A Story for Mum and Sean

Today is the last day of 31 for 31. I loved this experience to help me get back into the enjoyment of writing. I must admit it's been challenging at times, so it will be a relief to not have to post each day. Thank you to everyone who has been reading and sending kind words. I infinitely appreciate your support.

Two people who have been extremely dedicated throughout this process and for which this blog is named after is my Mum and stepdad, Sean. Sometimes I tell embarrassing stories or somewhat shameful ones as, let's admit, they are hilarious. They have been dragged through the mud alongside myself on here and never once batted an eye. In fact, they usually add to the story or private message me praise for the retelling of one of their moments.

The truth is, Mum and Sean have taught me to see life's ridiculous twists and turns as no more than good stories. My ability to storytell comes from a lifetime of hearing their stories. So here's one for each of them. Not an embarrassing one, but one filled with love.

A story for Mum:

I was a brat as a child. Spoiled but super cute - a wicked combination. My mother was an outlet for my cheekiness. In one particular temper tantrum, I destroyed my room (I was about 5) and ripped out every Kleenex from the box and scattered them around my room. We're talking a huge box, Hungarian women buy in bulk. There was not one empty space free from tissue. I remember my Mum just waiting for me to be done my crazy fit to come in my room, hold me while I cried, then told me to calm down. She then helped me pick up every tissue and carefully shove them back into the box without saying a word. No yelling or frustration, just the understanding of the overwhelming nature of life as a five year old. Her endless kindness and consideration for me had her separate the peas and carrots from my fried rice because I hated them, always have a spare peanut butter sandwich in her purse if I didn't like the food being served at someone's house, learning songs from my favourite artists so we could dance in the living room to them, always make sure my favourite eyeliner is stocked in the house in case I run out, and have her use every bit of self-restraint in her to not comment on each post I make and instead private message me with heartfelt praise.

The older I get the more I realise I'm turning out exactly like my mum and that this something to celebrate.

A story for Sean:

Sean has always described me as cat-like. Perhaps it's the sleeping in sun beams, constant badgering around feeding times, and desire to be as close to people on the couch as possible. This general laziness toward life allowed me to form a deep bond with our family cat, Strawberry. When Sean came into our family, Strawbs was a feral beast. He attacked me when I moved too quickly in the house, he scratched things up and he hated human company. Within a few weeks of Sean living with us, Strawbs became a new animal. A born-again pet. He was calm, cuddly, and considerate (he never suffocated me when he slept on my pillows.)

I liken Strawbs transformation to my own. I was somewhat feral as a child (see above temper tantrum) then Sean came into our lives and mellowed me out.
When I was young, it was hard to get me to do things I didn't want to do. The way Sean got through to me is he started writing little notes to me from my favourite stuffed animal, Pinkball. He even wrote some letters or words backwards so I would believe it was truly my bear. Pinkball would ask how my day at school was or pose reading a book to inspire me to read. The amount of effort it took was remarkable. As a teacher of young children now, I'm not even sure I would have that level commitment to a small child's interest. It motivated me to do all the things I didn't want to in the most gentlest and sweetest way.

I remember asking him if he had ever wanted children of his own and he said, you are my daughter. I believe him whole-heartedly. He showed it every time he read me bedtime stories doing all the different voices, or when he learned the Spice Girl moves to Stop Right Now to be one of my back up dancers, or when he used endless patience to explain finances to me so that I could be a financially independent woman, or when I had disappeared for a night with a jerk boyfriend, he scooped me up in his arms and told me he loved me forever and was just glad I was back home.




How lucky I am to have been shaped by two such amazing people. How sad it is that they are so far away from me. But I carry their hearts; I carry them in my heart.




Endless thank yous and I will try to keep posting more regularly.
x
Katie

The Trip

I have recovered from my 24 hour illness. It always surprises me how our bodies can seem so completely broken, as if they will never work properly again then you sleep for five hours and it's like nothing happened. Yesterday, I could barely stand up without holding a wall for support and now today I went for a little hike through the Heath. Even thinking back to my throat abscess, once that baby was popped, the healing began at such a rapid pace.

So today I felt well enough to venture through the city to Hampstead Heath. On my journey there I tried to pass what looked like a very annoying family group. They had spread themselves so wide, no human could force their way past their human road block. This meant I was walking directly behind and next to the mum of the family. The father and the seven year old boy were holding hands in front of us and they had another little boy who was about four, running up ahead.

