Leaning on my Very Tall Best Friend

Every young woman needs at least one friend who understands her so completely that she does not need to say anything because this special individual just knows everything.  Nothing needs to be explained, nothing needs to be specified and nothing needs to be added because she simply understands you.  Well, I have been blessed with such a person who has been there for me through everything, even when I had not specifically asked her to be, and she has been such a tower of strength for me this past month that I am dedicating this blog to her as a form of gratitude and as a means of saying that I am sorry. 
Yesterday, after I had called her for the umpteenth time this week and she had let me go because I needed to take my pathetic self home by metro, I started thinking of all the times we had shared together thus far.  One image that kept recurring in my mind was how she would always make a silly joke about how my tears would ruin her shirt each and every single time I would find myself crying on her shoulder and how it would constantly make me smile and then laugh.  I would be sitting in her lap, face pressed against her solid shoulder, her light honey-coloured blonde hair so similar to mine tickling my cheek and she would listen to my mumbles and grumbles until she found the most appropriate moment to slip in her famous joke.  Then, we would inevitably break into a series of giggles that ended with more hugs, more laughter and me foolishly wiping my salty tears away with the back of my chubby hand.
All seventeen years that we have known each other have been spent though, for the most part, in laughing until our sides were hurting and our eyes were streaming with the good kind of tears that only come when you are in the company of someone with whom you can be completely and so vulnerably yourself.  The laugh sessions we have induced upon each other would make any court jester jealous since we have never needed to perform any tricks or tell any wild and crazy jokes;  we just needed to spend a few minutes together and our guffaws could be heard in the next town over.
Sitting down at the kitchen table for dinner with her family was all it took to send us into fits of uncontrollable giggles that infuriated Lori's father to no end.  Shaking his head, turning his greyish green eyes towards us, he would more often than not mutter, "Jesus by!";  Lori's mother, her mouth trying to remain as serious as possible while her eyes danced and expressed otherwise, would try to chide us into being quiet.  Of course, their reactions just fueled the wild fire of our mirth until dinner was done with and we could go and play Nintendo or watch television while letting loose the roars we had so badly managed to stifle while eating. 
And how many times do you think we would be told by her mother or my father to go to sleep when we were sleeping at each other's houses?  Too many than I can recall!  And what would we laugh at while we heard her mother expressing her impatience before coming to Lori's room or before my father would say from across the hallway that it was enough?  Beats me - all I know is that I was always on the verge of laughing-so-much-I-am-going-to-burst tears with Lori around and all it ever took from each other was a look or a small smile.
Well, of course, there were also the times when we were just plain silly with each other.  For instance, during one of my last stays in Lourdes de Blanc Sablon at my father's house, Lori and I were sharing his bedroom and a sneak attack on her did not turn out so well for me.  Even though we had never wrestled or play fought before, perhaps because of my tiny frame in comparison to her much taller stature, I decided to tackle her while she was sitting down on my father's bed, drawing quietly - well, anyone who has seen us together can imagine just what her arm movement to block me could do to me!  I was sent flying backwards so that I fell off the bed, ass first with my legs reaching towards the bed that they had just left.  Not deterred in the slightest by my change of circumstances, I leaped again, only this time, she sent me crashing towards the wall right behind her and I ended up being squished between the bed and the wall.  Needless to say that that last flying session of mine left me stuck in an uncomfortable spot for quite a little while because neither one of us could catch our breaths and stop laughing long enough to get me out.  There was also that time when she made me laugh so hard that both milk and a spaghetti noodle came out of my nose!  I know, I know, what was I doing drinking milk with spaghetti, right?  But that is another story altogether!
Thus, all of the instances we have lived together have always been filled with smiles, giggles, laughs, guffaws and plenty of loud and obnoxious talking;  to this day, we still manage to make each other die of laughter over the phone and while chatting on the internet, but nothing beats a live laugh session with my dearest friend.  And, have I told you that she has the greatest laugh in the world?  Her not-quite-musical laugh is so genuine, high-pitched and full of escalating undulations that you cannot help but want to join in.
Only, recently I have been so concerned with having her comfort me from afar that I have failed to notice her tears starting to stain my virtual shirt.  I have been so worried about the pattern of my own tears that keep escaping from my eyes and onto my shirt or pillow, despite my best efforts, to see that she is needing me to wipe hers and to help her through her own tough moments.  It seems as though my tower of strength, my rock, and my lighthouse needs me to become a supportive scaffold and I can only hope that I will be able to support both of our weights in sadness.

