see Nic Cage with a dye-job, and a perm but without some CG or a wig to cover up that receding hairline. A work of costumery genius.

As far as I know, he’s Chinese and she’s Vietnamese. I could be totally wrong about that but I do know there’s nothing white about this wedding. I don’t mean that in a racist way, I just mean it in a “I’ve never seen THAT before” kind of way. We play “rock the boat” and throw the bouquet, for them it’s all banquets and platters of money for the bride’s parents and red and gold invitations in Chinese. Scrolls! We actually got a scroll as an invitation. It was red and gold (and wood) with a cute little couple on the front.

Anyway, things were weird enough last weekend, when I found out my boyfriend’s ‘going to help out in the morning’ was actually him going to –

*****

*WE INTERRUPT THIS BROADCAST FOR A SPECIAL NEWS BULLETIN*

Someone lost their doggy. His name is Jasper. They’re calling you, Jasper!! I can hear them! I know Canada Day fireworks are scary but your family loves you. And really, you’re safer at home where no one can stick bangers up your arse.

*****

So, where was I? Oh, yeah, the part where my boyfriend and a bunch of the groom’s friends have to show up at the bride’s house, knock on the door and bribe the bridesmaids to let them take the bride. Seriously, they just stand there and haggle with each other until they can all agree on a price. Now, that on it’s own is pretty weird.

However, that isn’t what’s happening at all. No, that was just an educated guess on behalf of my boyfriend’s parents when we asked, “What could he possibly want help with?” Apparently what he actually has to do is go to the bride’s house at 0830 in the morning with a platter of sandwiches and money — bear with me, I’m deadly serious — and offer it to the bride’s parents. THEN, the bride’s parents are supposed to take half the money (and sandwiches, I ‘spose), and say, “Here, why don’t you bring the other half back to the grooms parents, like sharing, y’know?” And then he take the noms and the dolla bills back to the groom’s house and then they all go to the church.

Sandwiches and money!! Daddy, I swear if you give me up for a ham and cheese roll and a wad of fives, I will kill you.

DON’T SETTLE FOR ANYTHING LESS THAN BURGERS!

I’ve also heard some business about a tea ceremony where the bride and groom present their in-laws with tea and then everyone gives the happy couple money and jewelry. At least, I think that’s what I heard. Depending on how close/related you are to the couple, the more you have to give. Apparently you can TOTALLY clean up at the tea ceremony. As in, by the time it gets to your immediate family, they should be giving enough to buy fuckin’ bad-ass TVs.

As if AAAAALL this weren’t entertaining and just plain MENTAL enough for me to even contemplate (I’m so, so excited even though we’re not going to the tea ceremony), there’s GAMES too. Like having the bride get down on her hands and knees (teehee) to roll a raw egg up the grooms trouser leg, past his pecker and then down the other side without it breaking. Guess the bum, that’s another one. The blindfolded bride gropes all the men (and some of the women) and has to figure out which arse belongs to her husband. Now, if you ask me, that’s where I’d be kneading the bread, having a good aul’ fondle. If they’re going to make you touch bums, you might as well traumatise some people while you’re at it; make them think you’ve never touched a bum before… Not even your own! When in Rome and all that.

I also know there’s going to be a ‘banquet.’ Now, I don’t know about you, but I love me a banquet. Drawback? They’ll probably make me eat with sticks again. And you know me and me banquets; can’t have silly things like chopsticks impeding progress. I cannot be taught. My hand cramps up and I get sad. Sad and jealous. If I have to watch my boyfriend masterfully eat rice with STICKS one more time, I’ll cry. So hungry, so frustrated, I weep.

So, all that’s left to do is buy shoes and underwear appropriate for my attire on the day* and then get myself all done up! Wish me luck!

*Whoever decided VPL was bad form? Obviously one of them man-bastards. Fucking waste of my bloody time, that’s what that is! We should all just friggin’ own those lumpy panty seams!!

Today is warm. Today is sunny. Today is sticky. Today is hot. To borrow hot-weather symptoms from my boyfriend, today could well be described as ball-stickin’ hot. I don’t know what that’s like but I imagine it’s like when your thighs stick together when you’re wearing a skirt and you’re sitting down only 10 times worse because you can’t slowly take a big step and peeeeeeel them apart.

Yesterday we got yelled at by a lady who kept saying, “I know you’re sorry, I know it was an honest mistake but I CAN’T WALK.” over and over. Long story short, we parked in a regular (not handicapped) parking space and a lady who “knew we were sorry but couldn’t walk” showed up two hours after we did and said it wasn’t fair we should take a spot so close to the door because she was disabled and we weren’t. She actually did her business and then came back and waited for us to get back so she could give us a piece of her mind. It wasn’t a wheelchair spot, there were no other spots around, we got there two hours before her and, if we’re being totally honest, the spot actually reserved for the customers of a business that neither of us were going to (we were both going to the hair salon) but just happened to be closed on Sundays. To make matters worse, she was parked in the parking spot right next to ours, a mere six feet on top of the 100 meters she had to travel from her car to the hairdressers anyway. I didn’t understand and still don’t but I do have a passive aggressive windshield note to show for it all.

—-

This post will not make sense because the heat is actually making my eyeballs sweat.

—-

It’s my birthday in TWO WEEKS. I’m excited. We’re going to the rodeo. I’m going to wear a cowboy hat and eat FUNNEL CAKE. If you don’t know what funnel cake is, you’re missing out. It’s doughnut batter (or tastes like it) that they drizzle run through a funnel to make a REEEEEALLLY squiiiiggly design on a plate and then they deep fry it and put strawberries and cream/ice cream on it. See? Plate o’ poo.