The dad and the boy started to goof around, bumping into each other and nudging each other playfully while still holding hands. Then, as if in a Charlie Chaplin film, the dad does a huge exaggerated leg placement to mock-trip his child. Only it backfired. Well I guess not really backfired...it just did what a trip is meant to do - cut another human down.

The boy didn't see the Three-Stooges-Style trip and also must have an extremely poor centre of gravity. He fell. Hard. The worst part is that the dad really didn't see the fall coming, so his hand that was holding his son's, couldn't even react fast enough to right the boy. Instead it only tied up the boy's hand, preventing him from being able to put his arms out to try to break his fall. Since I was riding the family's ass trying to get around, I was directly in the thick of it all. It was one of those blessed moments in life where you know that mental image will be with you forever in a bank of clips you can draw from whenever you are having a bleak day and need a good chuckle. The kind of instant replay in your head that always makes you laugh, even if you are in public and will look like an idiot laughing at nothing. But it's not nothing, is it? It's one of the funniest moments you have ever witnessed.

The only thing rivalling the picture in my mind, is the sound imprinted on my auditory memory that came along with the fall. The kid fell like a sack of potatoes. The thud of his dead weight from his lower body cannot even be described. It was the classic fall sound of heavy body meeting concrete. He also fell face-first into the pavement. I had to somewhat stop so-as not to smash into the back of the dad, but I felt it cruel to linger too long looking, especially since I was beaming at this experience and everyone in the family was in hysterics. I don't think I saw any blood when I was staring directly at the kid's face, but maybe it just hadn't come yet.

The mum, who was next to me was swearing at the dad for tripping the boy. The father looked so shocked and guilty for injuring his first born and heir to whatever land he owns. The younger boy had stopped, turned and was looking just as thrilled as I did, certainly he and his poorly coordinated brother do not see eye-to-eye on most things.

I know it might sound cruel to take such joy in the fall of a child, but I assure you if anyone falls around me, I will be just as pleased. This includes if I fall, as I have many a time, it will likely end up being written about on this blog (as it already has been). I'm sure the boy is fine now, and if they have a good sense of humour, they are probably giggling about it at this moment. If they don't have a good sense of humour, then perhaps the dad is on the couch and the mum is calling her divorce lawyer. Either way, I know next time I'm feeling a little low, I will be recalling that mental youtube clip to help cheer me up. Probably made it to top five funniest things I have ever witnessed. Well played dad, well played.

Girls

Before I launch into today's post, it's important to develop context. I have been vomiting from some sort of food poisoning since 7:30 this morning. It's been a rough day. This has however, allowed me to watch the entire third season of Girls in one continuous sitting - with the exception of bathroom breaks to empty the contents of my stomach.

I want to support the making of the show Girls because I do believe it shows women in a very raw, unabashed light. Where some of the cast look like very real women and their lifestyles are supposed to be a closer reflection of real women living in the city during their 20s. During the first two seasons,   I could really stand behind this and I felt like I could connect a bit more to these archetypes, but now not so much.

This season, although compelling and intriguing in it's storyline, I felt portrayed the main female characters as self-centred, narcissistic, selfish jerks. The relationships they had with each other never showed any love, support or compassion. There was no sympathy for one another and any conversation they had focussed solely on themselves and how they were doing at that moment in time.

Whatever, I get it. Who as a girl (and I'm sure guys), hasn't had completely selfish periods in their lives? They sometimes talk to their friends only to use them as sound-boards for their shit and can rarely ask questions about the other's life. But I feel Girls was deeper than that. They weren't trying to show that these were the phases in their lives, but more so that all of these women were actually too self-involved overall to care about other people.

The problem I have with this is this show is supposedly representing raw (read - real) women. When the show first came out, it was so unique and adored because it was meant to be seen as honest and a breath of fresh air. This was cutting edge television and almost a movement for women in Hollywood. Whereas Sex and the City showed glamorous women, living well beyond their means in a very rich and famous way, Girls was women working in cafes.

So when I watch an entire season of what I would classify as bitches being bitchy, I think it reflects poorly on women. Are real women so dense that when their father mentions he's just had an operation, they sweep over it to talk about their latest piece of news? Do real women not ever call their friends who are going through hard times, just to check and see if they are ok? Do they listen to their close friend tell them they've not been able to graduate because they've failed a class, then chirp in with a stupid anecdote about their boyfriend in college? I hope the f*ck not.

Like I mentioned before, ya there are times when I've been self-centred. In fact, one of my closest loves called me out on it a few months ago but we move past it. It is not the foundation of all of our relationships and at the heart of my interactions with other women.