Doing the Hokey Pokey with a Dear Friend

So, now that I have your full attention - this blog will NOT be about what you are thinking of, at all!  Besides, I don't think that IT is called that anymore anyways, right?  No, this blog is about actually singing the Hokey Pokey, that meaningless song that is so well known and loved by so many kids, with my beautiful and wonderful friend, Manisha.
Let's start with why we were singing the Hokey Pokey in the first place, shall we?  You see, for our primary pedagogy class, Manisha and I had to come up with a lesson plan based on a song of our choice for Cycle One students.  We had figured that the Hokey Pokey is a fun and action-filled song that would be more than suitable for our targetted learners and we had begun to plan for our assignment with a suitable amount of time left before it was due, but of course, we had managed to leave a lot of things until the last minute, as most students, even good ones like us, tend to do.
So, on the night before our project was due, Manisha and I had barricaded ourselves in the TESL library after having inhaled some fabulous sweet potato burritos with organic sprout salad for yours truly and a quinoa salad for her;  the burritoes had been just the right amount of spice with the innovative addition of my favorite veggie, sweet potatoes, and the usual burrito ingredients: beans, tomatoes, lettuce and cheese.  The vinaigrette on the sprout salad was a tangy pesto taste that complemented the burrito marvellously and I can imagine the slightly nutty flavour of the quinoa salad being rather tasty as well.
Manisha and I had not initially wanted to spend the whole night working, but we were both rather distracted by other occurrences in our lives and neither one of us could concentrate;  hence the reason why we were still at the TESL library at ten o'clock on a Thursday night.  We usually work fabulously together because we complement each other so well, but that night, we were not doing much work other than laughing, talking or listening to various dance songs.  Generally though, we complement each other in the same manner that the sweet potato is an unexpected yet completely perfect sidekick to the burrito combination - I am the off-the-wall creature who comes up with all sorts of bizarre ideas while Manisha is the grounded intellectual who pulls me back down to earth from way up in the clouds as though she is reeling in a balloon as it has begun to float away.  That is partly why I love her so!
We were having an unusually harder time getting to work and staying focused, but we were having so much fun regardless, giggling, chatting about everything and nothing and playing Shakira songs to try to motivate us to keep going!  We did, however, need to complete this project before we both went a little more stir crazy than we already were from having been enclosed within the same four walls the whole day, and so we wanted to get our recording of the song done as soon as possible.  We had propped her laptop on the tiny desk and we were ready to go;  we had gone through the whole song once without any mishaps and we thought we had the whole song down.
As we began to record ourselves, I silently vowed that I would not laugh, which is an incredible feat for me to try to accomplish as any of you know who has the pleasure of counting me as an acquaintance or friend, but I pledged to stifle my giggle reflex nevertheless.  Well, I surprisingly did pretty well until we got to the tongue bit.  You know, when you stick your tongue out and in while having to continue singing with your tongue hanging out of your mouth?  Yeah, THAT part!  I saw Manisha from the corner of my eye, because of course in order NOT to laugh, I could not directly look at her, and I completely lost the little composure that I had been holding onto.  Just seeing her trying to remain serious while mumbling the Hokey Pokey lyrics with her tongue sticking out of her mouth seemed so hilarious to me;  her long black hair pulled back into an "I'm doing school work" ponytail, her dark chocolate eyes glued to the screen in front of her so as not to catch my own smirking amethyst eyes and her posture as straight as a wooden ruler.  She continued to look straight in front of her, her lips turning up ever so slightly as she tried to control herself for both of our sakes while I finally let out the laughter that had been practically choking me from the moment we had pressed the recording button.
Now, tell me in all earnestness, how many of you can say that you have sung a favorite childhood song with one of your very dear friends while you are in complete control of all your faculties, meaning, while being utterly sober?  I can say that I have and that it was one of the best and silliest moments that I have enjoyed in a long while.  Thinking of those few minutes made me smile and chuckle to myself today when I was not feeling so cheerful and I am looking forward to sharing so many more special and ridiculous moments with this friend of mine that has become so important in my life.

