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~ No Sharesies ~

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I’m not a fan of sharing. There, I said it.

More specifically, I’m not always a fan of sharing. I can be very protective of my stuff, my friends, my personal space, my time, especially when others treat them carelessly. Maybe I’d been done wrong too many times. Like when I was in junior-high and I lent one of my favourite pairs of one-size-too-small, lie-on-bed-with-hips-thrust-in-air, pull-zipper-up-with-hanger, randomly-bleached-on-purpose jeans to a friend. When she finally gave them back (after my asking way too many times), they were unrecognizable to me. They didn’t look or fit the same, the denim felt weird and the zipper was busted. HELLO?! I wanted to cry. She gave me a lame excuse, like, “I don’t know what happened. The zipper just busted,” and that was that. I mean, what was I supposed to do? We were 14 and we were “friends.”

When I started dancing I entered a big giant world of sharing, and not just any sharing but super touchy feely, right up in your face, with good amounts of B.O., kinds of sweaty sharing. Normally, I wouldn’t have a problem sharing say, a bag of nuts. The problem isn’t with the concept of sharing the nuts, but the method. Since the nuts are in a bag and many dancers aren’t washing or sanitizing their hands before reaching into that bag, well, you can imagine the nastiness growing with each grubby handful. Honestly, I want to share my nuts, but my eyes and brain are frantically darting dirt, feet, sweat, hands, dirt, feet, sweat, HANDS! Don’t get me started on people who’ve asked for a swig from my water bottle. That’s just all kinds of inappropriate. Yes, as previously blogged, I’m a tad OCD too. And what am I supposed to say when asked for a swig of this or a handful of that? “Sorry, I’m uptight and you’re gross?” I don’t want to be that person, but I’m so clearly that person.

For the most part, we dancers are very generous with our stuff and our time, especially when we’re young. Forget your dance pants, socks, t-shirt? “No problem, you can borrow mine!” Want me to work past the end of rehearsal, put up these show posters on the other side of town, wear my best pants as a costume and do a fitting during lunch without any extra compensation? “Of course!” Me? I became increasingly bothered by these things, or the assumption/expectation that I would be happy to do these things. Look, I barely ate during my third year at dance school and the year after that and the year after that… I sacrificed enough for my fucking art!

I like birthdays. I like celebrating my birthday with friends over dinner, drinks – low-key, all good. But a milestone birthday is different. When I turned 40, there was another gal in the company where I worked whose birthday was the same day, but it wasn’t a milestone. There was chatter amongst our colleagues about a potential “shared,” celebration. Now as much as I like a certain amount of attention (after all I am a dancer and, apparently, a “show off,” according to my sister), I generally don’t make a big deal over a standard birthday. But for my 40th, I had to pull a Diva and declare, “NO SHARESIES!” 20 was good, 30 sucked, and 40 was ahhhhhh angels singing awesome, so YAY ME!

As a 40th present to myself, I saved enough money over a few years, to take a long-wished for trip to Italy. I put the word out to a few potential travelling pals, but their hemming and hawing and lack of urgency to commit, not to mention having to accommodate their needs/likes/dislikes was bringing me down. Damnit, this was important to me! This was my Eat, Pray, Love trip (sans India and Indonesia), and I didn’t want to compromise. I went on my own and spent more than three weeks doing only what I wanted to do, which was the most liberating way to jump start my 40s. I’ve always cherished my alone time, and I’m very content doing things solo, but I can’t deny that I didn’t miss catching up with someone over a meal at the end of the day. It’s not that food tastes different when eating alone, I just think the experience of eating is that much better when it’s shared.

Though it sounds trite, I do value my time more and more as I get older, and since we all seem to have so little of it these days, I’m supremely pissed when it’s infringed upon or mistreated. Like, being around people who aren’t very nice or have little joy or are idiots; or buying a ticket, putting on some make-up, negotiating traffic and going to see a dance performance where the choreographer seems to NOT have considered me (the audience), at all. It’s like inviting me to your party and then ignoring me all night.