When you see quizzes online about Which Girls character are you? I feel that young women or any women, see these characters as archetypes we can cling to or tie our lives with. For years and years, women related to the women of Sex and the City. I was a Samantha in university and now more of a Carrie. When I thought I knew I was a Samantha, my life followed a very similar pattern to hers. I wasn't afraid of being bold and crass because I had a famous role model who was still adored by women everywhere. Is Girls following a similar pattern? Will our lives mimic those of the self-involved jerks?

I guess I am just annoyed that I wanted to see women who were portrayed honestly but also not completely negatively. I am surprised that women spearhead this show when they seem so anti-female at times. Anyway, that's my rant for the night; perhaps it was the sickness that made me hope for something more Disney to pull me out of my pit. I did still enjoy the storyline of all that happened but just wished the show was more of something I could look up to.

Looking back and moving forward

It's hard to believe but this time last year I was packing up all my things and preparing to move in with the 278 guys. A move that really changed my life for the better completely. When I think back to this exact day last year, I think I was in one of the lowest points in my life. Today, a year later, I woke up with a smile on my face that wouldn't leave my lips all day.

It's funny the places life takes you. Two years ago to the day, I would never have imagined I would have been moving to WH. Then last year, I never would have thought I'd be in a better, more secure place than I ever have been.

I wonder where life will take me next year but I don't really care. Knowing you have been so low and can come out of that place less than a year later gives me faith that everything will be alright no matter what. Without sounding too much like a Hallmark card, my life has shown me I can truly get through anything.

But happiness, like sadness, can be temporary. So it is important that you relish in the times when you are truly happy. When I'm upset about things, I obsess and replay them in my mind - a mental pushing of a bruise. Something stings, so I go over and over it to try to numb the pain. Well if I can do that with upset, then I definitely should do it was joy. I don't tend to fixate on the excitement or pleasure, but look for loop holes or escape routes. This is the year I am going to let myself be happy and take things in stride.

My stepdad once had a discussion with me about my nightmares. I used to have a major fear demons aka The Ring girl *shudder. He tried to logic me out of it. He said that if I could believe that there was that level of evil in the world, surely the universe would have a counter-force. If I could believe in the bad to such a degree, there must be something equally as pure or good. So if I was imagining something scary creeping in my room, I could just imagine an angel or good spirit there ready to stop it or battle it. He did end the conversation with, it's all made up crap anyway and there is no good or bad spirits hanging around, so I the point is somewhat moot now...but the concept to me also applies to sadness versus happiness.

If you can allow yourself to wallow in the sad or upsetting bits of your life, then why shouldn't you indulge the happy as well? Replay all the moments that give you butterflies from the night before and allow that smile to creep across your face when riding the train. If you are being neurotic about the hard times, equally fixate on the pleasant and allow yourself to fully feel it.

So we'll see where the next year takes me, but I do know I'll be letting myself enjoy more of it when I can.

You're Lame

When I was in high school I dated possibly THE worst person to ever live. I don't say this because I'm bitter, I actually wish him well now and have absolutely no hard feelings. Honestly, I do. All that remains now are the cold hard facts that he was a terrible excuse for a human.

Now looking back, I have some pretty humorous stories from it. It helps to have a circle of friends that remind you about the hilarity of craziness. I was speaking to a close friend right before this post and she reminded me of one particular outrageous tale. I use tale lightly, as this story is not even a slight exaggeration. Nothing has been twisted in my hands. Facts.

I was either 17 or 18 years old and Lord Voldemort lived on the edge of the city. Now we lived in a twin city, and he didn't live on the edge of my city but the other one...the farther one. I won't go into his evil nature, but we did have a very tumultuous relationship and it exploded one day I was at his place. A place where I had to cab to (20 dollars...a lot for a lady on Gap wages) because my parents hated him so much that they were beginning to refuse to drive me to see him. A place that was the only house for a 25 minute walk in any direction and approximately a 4 hour walk from my parent's house.

After this explosion (the only way to accurately describe out arguments), I decided I couldn't take any more of him and took off with my things down the road. I think he might have even locked me out of his house at this point.

I have mentioned this before but I really have no understanding of distance, time or mental arithmetic. My brain just cannot comprehend these basic skills. It's alright though, we can't be good at everything... So I thought the walk would take me maybe...an hour. Look above at the actual timings. I'm not proud in the lapse in judgement.

As I began to walk, the gravity of my hopeless journey, troubled relationship, and genuine misery with the whole situation took hold. This was a time before everyone was hooked up to their phones like life support. I luckily did have a flip phone though and began desperately dialing my parents. No answer. Screening their calls? Possibly... I called all of the people in my life that were obliged to love me and therefore take pity on me and drive me to safety. Not a single one of them could get me and I'm talking, I come from a "broken home" there are many obligated family members.