A Morning Jog

The air is crisp, my breath is coming out in little cloud bursts floating up to the sky and that peculiar fall smell fills my nostrils.  It is chilly and I am glad that I went back to get an extra sweater instead of just ignoring the cold and marching onwards.  I walk towards Beaubien and make my way to the park where I normally jog, wondering how well I will do considering that my muscles are all still pretty sore from Muay Thai, dancing all night and spinning (in that order).
There is no one in the expansive park this morning and so I am alone with my music, just the way I like it.  The gravel is hard and crunchy beneath my feet, the trees are beginning to lose their vitality as they prepare for winter and the sun is beginning to shine with all of its splendour.  What a gorgeous, but cold, morning!
I had told myself that I would walk at least one lap before jogging, but my feet, having recognized where they are, decide to start jogging right away.  They have a mind of their own, so I let them be, not worrying too much about how fast or slow I am going and I begin to listen more intently to the dance song playing in my ears.  Pretty soon I am going at a steady pace and as I take the first turn, I begin negotiating the number of laps that I think I will run;  I know for sure that I am capable of one because I had jogged a complete lap not too long ago.  But pretty soon, I have jogged that one lap, and my lungs have not collapsed and my feet are still moving me forwards.  What the Hell?  I guess another lap is called for!
At this point, I am feeling great, amazing and wonderful all at the same time and it seems like I could run forever.  The colours of the remaining leaves are vibrant, the sun is competing with them in brilliancy and the air is still biting, but pleasantly so.  I am still alone in the park and my music has helped me get into that zone that is so wonderful to be in when exercising;  no thoughts, just movement and the feeling of blood running and coursing through my body.  Breathing steady, arms pumping, legs striving forwards, feet gently and steadily hitting the ground. 
I have now completed my second lap and I still want more!  I push myself harder and decide to continue, but my body protests by feeling nauseous.  I decide to end my fabulous run by walking the rest of the way, trying not to be too disappointed that I only completed a half lap more. 
I gently remind myself that I already did more than I had expected and stop a moment to admire the beauty around me.  At that exact instant, as the sun is trying to warm my face despite the uncooperating cool air and my favorite jogging song by Infected Mushroom begins to blare in my ears, I am happy and grateful.  I am thankful for all of the events, situations and people that have helped me to become who I am on this Monday morning.  I am also especially appreciative of all the fabulous women that are a part of my life, either physically so far away from me, or right here in Montreal partying with me or trying to softly push me to do my school work. 
I am striving towards being a better person and this morning, on this splendid and invigorating day, I feel as though I have moved two and a half laps closer to that goal.  And, on this day of thanksgiving, I thank everyone who has helped me get to this point in my life, but perhaps more importantly, I am thanking myself for making the decisions I have made and for finally taking the time to care for myself. 