—-

I got athletes foot on my finger again. : (

—-

I went for a big, douchey powerwalk last week. My arms and shoulders hurt for days and my stomach seized up after about 40 minutes. I ended up running the last mile and a bit home just so I wouldn’t have to powerwalk anymore. I will never again laugh at old ladies powerwalking again I understand how the ladies who go powerwalking feel. It’s very hard but you do feel like EVERYONE is looking at you and the worst part of it all is that it’s actually quite empowering. Imagine storming into a room, throwing elbows with your chin up, cartoon-anger style. Now imagine walking like that for more than 10 paces. It’s impossible to not feel like you’re the boss of EVERYONE when you’re stalking around the place, fists swinging.

—-

We went for a picnic the other week and I found a playground. I was snidely informed by an 8-year-old that I was too old to be there (“I’ve never seen anyone like YOU around here). I also realised that climbing frames are scary and that not being able to get to the top doesn’t make me a chicken, it just makes me a sensible and responsible adult.

—-

There are mosquitoes and geese everywhere. There’s also a species of bird that sounds like a birthing sloth. I don’t know what they are but they’re here and they SCRAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWBBBBB!!!!!!! at all hours of the morning, day and night.

—-

This is the scary cat from Petland. His face was stuck like that. I don’t know how or why but that’s what he looked like and I fell in love. He looks so angry!!!

—-

*Fox Force Five

This morning I had a dream that a massive spider was crawling on my bed covers. This wasn’t a tarantula or anything. No big, juicy body split into seven parts and fur everywhere, it was more just legs. TONS of legs. Everywhere. Spindly, black legs that were scuttling all over our olive green Egyptian cotton sheets (70% off at Winners, HOLLA!). The next thing I new I was scraping the blankets off and leaping out of the bed slapping myself. I don’t know what I said, but I must have said something because Marcus knew it was a spider thing. He was pretty confused, I think. I’m not sure did he think there was a real spider or if I said I THOUGHT there was a spider but either way, he thought I had been awake for at least some of it.

“How did you get out of bed so fast? You must have been awake or at least sitting up, right?”

No way. I was asleep. I do move THAT FAST when I am scared. I think the reason it freaked me out so much was because it happened between two other dreams so I thought that I was awake. It was just dream interval one second, GIANT SPIDER THE NEXT. It only lasted maybe three seconds at most and it was still was scary shit. But it was no where near as scary as the dream with the evil tooth fairy baby.

I know I have horrible teeth. So do you, because I told you so. I also know that the creepy teeth-falling-out dream is so common, it’s like the Starbucks of dreams. Everywhere, all the time and nothing special. Still, just because there’s a Starbucks on every corner, that doesn’t mean they can’t come up with some bitch-ass combos that really hit the spot. With the whip and the extra shot of cinnamon? Yeah, the teeth-falling-out dream can still totally get you where it hurts, whipped cream and everything. So last week, I had the teeth-falling-out dream, with an extra shot of “evil baby” to go.

Being the mushy kind who melts when she see babies, kittens, puppies and old people in love, I have the you’re-pregnant dream ALL the time. While I was working at the pound, I used to sometimes dream that I was pregnant with puppies and another time, I was pregnant with the sweetest little old lady, but I think that’s a whole other kettle of Rorschach. Anyway, you get the idea. I dream about having babies/anything cute a lot. So I wasn’t at all surprised to be having the baby dream last week. I was even less surprised that it was a dream that took place in our bed, since that’s become a running theme since we moved here. It’s almost like my brain KNOWS how our small apartment can drive me crazy sometimes and purposely doesn’t let me leave during bad dreams, just to make me madder. And out of everything, I was completely unfazed by the fact that this baby was Marcus’. I mean, he’s there all the time, of course my brain was going to give him a supporting role, it’s just easier than inventing someone new. So generally I was pretty chill about this dream. I mean, I love babies and I love my boyfriend. It was a pretty zen dream, I wasn’t freaking out.

Then the kid, a boy, because all evil kids are boys, started beaming his thoughts to my brain via my bellybutton (my dream, my story. You want it to make sense get your own). That was okay. I mean, he sounded like Voldemort and was a bit creepy and I could feel his evil energy vibes rippling through my body like he was just dying to get out and have himself a bit of an old Holocaust but I was only half freaked out. Yeah, I wanted the little bastard gone, but I wasn’t reaching for the coat-hanger just yet. Until my teeth. My teeth started falling out.

Falling is probably the wrong word. More like being pulled. I’ve had these teeth dreams SO many times, I thought I’d had ‘em all. I’ve had teeth break, rot, fall out for no reason, swell up really slowly until they just start to crack and explode in my mouth, one at a time (that one is actually recurring and sometimes I have to go check my teeth when I wake up).

What I haven’t had is my unborn child reach up my throat and tear out my teeth one by one because he needs the calcium. For real. You try vomiting and swallowing at the same time, because that’s what it felt like. And that’s without the pain of teeth being pulled.

Now I can’t have the baby dream anymore. And I want to! Because the baby dream is the best. It means I don’t have to have real babies until I’m like 40 and my eggs are getting all dried up. With the baby dreams, I could literally wait until the very last second to have kids in real life.

Since that dream, all I’ve had are nightmares. Nightmares about rapists, murders, pedophiles (because NO ONE can resist *all of this*), burglars, my boyfriend’s mother, dying. No babies, no puppies, no kittens, no old people.

What is happening to me??