Now, as you can imagine I am walking down country roads, in flip-flops and the doom of a much longer walk is in front of me. I become panicked and weepy. I curse my life. I might have even stooped as low as to kick the dirt and scream up to the sky. I continue to walk. And walk. It begins to rain. And rain. I'm just reaching the edge of civilisation yet still hours from my house.

Finally I get in touch with my best friends. And this is why they are the best, they dropped everything to pile into a car and pick me up from my own personal hell. I had to continue walking until they would reach me. It would take a while.

I walked another hour and in this time I did begin to become desperately sad again. I, not quite a religious person but still on the edge of a Roman Catholic upbringing, asked my distant buddy God why the f*ck he was punishing me and why was my life was so shit? At this exact moment I had my internal monologue, I heard my phone buzz in my pocket. I take out the phone, flip it open and read the text that just came through.

No word of a lie, it reads, as in a message from our good Lord and saviour... "you're lame." An answer to all my woes and the reason my life had become a pile of shit, I was lame.

It was of course, not from Him but from his arch-enemy instead. This was the straw that broke my back. I wept in the streets, stationary, until my friends found me on the side of the road and broke me out of my mood from laughing uncontrollably at the state I was in. Saved my life, and probably my lower back from walking in flippy-floppies.

It was months and possibly even years before they ever let me live down this wild state I was in and the misfortune of the "you're lame" text. In fact, out of the blue it was brought up today by my dear old friend. Although this time in my life was probably my lowest point, I'd say it isn't so bad if I got stories like this out of it.

Book Clubs

I have been a part of many book clubs in England, probably more than social groups I've joined. It's strange the mix of people who like to read books, then get together and talk about those books.

I think I'm pretty normal when it comes to life skills, but maybe people are looking around at me the same way I'm looking at them when we blather on about prose and allusions. My favourite book club I joined was back in Forest Hill, as I've mentioned in previous writings if you ever want to scroll back that far. I was the youngest by about 100 years (I wish I was exaggerating) but I absolutely adored the people. I was surrounded by powerful, intelligent women who were mesmerising to listen to. There was also an extremely flamboyant man who had a nicer scarf collection than I did, and I observed his colour combinations for inspiration. That group stretched my reading comfort zone and introduced me to authors and styles I would never normally go for. They also showered me with love and affection because my skin hadn't yet sagged into leather bag status and I had all my real teeth.

This other group I'm in...not so much. Although it is nice to gab about a book and see what others think, I don't typically enjoy just flipping to pages I liked and reading them out. I like to dig a little deeper. I feel that sometimes my discussions with this group are on par with that of a guided reading session with my year ones. "Who can find the page where the lead character says she likes cheese?" "Who can make a connection to similar book?" "Who liked the part when the author wrote, 'she bounced in the sunshine?' "

Kill me.

The people who go to these things too are just so bizarre. Usually they are socially awkward, with books being their only friends. It is strange to find a group of people who enjoy books so much, and yet...have not that much to say about them.

Each time I go to this club, I swear I'll never go to the next one. Then I read something interesting in the new book and want to see if anyone at "the club" thought something about it. They never do...but there is always hope. At least I sound smart rattling on and chirping away. If for nothing else, it reminds me that I can read at a higher level than Paddington Bear.

Lessons in Humanity

I just got a lesson in humanity today. In fact, I got my ass handed to me.

It's rare, but sometimes even in my posh little neighbourhood, we have some crazies. I've even seen a homeless person once or twice. When I first moved here, I found it very strange for such a large city with an intense urban life to contain such a societal bubble. Now, I find it odd to see anyone other than a young professional around my flat. I used to feel relieved that I was living in a community where I felt very safe at all hours of the night but after today, I realised how sad and insular my world has become.

For the past two weeks - I might even be too ashamed to admit it's been longer - an older man, maybe mid-sixties, has been kind of talking in my direction. I'm say "talking in my direction" because I am ALWAYS wearing headphones and nearly always they are blaring Yoncé. This means, I am never sure someone is talking to me until I feel their eyes burning into my flesh. And his eyes have scorched me. He looks disheveled (read - old) with longer white hair that is tucked under a Scottish cap. He seemed to have no social boundaries in the sense that he spoke loudly but politely to everyone and stopped to talk to random people.