A Cuddle Monster for the Day

My big, little brother, all one hundred and forty pounds of him, decided to sit on me as I was talking to my stepfather this morning.  Now, this might not seem like anything special to anyone, but when your brother is turning fifteen, you learn very quickly that warm and fuzzy instances do not happen often anymore, especially not those involving him sitting in your lap.  So, still wearing my wonderful flannal pyjamas, I placed my ear against his seemingly immense back, closed my eyes and enjoyed every millisecond, smiling a little sleepily because it was rather early while his now super-sized frame squashed my relatively small stature.  As I hugged him and thought about how big he has gotten, I wondered to myself if and when these short intervals of ours would sadly come to an end.
Well, today was an exception - I got to cuddle with my baby brother twice.  And to what do I owe this lucky circumstance?  Not sure really!  I was just sitting on my parents' leather sofa, a big furry blanket wrapped around me and Patou decided to sit down next to me and drop his head on my shoulder.  He placed his feet next to mine on the foot rest, leaned into me and we watched some television together while making small talk.  His dirty blonde hair was a little rough next to my soft cheek, the blanket was so warm and comforting and I was very content to just sit with him like that for a little while. 
These kind of moments are sort of bittersweet for me because I often find myself thinking of similar times with him as we were growing up.  I did not even want a little brother to be quite frank!  I had been an only child until the age of twelve and I was very happy with my familial status until my mother and stepfather decided that they wanted to have a child together.  I remember that phonecall very distinctly when my mother announced to me that she was pregnant - I told her very honestly that I had never asked for a sibling and that I certainly did not want one now.  So, not only was I getting a half brother, but I was also getting a step brother in the mix because my stepfather was already a father to Tintin;  I went from being the spoiled only child to having two younger brothers... and I was not happy about that.
Thus, when I first came to visit my mom after she had given birth to my new little brother, which was around Christmas time, I remember being determined to remain as grumpy and miserable as possible;  I was also not going to have anything to do with this entity that had entered so rudely into my world.
That only lasted a few days.  One night, my mother asked me if I wanted to feed TicTic his last bottle before putting him to bed and I had reluctantly agreed to do so.  I therefore plumped myself down on the sofa while my mother brought my once tiny brother to me and showed me how to hold him.  At first, I felt strange, uncomfortable and slightly irritated - why was he taking so long to drink his stupid bottle?  My arm was falling asleep faster than he was and I just wanted to go watch tv or something.  But then, I started to look at his small face staring blankly up at me and his miniscule fingers making tiny fists.  I looked at his birth mark, which I had been told a dozen times at least that it was the same as mine when I had been born, and I looked at his mircoscopic, light blond eyelashes.  His eyes had begun to flutter as though he was fighting to keep them opened and I watched his struggle against sleep with a slight fascination;  this little warlock now had me under his spell.  I was unable to look away, and as he fell asleep in my arms, I fell in love with this little creature that I had so unfairly set my heart against. 
That was fifteen years ago and still to this day, it goes without saying, that I love my brother as dearly as on that night that he stole my heart by falling asleep in the arms of my flustered and childish twelve year old self. 

Meeting Bobo on the Metro

Plugged into my Ipod, moving my head along to the beat of Muse's "City of Delusion", smiling just because it is a Thursday and tapping my feet happily, I am off to school to start a long day.  I have closed my eyes and I am in an excited yet contented space, my own little bubble of happiness.  I let myself get carried by the music, my hips trying not to sway too noticeably because, after all, I AM in the metro, not in a club.  My shoulders have a mind of their own though, and they are slightly moving along to the insisting rhythm.  I come back down to earth for a few moments and see an older gentleman in front of me, bobbing his head along to his own music.

Wearing a black baseball cap, a dark jacket and a pair of pale jeans with a hole above his left knee, he looks up at me at the same time that I have glanced up at him.  At this point, I am smiling because we are the only two morons dancing by ourselves this early in the morning.  He grins back, points to his Ipod and gives me a thumbs up;  I giggle back, point to my own and give him the same friendly thumbs up.  We remain in our respective musical trances - his feet moving imperceptibly, his hips moving from side to side while he is twirling his slightly turned up and curled graying mustache. 

The seat in front and to the right of me becomes free and he precipitates towards it, looking at me all of the while.  At this point, I cannot help but think, why is it that I always attract old men?  Do I have an invisible sign on my forehead that reads: Old perverts, Come this way?  I think about why this might be and I begin, as I am sure most women do during these circumstances, to think of ways to let him down.  But, I am smiling nevertheless, hoping as always for the best in people. 

He begins to tell me about his life, in a non-threatening way and I listen while marveling at the silly and crazy people I might meet while letting myself be so open to this world of ours.  This morning, Bobo and I were just two strangers who randomly met because we were both enjoying our music so much;  we connected for a short while in a way that more people should be doing while living their fast-paced and dizzying lives.

Skinny Jeans and Revelations

Last night, I undertook a task that no woman should ever subject herself to more than once a year, if that: I faced the skinny jeans dilemma.  You ladies know what I am talking about - those jeans you bought one day when you were feeling so great about yourself, but that were a little tight for you then and yet you procured them anyways, justifying your purchase by vowing that those pesky five pounds would melt away and that you would fit into these great jeans at some point, only to try them on later that month to find that you have gained weight rather than having lost anything close to those five orginal pounds and yet for some unexplained and masochistic reason you still keep those jeans around at the back of your closet... just in case. 

