Let's Party Like It's 1999...at My Funeral

It’s not weird to plan your own funeral.

Well, maybe it is when you’re in your 20s.

I used to think that I was going to die in my 30s, because I just couldn’t see myself living past 39. Then I read The Secret and learned about the law of attraction, after which I decided that not putting my death sentence out into the Universe would probably be a bit safer for me in the long run. Now, I like to say that no, I am not planning on dying anytime soon.

It’s just that when you go to one or two funerals a year, you begin to think about your own “finale” and how you want to be perceived when that time comes.

I don’t want sad songs, like You Raise Me Up, Amazing Grace, or other things that are, you know, sad. It’s already a sad event – I don’t need kick these people while they’re down. And they will be down. I mean, I’ll be dead. That’s enough to make every person whose life I’ve touched to want to assume the fetal position and then erect a statue in my honour.

I want I’m On A Boat to be playing as people walk into the venue (which will not be a funeral home, P.S. I’m thinking a party room at a movie theatre. Or at a McDonald’s, and then people can have a tour of the back after the funeral). Other songs that will be featured at this memorial will be Since U Been Gone by Kelly Clarkson, Sweet Caroline, Total Eclipse of the Heart, On the Wings of Love, and any song from Glee and Brad Paisley. All songs that mean something to my friends or family and allude to the awesome times they’ve had with me.

There will be a dress code. No black. Bright colours only. Preferably pink.

And balloons! This is a celebration of life. My life. There had better be some kick ass decorations.

My cousin, R, once referred to the wake as the ‘after party’. I thought that was fantastic. It will most definitely be the after party at my funeral, complete with cosmos, martinis, margaritas, wine, and shots. Oh, and a cake, of course. Double chocolate cheesecake, my go-to birthday cake that my Mom always makes for me.

Finally, I would like a comedian (Russell Peters would be great) to make inappropriate death jokes, as I would do. And I would like stories of my hilarious sense of humour and discussions of my beauty.

Shut up, this is my funeral. I can have what I want.

CrossFit: No Excuses

I went to the gym today.

I realize that’s a very simple, boring statement but, for me, it’s huge. I so did not want to go. I woke up exhausted, and being in an office all day doesn’t exactly scream ‘energy booster’.

I have a headache. My arms hurt. I’m tired. I’ll go tomorrow.

All excuses that don’t fly with my trainer, who also happens to be my brother. They also don’t fly with the owner of the gym, but not for lack of trying on my part, trust me.

“My head hurts; I just want to put that out there,” I announced to the whole gym. M smiled. He literally couldn’t care less. The owner asked if that was an excuse. “No, I’m just letting you know.”

“20 burpees for excuses,” guy in blue shirt says as he walks by. Excuse me? Who the hell are you and, while we’re at it, shut up.

“10 seconds,” the owner tells us.

Well, shit. That didn’t work.

30 clean and jerks (at 95 lbs, thankyouverymuch) – including one that almost took me down with it – and 6 minutes and 7 seconds later, and I was done. Quick and painful.

Did you expect me to say painless? Please. Anyone who has done CrossFit knows that this workout regime brings ‘no pain, no gain’ to a whole new level. I’ve come closer to crying during a workout than I would ever care to admit.

See, my warmup sucked - I couldn't get past 4 full, chest to the ground pushups. I only got 4 55 lb overhead squats. It was tough. But I DID IT. That's they key. Not every workout is going to be fantastic. Just push yourself as far as you can to make sure that you're not giving up on YOU. Because in the end, isn't that who you're doing this for?

Honestly, if you’re looking for a new workout, give it a try. Even if you’re not, I would still recommend it. If you can, try a CrossFit gym. I like CrossFit Oshawa, but then I’m biased because the people and camaraderie are fantastic. CrossFit workouts push you way beyond your limits, and the sense of accomplishment you’ll have after you hit a max rep that’s heavier than you ever thought you could get is second to none.

Besides, you'll never have to worry about your body getting used to the workouts. CrossFit will kick your ass every day, and I both love and hate it for that.

Seriously, do it. What have you got to lose?