A couple of times, I thought he was saying inappropriate things about me, perhaps sexual ones as he stared at me uncomfortably. I ignored him and kept about my shopping or walking down the street. I never actually HEARD him say anything about me, butI did get that impression. One time I was at the self-service checkout and I heard him talking about me from behind. I turned around and he seemed to be pointing at me and talking about me to the security guard of the store (security just happens to stand where the man was standing - completely unrelated to his presence). I couldn't quite make out what was being said, so I ignored him and kept scanning things. I got the impression he was speaking about my appearance and it made me uncomfortable. The security guard seemed sheepish as well, so I paid quickly and booked it out of there without looking at the man again.

Well today I was caught. I came out of Sainsbury's and bumped straight into him - sans headphones. In my mind I thought, I have absolutely no excuse not to acknowledge this person's presence now and of course....he spoke to me. Directly to my face. And I felt like an asshole. I can't even asterisk the word, I WAS a complete asshole.

He was sweet and kind and reminded me of my grandparents. He just said, "Hello, how are you? I see you around here all the time and I've tried to speak to you. You seem to ignore me, and I thought I had done something wrong to you. Are you alright?" I melted, wilted, felt ashamed. I profusely apologised and said that I just always have my headphones in and was just a jerk. I owned it. I owned my jerkiness. We started to laugh and he asked my name. We had a great chat about where I was from and what I do. He's retired, Scottish but now lives in West Hampstead. He thinks I look wonderful. And not in a creepy pervy way that I thought before, but in the sweet way my grandpa would say, you look lovely today dear.

He's just very friendly. He is completely my grandparents' generation. Once I had spoken to him and we shook hands, I knew I had read him all wrong. In fact, I have seen my grandmother strike up nearly the EXACT same conversation with strangers and had them not react as rudely as I had before, but probably thought she was just as nuts.

I left that conversation feeling fantastic from how he spoke to me. He complimented me profusely (but not creepily) and we enjoyed talking to each other. It wasn't until I came home that I felt my true guilt set in over how I had treated this wonderful human for weeks. It makes me sad for humanity that I was afraid to speak to someone before today. That my initial reaction was that he was a creep, and even if he was a strange, it was broad daylight. What would talking to him have hurt me?

I guess I do have some hope left though, that two people can misread each other then still connect later. We did eventually get there. I know that the next time I see him, we'll share a smile or even some pleasantries. I just wish I had spoken to him earlier.

Sometimes we need to be reminded that we are all just people, living right next to each other. Our lives are playing out on the same streets and maybe our stories aren't even that different. I'm glad he called me out because I know I would have just kept on doing it. I wonder if he knows that he's changed the way I see people. I hope he does.

Teaching Money

Sometimes when you teach little 'uns concepts, they seem to get it all the way up until the point they are about to leave the carpet to do an independent task, then you realise they have not a f*cking clue. It's like they all decided with each other to nod their heads at the appropriate times, look like they're doing correct partner talk, and spew out close enough answers to mislead me.

Today this happened in today in maths.

More specifically, teaching money and paying for objects. In the time I was off, the kids did a lot of coin recognition activities and basic coin work. Excited to be back, I recapped this basic coin information and started to do a bit of adding coins to get a certain total. Mistake.

"Ms. Thomas really wants to buy this toy car, it's her favourite colour. The thing is, it's 7p. What do I need to buy this car?"

"A 7p coin!!" - called out every child. For all you in North America, there obviously is no 7p coin. Who would make such a denomination?? No one is the answer I was looking for. And no one did.

So I take it back a notch.

"Wait, guys thumbs up or down...is there a 4p coin?"

Thumbs waved up, down, middle all while there is a call of "yyyyyyyaaaaaaa....nnnnnnnnnooooo...yyyyyyeeeeeeeessssss" while heads whip frantically around to see if anyone has a more solid understanding than they do.

This repeated for three other types of coins that would never exist. "What about an eleventeen coin everyone? Hmmmm? Maybe? OK."

There is nothing more infuriating than this moment, but also just hopelessly silly that you have to laugh with them. We broke into a fit of giggles before moving on, knowing we all needed a break at that moment.

My stepdad once said that baby animals are made so cute so that their parents don't kill them or eat them when they annoy them. It's a natural trait to protect them. Although I've never wanted to eat any of my children, there are some days when a squish might do. We'll see how tomorrow goes.

Sleepy

I had a fantastic weekend but as a result I am more exhausted than at the end of a work week.

I was about to fall asleep when I realised I hadn't written anything.

Couldn't break the 31 but too tired to do a proper entry.

Nighty night.