Well ladies, I had a few of those jeans that I had decided a while back to just give away instead of torturing myself with having to look at them in my closet over and over again... and yet I still thought of them every once and a while, hoping against all hope that I would still, one day, before I really did give them away, fit into them as snugly as if they had been created just for my curves.  I also have to admit that, though they had been thrown into a garbage bag and placed with the other objects that are to be donated, I have on at least two previous occasions, had my dignity shattered by my audacity of trying them all on, again.

Thus, last night when I was faced with the dilemma that I only have one pair of great-looking jeans and I don't have enough money to purchase myself another, I mustered up the courage to give these four pairs of jeans one last shot at changing my mind, and yet I was somewhat skeptical that they would make their way back into my wardrobe.  I had therefore unceremoniously dumped them on my bed before going out with my girls and vowed like an addict that this time I would really give them up if they still did not fit.

I came back home, my feathers having been a little ruffled and my state of mind being a little too reflective for my own good, only to see the pile of my potential enemies waiting to pounce from the corner of my bed.   Well, I figured, I had put them there myself and no one was now forcing me to try them on, so I gritted my teeth, took it like a woman and grabbed the first pair.  I stepped into them, made my way over to my standing mirror in order to capture the whole ordeal more concretely, gave my reflection a tiny encouraging smile, bent down and began to roll the legs up towards me.  I hesitated once more when I had rolled the jeans to a mere few inches near my waist and hips to that invisible line across my buttocks that either makes or breaks a pair of jeans;  a diaporama of images began to flicker in my mind's eye of me having to jump on my bed and having to shimmy my way into them a la Julia Roberts in "Eat Pray Love", doing the "I can fit into these GODDAMNIT" hoppy dance or sticking in my stomach while attempting, quite pointlessly and ineffectively I might add, to somehow tuck in my ass as well - and all of this in a mere few seconds of hesitation.   I looked at my slightly panicked face in the mirror, reined in my courage, took a deep, and somewhat, I won't lie, sticking in my stomach just a little, breath and... pulled that first pair of jeans the rest of the way up... no struggle with the button or zipper, no shimmying, nothing...

I incredulously peered at my reflection, expecting to see the usual rollover of chubbiness where my tummy and hips do not want to cooperate with the stiff material encircling them;  I turned around to inspect the rear view and found that it was surprisingly and entirely to my satisfaction.  Thus encouraged, I quickly stripped to my skivvies, seized the next pair and began the process all over again, minus the diaporama and panic.  The next three pairs were just as easy to put on as the first. 

Slightly giddy from the whole experience, without really thinking about it, I pulled on the sexiest pair of jeans that now fit me, added a cute and form-fitting black top that hugged my girls in all the right ways, added my beautiful chunky necklace and I took a moment to look at this new woman standing there staring back at me wide-eyed and giggly.

A Little Snoring Princess

"Daddy?" a sweet little voice pierces through the humdrum noise of the bus while the rain washes yesterday's dust from the windows.

"Yes princess?" The bearded and rain-drenched father responds as he leans down and towards his daughter sitting comfortably next to him.

The princess' question escapes the tight confines of her pink hood covered in multi-coloured flowers and tickles my ears with its innocence and hilarity, "Can I sleep here?"

The good-natured father chuckles, "No princess, you can't sleep here."

"But mommy says I can." The little princess pointedly answers while emphasizing the source of her reasoning.

"Well then, if mommy says you can, then you can princess." The father diplomatically says while catching my eye and smiling sweetly.

Getting the approval that she seeks, the tiny princess, tucked into her bright-colored slicker, leans quickly into her father's soaked side.  She inches yet closer to him, her little arm resting gently on his leg, and scoots her rubber-booted feet in his direction, her legs remaining straight out in front of her.  Tilting her head towards her father, she closes her eyes, inhales deeply and loudly and then peaks out from underneath her curly eyelashes, to see of course if her antics are being watched.

"Ssssssshhhhhhh," she exhales, as she puckers her lips and tries to keep her eyes tightly closed.

She inhales again and "ssssshhhhhh", inhales and "ssssssshhhhh," while the corners of her lips desperately try to remain in a netural snoring position;  I smile to myself and contemplate the pure simplicity of most children's lives as her father lovingly looks down on his little princess.