The truth is, some of the best moments of my life are the encounters I’ve shared with good people, the ones I wish the best for and they for me. Scenic road trips with M, rented convertible, sun, salty air; girlfriends around my kitchen counter, gossip, way too much wine; group hugs before performing, deep breaths, racing hearts; multiple hands digging into big pots of drunken mussels, messy platters of nachos; laughing with friends till my body collapses; games nights; winning games nights; 14-hour dates with lots of kissing; dancing with dad at my wedding.

Do good people equal good times? It’s not a hard and fast rule, but I like the odds. Plus it tends to bring out the best in me, so it’s a pretty good place to start.


~ Bonus Points for Style ~

I’m sleeping. Flush… flush…

Wh…at… the hell…?

The unmistakable sound of a flushing toilet pulls me out of sleep. More accurately, the unmistakable sound of a CLOGGED toilet, ATTEMPTING to be flushed over and Over and OVER yanks me out of sleep!

Yup. M is in the washroom. And judging by the next sequence of sounds, including his “Hmm…” as though he’s thinking, How about that? I wonder how that happened? I know exactly what’s going on.

Is this a guy thing or M-specific? It’s like a bizarre challenge:


Is it somehow pleasurable or satisfying to watch the toilet choke and spurt and struggle to swallow your manly, dinosaur-sized–

Me? I’m a flusher. I’m flushing freely and frequently. I’m like the character, John Cage, on the long defunct show Ally McBeal who once said, “I like a clean bowl.” He had a remote controlled flusher that ensured an empty bowl every time he approached a stall. Huzzah! Can you imagine? Throw in a feature that cleans and disinfects the seat and surrounding area, and boom! Done!


I think one of the best product inventions in the last 10 years is the “Select a Size” paper towel. No more awkward ripping of full sheets, when you only need half. I’m also a big fan of the household rag – old towels, for example, perfect for sopping up spills.

When it comes to the three big paper products – Kleenex, paper towel, toilet paper – I become the staunch conservative, and M the easy-going liberal. If something spills, M doesn’t use one of the numerous rags in the closet. No, his reflex is to grab the paper towel. And not just one or two appropriate-sized sheets for say, ¼ cup of water. I’m talking full-on, dramatic unravelling roll, of sheet after unnecessary sheet!

Got the sniffles? Take a tissue. Personally, I can gauge whether I’m going to need one, two, even occasionally three tissues (bear in mind, these are 3-ply sheets). But M? He ALWAYS TAKES 2! Every single time. We go through so much paper product, I have to buy in bulk and store it in my car because there’s not enough space in our cupboards or storage locker. I’m clipping coupons (yup, I still clip coupons!) and am constantly looking out for sales of our preferred brands. It’s a great day when Charmin Extra Strength is on sale, AND I have a coupon!


I don’t like crumbs. I’m not sure when I became obsessed with clean, crumb-free counters, but there you have it. Despite my requests to M to keep the counters crumb-free, along with several demonstrations and step-by-step instructions on how to keep the counters crumb-free, I encounter this,


almost every day.

To the untrained eye, our camouflage-patterned counters look clean… when viewing from above. counter from above

But crouch down to the crumbs’ level, and you see the horrifying truth – a minefield of crusty bits strewn thoughtlessly about.

better crumbs 2

Then there was this scene that greeted me this morning, as I opened the microwave to nuke my coffee:

Open door.
Crumbs and bits from inside microwave tumble out onto ceramic stovetop (don’t get me started on ceramic stovetops!).
Inside, remnants of exploded chicken everywhere.
On every surface, in every nook and cranny.
This is what happens when M warms up extra crispy Shake n’ Bake chicken in the microwave.
On High.
For a minute and a half.

Even worse than crumbs is spilt sugar. SPILT SUGAR! I really need to be talked of the ledge when this happens. Those fine, sweet grains embedding into tiny crevices, just waiting to be devoured by any number of hiding critters. Lock me up and throw away the key!

It’s fair to say, I have issues.

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