The Dog Incident

Facebook is a wonderful social platform  that has now expanded past the point of creeping on others to being able to reach a wider audience and spread word to others on social issues or current events. I, of course, try to keep Facebook light and fun, used for creeping and posting amusing anecdotes.

I don't mind if people overshare, in fact I look forward to it so I can screen grab their embarassment and faux pas and send it to all my friends. Odds are if you've put a "poor me" statement on there, we've giggled at it. This is the problem with Facebook: it seems private as you post from the depths of your dark room, when in reality your friend's, sister's cousin who you met at a party once and drunkenly added - is also reading your life journal. They aren't as emotionally bound to you and therefore find these attention grabs amusing rather than inspiring any empathy. And before you think I'm sitting here all holier than thou, we've all been guilty of it.  If you trolled through my status updates, I'm sure you'd find a pity party in there somewhere. I do try to limit this though, whereas some people seem to revel in their doom. This amuses me. Observational comedy at it's finest.

Now today, instead of a status overshare, my eyeballs were scorched out of my head by someone posting an extremely graphic photo of a dog that had been set on fire. Very tragic. It is awful and I, of course want whoever did it to die a slow, painful death BUT did the poster have a right to force that image onto me? I say nay nay. There was not even a warning or an "explicit content" disclaimer. Just a straight up vomit-fest on my newsfeed. I couldn't select to unsee it, I had no choice when it came up.

I had to say something. This of course sparks the infamous Facebook fight - another cringe moment. I know I'm right but I hate the public battle more than I desire to rub her face in it as she did with that picture. I have just decided to let it fester after one comment, in the hopes that she now knows she's a massive jerk for forcing her choices on others.

Then I wrote a blog on it.

Winner winner chicken dinner.

Late Night Phone Calls

Phone calls have become a thing of the past. Texting, instant messaging, private messaging, snapchatting, even voice memo-ing have replaced the good old fashion phone call. I was a convert. I used to see a name pop up on my call ID and just let it ring out before texting them that I couldn't answer because I was in public (I wasn't) or that I was in a quiet area (just in my underwear in my flat - not assed to speak).

I must admit with a huge amount of shame that I am a phone addict. A constant communicator. My friends and I are in a constant dialogue of just shit. Pictures, jokes, anecdotes are all shared instantly. Although many people argue it's not quality conversation, I think it brings a closeness to the people I care about when I live so far away. It's the kind of chat you would have if you were walking around the mall together and you saw something weird happen. You'd share a look and a laugh. The only way for me to do that now is to snap it and send the funny thing over whastapp. I don't feel shame about this aspect, but I do cringe at the other ties it has on me as a result. It's a different level of communication that sometimes I think might be less special and a more needy way of conversing (wondering why your friend hasn't said 'haha' to the latest meme you've sent them).

Recently though, I have rediscovered the phone call. I enjoy it immensely. The voice on the other end making me laugh and hearing my reactions. No miscommunications or misreads. A dialogue between two people. There's a spark there. A something special.

Researchers debate about how much of the messages we receive are from non-verbal cues. The typical percentage thrown around is 55%. However, when playing with the definition of non-verbal to include body language, some studies argue that 93% of communication is not in the words used but everything we see. Well what does this mean for the texters? Removing now even the tone of voice from the sender, what percentage of the message are we really hearing? Do we have to make it all up?

I'm returning to the phone call. It brings with it a nostalgia for my teens and a rush when I hear the phone ring. Maybe it's just the novelty of moving away from messaging or maybe it's the person calling.

Either way, I'm answering.

The Kids

I came back to school today and was overwhelmed by the welcoming of the children. I stood inside the class while 25 little ones ran to me shouting over each other, their latest bits of news and shoving each other to get just a little touch of me.
"Ms. Thomas I lost a tooth!"
"Ms. Thomas my dad slept on the couch!"
"I got a hair cut!"
"My mum made pasta last night!"


Nothing is cuter than little kid strokes on the arms and whispers of "are you better?" "we missed you" "how are you now?"

I was lucky enough to also have a teaching partner who roped the kids into making get well cards for me throughout the time I was off. I came back to a basket full of sweet nothings written by tiny hands. This is why I have an inflated sense of self-esteem:

Return to Life

Tomorrow I return back to work after nearly two weeks off. Feels so strange to be away from the class while they have all been there doing cute things and getting the wrong answers. It will be great to see them all and at least getting very fresh blog material.

I am unsure of how I will cope with waking up at 5:50 am again, as I have been currently rolling out of bed around 1 or 2 in the afternoon. I've planned a 9:30 bedtime in preparation though - hopefully the sleep schedule isn't too far gone that it's not possible.