Monday Night Ritual

(This photo has nothing to do with this post; I just thought it was really pretty).

It was another Bachelorette night in the house last Monday. I could barely contain my excitement all day, partly for what R and M were going to come out with this week, and partly because that show is just so damn addictive.

Seriously, I wasn’t even planning on watching it this season, and I’m hooked. I love Chris L and could totally see myself married to him. If he’s the next Bachelor, I am SO applying. He’s just so frigging cute. And manly. And did you see how his helmet was always cocked to the side? Melt my heart.

I also love Roberto, though I completely agree with Ali when she said she wouldn’t have gone up to him because he’s too hot for her. The difference being, however, that he actually IS too hot for me. Ali’s cute and tiny and blonde. I am the opposite. I could probably muscle him into taking me out, but who wants to have to beat the guy up just to buy you a drink?

Anyway, got way off topic there. I’m sad Kasey is gone, only because he reached a major level of crazy that is just priceless. He is, however, better than Justin. Seriously, that guy is the personification of ‘douchebag’. He’s so smarmy, all he cared about was upping Kasey, yet he gets all cutesy and nice when he’s with Ali. You don’t fool me, Justin!

And that move by Ali – y’all know what I’m talking about – when she took her snowsuit off and had her bathing suit on? Yeah, that one. I am secure enough to admit that yes, she looked good. I am not secure enough to suggest that she looked good on her own. Please, there was some serious fake tan going on. And her blue suit TOTALLY accentuated that. Along with the ever so flattering lighting and, well, it was just smoke and mirrors that made the men go crazy.

However, if I were to pull that same move, I’m fairly certain that the men would either a) tell me to put the snowsuit back on, or b) claim tiredness (as M so nicely suggested) and go back to the hotel. Either way, my hilarious sense of humour and sparkling personality couldn’t even help in that situation.

Whatever.

It’s also no secret that I’m not Ali’s biggest fan. Her voice makes me want to shot myself in the ear. But the way she acted when she drunk was frickin’ awesome. I honestly felt that, in that moment, she and I could be best friends.

She was having so much fun; it made me want to drink to experience that same level of fun.

Except instead of being surrounded by 6 gorgeous men (well, gorgeous except for Frank…and Craig, but he’s funny so it’s okay), I would be alone in my room on the computer, seriously considering rejoining Plenty of Fish.

Hmm, what picture would I put up?…

Help Desk "Canada"

I had to call Microsoft today because I had some questions about Outlook. I figured I would call, get my answer, and be done with it.

Such an idealist.

I made sure to choose Microsoft CANADA, called the number, and listened to the ring be interrupted by static noise every 2 seconds. It was then that I could only assume I was calling as a camel was walking over the wires in a tiny northern Indian town.

Sure enough, my call is answered by a 4 year old Philippino girl with a thick accent and a penchant for calling me 'ma'am'.

Yeah, she was in the Philippines. When I call to speak to someone about my problem in Canada, I would like to speak to a Canadian. Or, at the very least, a North American.

Tiny Philippino With Annoying Accent (TPWAA): Oh, are you calling from Canada, ma'am?

Me: Um, yes. Why? Where are you?

TPWAA: We are located in the Philippines, ma’am.

Me: Fantastic.

TPWAA: What is jdfafdsjk sdnakfl ahfjash?

Me: What?

TPWAA: Are you jfadfdhl ijhaduifh?

Me: Yes?

TPWAA: Great. Thank you, ma'am. I will transfer you to our professional department.

Me: What the hell just happened there?

The connection is lost (or they hung up on my racism loving ass). I call back, hoping that I get someone not halfway around the world.

Professional Department Dude: Hello, Microsoft Professional Department. Dfhaskldfj adhfaisgh?

Are you fucking kidding me?

The Poisonous Diet Coke Bottle...Or At Least the Bottle That Was Really Hard to Open

Exhausted from getting up so early this morning. Decide to purchase refreshing bottle of Diet Coke from convenience store in building.

Excited to take in the caffeinated goodness. (Had no idea how to spell caffeinated. Love MS Word).

