Once you leave home, you can never go back...well you can, you just have to be half in the bag.

Happy belated E-weekend (Easter weekend)!  

Happy belated E-day (Earth Day)! 

And Happy almost E-day (Election day)!

This past weekend I decided to take a trip to my hometown Winnipeg, Manitoba. I don’t know about the rest of the world, but I LOVE flying. (Is it because of the feeling of freedom you get from flying above the world for a few hours? Maybe.  Is it the idea of however much you drink before and during your flight being amplified ten-fold and you being able to get away with anything because (similarly to the idea of “international- water”) you are in international water-air?  YES.  YES IT IS.)  So in keeping with the theme of the weekend (the theme being drinking wine and going mental...) I am writing this blog on the airplane while drinking some lovely red table wine.  Let’s see how this goes...

Glass number 1:

Going home for me is always the best gong-show of my life.  Somehow it seems that because I am only home for a short period of time I end up seeing my family at their craziest (which is an almost deadly amount for most, not for me though!).  There will be wine, food, laughs, gross jokes, awkward moments (this usually follows the wine...) where family secrets get exposed (my cousin has a baby?!?  HA!  YEAH!  SECRETS!)

This time was no different.  I told members of my extended family all of the hilarious attempts my mom has made to get me to “find a man who can support you and your crazy artistic ways” ... I shall only give one example, and it was the introduction to my life with my mother:

I was 16.  My mother asked me to go with her to a social (don’t know what a social is?  If you don’t, YOU HAVEN’T LIVED.  Also, it is just a big party at a community hall where people drink and eat chips and dance and bid on silent auction prizes an drink and drink.  And usually the money made from that goes towards a wedding or something lame)

Glass number 2:

Shall we get this out of the way now?  When I was 16, I looked an awful lot like a soccer mom (more so than I do now, if you can believe that).  I didn’t have a heck-load of friends, and I LOVED school.  I was a complete loser, some would say (“Look at me now” Is what I would scream to them, then I would hold up a picture of my cats and wipe the tears from my face)

At this social was a bunch of my mother’s co-workers.  And I had a few drinks (I won’t lie, I started early with my love for wine.  AND LOOK WHERE I AM NOW!)  And I was a dancing FREAK.  People must’ve thought that my mom’s best friend (ie. ME) was just a partying superfreak.  And I was.  Then the slow song came on (I’ll never forget it, The Beatles “Let It Be”) and a lovely man asked me to dance.  

WHAT?!?

Here I am, the girl who is 16 years old, never kissed a boy, a girl who was certain she would marry a wrestler from the WWF (Rowdy Roddy Piper or Brett Hart to be exact) about to dance with a grown man.  

THIS IS MY ONE SHOT AT LOVE.  DON’T BLOW IT, WALKER.

So I dance with this guy, and after that song is done is THE LAST SONG OF THE NIGHT.

WHAT?!?

Glass numbwr 3:: 

(IT’s getting hardder to type.  With the planes, and the drinks.  Just saying...)

What happens after this song is over? (The song, by the way was Journey’s “Open Arms”.  A classic love song.) As the song ended, the lovely man says to me,

“I’d love to see you again; could I ask you on a date?”

And to which I reply, “You’d have to ask my mom” 

As I point to my mother, standing proudly, watching her daughter “fall in love”.

That lovely man had all the colour drain from his face.

He was so close to statutorily dating me it was scary.  

Later did I realize that my mother told him he should ask me to dance, without adding I was (a) her daughter or (b) a minor.  Neither of this fazed good ol’ mommy.  THIS is just one awesome example of the stories weshare at in opportune times with my famil.y.  

Neddleless to say, it was a fun time.

Glass numbe r4: 

...

Glass n 5:

Sorrry bout htat.. I was looking out the wind ow that last glass.  I wish I could tell time by glas;ses of wines.  “It’s four glasses of wines passt noon”  That is now my official my catchhgphrase.  

I thmnk I ned a a nap.

I reaslly lorve you guysm.  Yous know that, right?!

Whrees’ the baarf bag?  Jusst incase..

I hsould go now.  Did I mention I loves you gutys? 

Sincerely from 3000000000 fett up in the aiir (sr somethings like that) ,

Someonw who should not be drunk flying/bloggin./living// 

I am just going to keep typing so that the weird guy next to me thinks I am busy and stops staring at me...