Today I started reading a book called, You Are Not So Smart. The level of metacognition necessary for this book is exhausting. I am spiralling downward as I try to think about the process of my thinking. It is basically a revisit to my university degree but summed up with fresh case studies and factoids. No matter how much of an intellect I pride myself in being (big time), I still believe in magic. I also define magic to include, anomalies and random chance. My whole life I would draw conclusions or make connections from coincidences much to my stepfather's shame. "No Katie, just because you saw a moth on the wall after watching Mothman Prophecies, it does not mean the universe is calling to you." How exciting if the universe is connected! What if there is all a deeper meaning or purpose to everything? What if that coin I dropped on the sidewalk yesterday was picked up by a small child just as a bird swooped down to avoid a telephone line, and therefore prevented the baby from getting knocked into the road? Then that baby grows up to resolve the next world conflict. Boom.

This book I'm reading points out all our fallacies in the hopes of correcting them with proof. The chapter I am on is called The Texas Sharpshooter Fallacy and it hopes to correct the idea that we THINK we take into account random chance when determining cause and effect, when really we get caught up in it and believe it to be magical or mystic. The first case in point is the "connection" between Abraham Lincoln and John F. Kennedy's assassinations. The entire point is to show how two random events can look closely related and connected by a higher meaning, when really it is just a pure coincidence. The moment I read the page, I Snapchatted it to all my friends without providing context. I don't care how much "logic" you throw at me, it's magic. I've included the page here for you so you can get caught up in the hysteria as well. Knowledge be damned, magic is fun.

London Summers

When I moved into 278 in WH last year, the sun was beginning to come out after a long winter and the bleakness of life was starting to fade away. One of my flatmates said to me in the early days, you live in London for the summers and only the summers. Such a true statement.

In the middle of fall to winter, you can get bogged down by the rain and grey skies; constantly driving you away from the culture of the city and into your flat. But when the sun begins to shine and the days start to get longer, your memory of what the city is like changes. You forget the months that have just passed, as if they didn't exist. I remember London only ever being warm and bright - full of places to wander and outdoor events to stumble upon. The city comes to life, and with it, so do you.

I try as often as I can to walk to Oxford Circus from WH instead of taking the tube, and when I do in the grey months, I keep my head down set on the destination. When the sun shines however, I see everything around me. The buildings from centuries ago, the statues, the art, and even the sounds sound different.

I live for London summers. And what keeps me going through the other months is the lingering memory of their existence. I know what the green will look like beside my house in a months time, and I will be curled up on a park bench reading there soon enough. I remember the bustle of the streets from Trafalgar Square to Westminster and the commotion of everyone trying to stare up at Big Ben.

The time has already begun to change now and I wait in excitement. I see the sun until almost six, and in the morning by the time I reach the train. There are more people on the High Street when I look down from my flat's bay windows. Patios beginning to pile with afternoon drinkers. Leaves on trees. We're almost there but not yet.

Still Waiting

Today has been an extremely relaxing and slow-paced day. Probably the exact kind of day I need to recover and be ready to return to work.

This however, has led to very little to write about. Many times throughout the day, I pulled up the blog and jotted some things down before deleting them all as mundane and pointless entries. But surely Katie, something else will come up that is worthy of writing about later. Nothing has.

Just a small list of things that could have made the cut, instead of a post entirely on not having anything to write (you're welcome in advance):

- late last night's drunk bollywood singalong starring my flatmate
- the cat howling outside my window early in the morning
- a mysterious bug bite on my arm...whilst sitting in a closed and secure room
- pain med reduction - how to not go cold turkey
- people watching part 237893274
- surviving a zombie apocalypse better than the cast of Walking Dead
- rearranging my room with no spatial awareness skills so that the room must immediately be returned back to its original state


Tomorrow, I swear I will do something more exciting than nothing. Until then, I am tuckered out and need to rest again. Nighty night.

A Story for Michael

I met this guy a month before I went to university, at a leadership conference held at the university we were both going to attend in the Fall. Most of the conference is a blur now but I do remember in one session, people were being asked from the audience to go to the front of the whole room and rock out some sweet dance moves. This really hairy, tall and funny (he'll also want me to say extremely handsome) guy volunteered and busted some hilarious dance moves completely unabashed. It was awesome. He instantly became one of the coolest dudes at the conference and this man went on to become one of my best friends.

He will now and forever be referred to in this blog as Archer, named after the self-titled television show about a completely outrageous, suave, egotistical, ladies man - which I am sure is Michael's actual spirit animal. When I told him that is how I saved him in my phone contacts and how I refer to him to my other friends, he said "That is one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me."