Cannot open Diet Coke bottle. Try to use pen to loosen cap. Does not work. Check outside of bottle to see if I win a prize for getting the trick bottle. No such prize.

Momentarily concerned about this being a poison bottle that someone has resealed.

Like the idea of it being a prize bottle more. Even more determined to get it open.

Cut finger when pen slips and finger jams into bottle. Yell out in pain quite loudly. Forget I am at the office.

Have one final knobby thing (you know how the the bottom half of the lid cracks open from the knobby things?). Think that this would go much faster if I didn’t keep stopping to document the situation for my blog.

Try the cap again. Honestly do not understand what the issue is.

Take it to E to see if she can get it open.

E gets it open no problem. Feel bad about my lack of strength. Also really wanted to make a big scene at convenience store and demand a new bottle.

Face feels weird. Hope there is nothing to the whole poison bottle theory.

On the other hand, would get out of the gym tonight if I get poisoned.

Drink bottle of Diet Coke really fast.

Dancing with Myself: Saturday Night Chronicles

Dust house while singing Total Eclipse of the Heart into Swiffer duster.

Record fabulous singing voice in iPhone. Decide at this point to chronicle night in blog. Use iPhone Note app to write down thoughts. Knew it was a good purchase. Also really enjoy font used in Note application.

Realize that iPhone automatically corrects iphone to “iPhone”. Rather egotistical.

Listen to fabulous singing voice. Decide to try dancing instead.

Talk to self about dancing ability. Thank instructors in dance DVD for their kind words. Laugh about talking to self.

Dance instructor tells me to grab partner. Look around room. Briefly consider using pillow as partner.

Sweat profusely, perhaps more than when CrossFitting. Sweat in eyes. Shit. Momentary blindness.

Now have rug burn on balls of feet from dancing without socks.

Text same message to 5 different people about dancing espcapade. Hoping friends text me back. Beginning to think I am very emotionally needy.

Brother sends message making fun of me. Realize that I texted my brother on a Saturday night, when he’s with his own friends, about dancing to a DVD. No longer question why I was not invited to his friend’s cottage. Actually completely understand.

Start singing Dancing with Myself and congratulate self on incredibly witty and intelligent use of Artie from Glee’s song.

Google real singer of Dancing with Myself.

Find out it is Billy Idol. Feel like I should have known that.

Wonder why it surprises me that I am without a boyfriend, given my thought processes. Also seem to enjoy own company far too much to need to bring boyfriend into the mix. Though would not complain if Jake Gyllenhaal look-a-like wanted to get me drunk.

Decide that I cannot dance but is very fun and now vow to dance every night for an hour.

Interested to see how long this idea lasts.

Am very excited to write funny blog about my night. Speculate that it will not be as funny to others as it is to me.

Decide to have leisurely bath. With bubbles.

However, cannot stop narrating to self as though I am still writing blog. Feel I am far too funny to deprive world of my hilarity and begin to write more.

Find white tank top that’s been missing for weeks. Was in drawer. Very happy to be reunited with aforementioned tank top.

Received text message while writing notes. Almost dropped phone in water because the vibration scared me.

Realize that I just disclosed that I am using phone while in bath. Concerned about TMI.

Decide that very few people read blog and it does not matter.

Re-read notes and laugh to self about my funny rendition of night. Wonder if rendition is right word. Don’t care enough to check dictionary.

Almost dropped phone in water again. Decide it’s time to stop writing notes. Still excited to post blog.

Text more friends before going to bed.

Briefly wonder why I am not with any of said friends. Figure is best not to dwell on that fact as I may become depressed.

Watch Shall We Dance and dream about becoming professional dancer with Maksim Chmerkovskiy instead.

Walking a Mile in My Shoes…No, Seriously, That’s What I Did

This summer is all about Operation “Get Skinny and Hot and Strut Around in a Bikini in Completely Inappropriate Places”. As the title suggests, last night E and I decided to walk home from work (I am completely aware that she appears to be my only friend. This is not the case, though I do spend more time with her than my own family. We work together, though, so it makes sense. Right?). Deciding to better our physical fitness is our goal for the summer, though doing so in 30 degree heat may not have been the smartest idea. I started sweating after walking for a block.