But I cannot help but glance his way every few seconds.  Is he dead? (no...I can see his chest heaving under his double-breasted suit jacket)  Is he blind? (no... he is holding "No Exit"by Satre...).  Well that narrows it down... he doesn't have a chaperone, so he mustn't be harmful.  Yet. 

Why am I writing this?

Because if I go missing tonight and end up cut up into small bite-size chunks while some lunatic wears his brand new "Lindsey skin-suit", at least we will all be able to sleep a bit better at night knowing that I saw this coming.  

I have started to make the trek out to my new favourite coffee shop (it's a Starbucks... SURPRISE!  I know, I am so very unoriginal...) every week or so to work on my "career" (which somehow involves me writing in this blog about some young man gawking at me...).  I have decided to trek out into the urban wilderness because I have found that the more time I spend sitting at home at my computer, the more time I spend watching ridiculous videos on youtube ("Cats with thumbs?"  YES PLEASE! "Cats talking to each other"?  OF COURSE!! "How to massage your cat"? WEIRD, BUT OKAY!), drinking copious amounts of wine, and attempting to make my cats have thumbs.  And talk to each other.  But NOT massaging them (What do you take me for, some kind of weirdo?!?)  Do you see me being a huge rock star after doing that on a regular basis? (I guess I do, but my only fans would be my cats and the only songs I would write would consist of me screaming at my fridge until hoarse...) 

So here I am, taking that first step to the first day of the rest of my life.

And he is still staring!  STOP IT!!! 

Sorry. Back to the task at hand...

I have even armed my ADD self with a to-do list while I am at said Starbucks.  1) Drink coffee (check!) 2) Get money to record my album (or should I say FINISH recording my album...) working on that. 3) Drink more coffee (check!) 4) Begin writing my memoirs (you never know when a booking agent will ask for them...) 5) Drink more coffee (check!)  6) Leave, feeling accomplished (check- wait, I didn't get anything done except this friggin blog!)

Maybe the to-do list was a little over-zealous.  

I will just continue to sit and type.  

And try to not let this weirdo peer into my soul.  But my God he is close.

HE IS ALSO READING ABOUT EXISTENTIALISM.  Shit. 

On a side note,  SUMMER IS GOING TO BE HERE AND THAT MEANS I CAN YELL ABOUT IT IN MY BLOG!!!!

And I must admit, like most sane people, I love summer.  

I bet "stare-y McHannibal/Twitchell - wannabe" has the burning hatred for summer that would heat a thousand white-hot suns.  Eek. 

Now I don't love summer just for the dresses, large hats, hot dogs, and stray cats I will find, but also for the blessing that my new day-job provides: 

Being located beside a Fire Station.  

Now, I never fully understood why women had such an unrequited love for firemen (here's a childhood memory... every week my mother would make some sort of baking for the firefighters and we would walk over and give them the baking... my mother always told me it was to thank them for "the service" they provided the community.  Now I fully understand that that "service" was to carry large hoses and smile at my mother when she walked by everyday...) I am now learning how EVERY SINGLE PERSON can be attracted to them.  My new life goal (and now the only thing on my bucket list) is to (I have to get the timing down for this...) but I will run out into the street when they pull their fire engine out to respond to a call and they will hit me with their vehicle.  

Yep, I went there.

Now, I will begin extensive training to make sure I won't die, but I will strive to be unconscious for at least a few minutes and stop breathing so that one of them (they would be the first responders...) would have to give me mouth to mouth.

Yep, I went there too.

Then I'll have amnesia.

And they all can nurse me back to health.  

My life dream.

Now, why am I here at Starbucks again?  Never mind.  I will just pretend to be talking on the phone with my husband the firefighter who is very overprotective and if anyone ever laid a hand on me he would hunt them down and give them a stern talking to because he is a lover not a fighter (I guess I got a bit carried away there for a moment...) so that Dr. Creepshow over there will stop planning to eat my brains with a nice Shiraz (just to spice it up).

I take all of that back.

His mega-hot girlfriend just walked in.  WHAT, AM I NOT GOOD ENOUGH?!?! I WAS PLAYING HARD TO GET! 

Jerk. I bet he is also bad in bed.

Yep.  Sadly, I went there.

Now that I am all worked up, I should grab another coffee, and watch a few more cat videos on youtube.  

Until next time I am hopped up on 4 cups of coffee,

That girl at the Starbucks who isn't doing any work and thinks the guy with the lazy eye is going to kill her.