“We’re going to do this. We’re going to look awesome for the August long weekend,” E gasps between strides. I can’t say anything. I’m focusing on breathing, which is decidedly more laboured than it should be, given that I haven’t been walking for longer than 10 minutes.

I have to walk for about an hour to get home, while E has about 45 minutes on top of that to get to her house. It’s well over a mile, but the title of the post alludes to the saying about walking a mile in someone else’s shoes, and I liked it better. So it’s not true. Sue me.

I felt fantastic when I got home, all fit and breathing heavy. M, however, made sure that the pride didn’t last long.

“Why aren’t you sweating? You should be breathing heavier,” he chastises.

“What? I am! Can you not see my hair? And look at the back of my shirt. All sweaty.” Only now do I realize how disgusting this exchange was.

“Oh. Did you just pour water on yourself?”

I can’t win.

Has anyone ever seen the Olympic running races (I feel like there’s a more technical term for those, but I honestly have no idea what that would be right now) where the athletes freak out and pull their shoes off at the end of the race? And then their attendants hose them down with water because they’re so hot? That was me when I got home. My feet were burning. I’m pretty much an Olympic athlete now.

My walk earned me 3 Weight Watchers activity points, which can be used for food later on in the week. Fantastic.

I felt great all night. Fit, toned, and healthy. That is until I drove by two girls running in shorts and sports bras along the street. My self esteem plummeted to the negatives at that point, not to mention that I almost got into car accident by scowling at them instead of watching the road.

It was then that I decided I will be running in a bikini by the end of summer (you’ll notice that I have not specified which summer. I am determined to be skinny. I am not delusional enough to think that it will happen in 3 months. Though I hope it does). Inappropriate and possibly dangerous? Yes. Will that make me reconsider? Hell, no.

I’m already making a list of where I can wear a bikini. Church and work are at the tops of my list. I am open to suggestions.

Compromising Masculinity in the Name of The Bachelorette

“Are you guys watching The Bachelorette?” Any time I get to see my brothers compromise their masculinity, which actually happens more often than may be considered healthy, I jump at the chance to see them in action.

“I’m not; I’m going home to bed.” R, my 27 year old cousin by birth but who I consider to be another brother, works 7am-7pm shifts at OPG. The 10pm end time of The Bachelorette is too late for him to get his required amount of beauty sleep. “I’ll just stay for a bit.”

He was hooked by the first commercial.

M, 25, writes a running commentary for his own blog and documents his thoughts, and ours, as the show progresses. His excitement for the show borders on questionable. He maintains that he loves Ali; I think he loves to compare himself to the shirtless men while reassuring himself that he’s better looking than half of them. The love that boy has for himself goes beyond any love that he could have for another.

“Ali isn’t even that pretty, and her voice is SO annoying.” I really don’t like that girl. She’s too whiney and babyish for a 25 year old professional. News flash, honey: if a man wants you because you treat him as the best thing on God’s green earth, he’s probably not going to love you like you want him to.

“You shut your mouth,” R retaliates. Yet another man has been won over by Ali’s fake, and cheap looking, if you ask me, blond hair extensions. (The fact that I have a picture of Ali for this post makes me want to throw up).

Around the point where Kasey, the might-be-deaf-or-at-least-sounds-like-it guy from California, starts singing, I know we’re all here for the long haul.

“Oh, my God. Oh, my GOD. What is he doing? Why does he keep singing? What a loser.” M’s fingers are flying across his keyboard in his excitement to document the catastrophe that is unfolding on screen.

“This is painful. I think I actually feel sorry for him. She cannot give him a rose. No way. Why would she keep him?” See what I mean? The boys are so into it that they don’t even realize I’m laughing at them instead of Kasey. “She’s keeping him? Bullshit. He’s so creepy.”

When they start shouting advice at the TV (“dude, what are you doing?” “don’t say THAT” “oh, that was good, wasn’t that good? Well played, man”), I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy that these two men are in my family.

Fast forward to Ali’s group date with the guys in New York at the production of The Lion King. Jonathon’s excitement, while so outwardly feminine that it makes me wonder if he proposes group showers after working out, is what I fear would mirror my brothers’ excitement should they ever find themselves in the situation of possibly singing on Broadway.

I honestly think they might have been taking notes from Roberto, who chose to sing to Ali instead of to the pianist. “He IS kind of handsome,” R decides. What?

I know that they play up their act because, together, they really are hilarious. However, in moments of quiet when they are taking in all the drama instead of playing off each other’s all too accurate jokes of being gay, I get to witness their real feelings towards the show. These moments are little gems.

Case in point: Ali kisses Roberto after their part in The Lion King. R exclaims, “oooh!!” M gasps, “oh hello!”

I love those guys.

Confessions of an Aspiring - sort of - Literary Genius

Welcome to my life. I can't promise it's exciting, nor can I promise Nobel prize worthy literature that will endear me to readers across North America. I can, however, promise cynical views of life as an office worker, diets, workouts, and the search for a good man. I suppose now would be a good time to have a cute line, such as "hang on, because it's going to be a bumpy ride," but I'm not one for spewing out those sayings. "Grab a bottle of wine and some chocolate and settle in" is more my style.

I'm Bella. No, it's not my real name, but I have to keep some mystery to the blogging process (and yes, I really want to be Bella from Twilight. Shut up). I'm no Jen Lancaster, but her story is inspiring and her personality is hilarious, so she's pretty much my own personal hero (plus, she loves food and admits it. I'm pretty sure we could be best friends).

I want to be a writer (notice the creative book background to my blog?). I know how to write clearly and concisely, yet when I open MS Word to write a witty and intelligent description of my sophisticated life, my main concern is what font I will use. Today is Arial, size 10. Tomorrow might be Garamond, Times New Roman, or, my personal favourite, Calibri. And don't even get me started on how long it took me to decide what the default font type would be for the entire blog.

One of my girlfriends thinks that I would be a great writer (if I ever write a book, I will dedicate it to her). I love when my friends have that faith in me that I have long since lost.

“Write about your life, and how it went from exciting and promising to dull and boring, stuck in a job you don't know how to do and living with your parents.”

Okay, so maybe she didn’t say that in so many words (it was more like, “Write about your life, where you are now and where you want to go”), but it’s basically what I’m pretty sure she meant. Or it’s at least how I took it because it’s kind of, well, right.

See, I majored in English Literature at school. I didn’t exactly LOVE it (I hated it, actually) but I got by with average marks, made some great friends, and got to live in England for 8 months. Exciting, right? Granted, even with all of that, the only year I really enjoyed was 4th year, because by that time my doctor had given me a prescription for anti-depression medication that took me from crying hysterically when I dropped my pen and lying on my bed in the fetal position to relatively normal and functioning. Life was looking up.

I graduated University and was working back at the place that employed me for my 4 summers during school. While my friends were going to med school, law school, or teacher’s college, I was working in a tiny boardroom with 6 other people sorting through files. But I liked it. The work sucked, but I loved the people and made really great friends through that job. We learned more about each other than we probably ever wanted to know. We told inappropriate jokes that, taken out of context, would have gotten us some serious harassment cases.

Then the summer ended. I was placed into a data analysis job that I had no idea how to do. I got pretty good at faking it.

And I’m still here. I know a little bit more, but I still make an astounding amount of mistakes that have adverse affects on people involved with my job. I work with one of my girlfriends and some great people, but neither of us particularly like our jobs.

Don’t get me wrong. I know I’m lucky to have a job, and it pays really well, especially since I have no training. But it can get stressful, and then I start to sweat with anxiety and make even more mistakes than usual.

However, I also don’t have a job where I always have work to do (which is why I am currently writing at my desk and listening to Carrie Underwood). It depends primarily on my managers, employees, and the current developments of the project. There’s a lot of downtime, during which I read smutty novels (yes, at my desk; please don’t judge me), eavesdrop on other employees, chat with my girlfriend, text my friends updates of my day, and do internet crosswords. This lasts for months.

Where is my life going? I have no idea. But I hope to find out soon.

Love,

Bella