At the same conference, somehow I ended up hanging out with Archer and not being able to shake him. We traded contact information (might have been email at the time) and found out less than a month later that we would be living in the same residence building while attending Laurier. He became one of the greatest people to play a role in my life.

There are some friends you see every week and spend a lot of face-to-face time with, and there are the kind where you are in regular contact over the years, then there are the kind of friends that you just know will always be there for you no matter what has happened or how much time has passed. Archer is that guy. I dated a crazy guy when I started at university and Archer would always be there to spend the night after a bad fight, or answer the phone if the baddy was calling through all hours of the night. It was in this living circumstance that we became close. He would just show up at my door after a night of drinking, or I would call him down to just hang out and talk shit.

After first year, we went down different paths but still maintained enough contact to show we cared or were somewhat in each others' lives. Months would go by, then we would pick up where we left off or have a heartfelt conversation. It carried on like this for years and through our many boyfriends/girlfriends/just friends who passed through our lives.

Then one day, feeling rather alone and lost after just moving to England, I reached back out for my old friend. I knew he had spent a lot of his life travelling and was much more worldly than I, so I knew he would be able to weigh in on my life and help guide me through the experience of travelling on my own.

Best decision I ever made.

I don't know how it happened; perhaps we just were in the exact same place in our lives for needing that kind of friendship, but we began talking and didn't stop. Daily conversations over Skype kept me sane while trying to navigate through the world of culture clashes, dating, independence, and career choices. I'm sure I got more out of our little chats than he did, but I know he was content with the company and being needed (desperately) by someone.

Now I can't imagine a time when I wouldn't call him up each day to tell him what crazy thing has happened to me. I feel closer to him than I do with most people. Sometimes we just sit on Skype in silence, reading internet articles or while I'm painting my toenails; only chatting when something comes up. I haven't seen him in person for nearly five years now, but I feel like I spend the most time with him. In fact, while both my two best friends (knowing each other only through me), Al and Archer were travelling separately through Thailand, they bumped into each other in a small town. They then thought it would be sweet to take a picture together and send it to me, not knowing it only made me wildly jealous not to be with either of them.

So Archer, thank you for every time a person says I've got a good head on my shoulders or I am emotionally intelligent, because that's usually due to some piece of advice you have just given me or allowing me to vent out all my crazy before I approach whoever I need to at the time. I miss you still buddy and wish you we were in the same city but for now, I'll settle for Skype.

carriers Versus the rest of us

Large luggage with wheels is one of the best inventions in the world. When I moved from Canada to England, I made sure I bought me one of them fancy bags with the four wheels instead of just two back ones. I could not have functioned without the capability of pushing the bag alongside me when navigating my way through my new city. I should mention that bag was triple my own weight at the time. If I would have had to carry that bag or drag it on two wheels behind me, I probably would have got off the plane and just laid down and died right in the baggage claim.

Now that being said, small bags with wheels are THE world's most stupid invention. I know I have mentioned this in a similarly hateful post about three years ago but I had another entanglement with my old friend yesterday.

First, what could you be carrying that is both so small and yet so heavy in that tiny little bag? Are you carting around bricks or smuggling monkeys into the country? If it is neither of these items, perhaps you should do a few press ups and free weights, then carry the bag like a grown human. You aren't trendy. You aren't more ergonomically correct than me. You look a fool that you can't pick up that little bag. It's the same rage I get when I see a 6 year old in a stroller. Surely their legs work, give them a little walk around. Neither toddlers nor small luggage should be wheeled around like you are  an MVP bellhop.

Second, the design of a small wheelie bag is purely for murderous intent. A large bag with wheels is visible to even the weakest of eyes. It's like walking beside another person. A small bag with wheels is equivalent to the old primary school trick of having your friend crouch behind someone you don't like, then pushing them backward so they stumble over your accomplice. I am the first to admit I don't have the BEST eyesight. In fact, I have almost no sight but I feel this is irrelevant to my case as I have witnessed on a daily occasion - that's right daily - people involved in the same altercation as myself.

The puller of a small wheelie bag always let's their arm go slack from how heavy the drag of the bag is behind them. This means that the bag is now not anywhere near their person, but a full arms length plus a handle length behind them. The handle that drags the bag is also always designed to be this extreme exaggeration of what is actually needed to pull a bag. Why does it have to be  metre long? Surely that works AGAINST the puller in making it easier to drag. Now you have a small, not clearly visible bag being dragged nearly two chevrons behind the carrier, where you would not expect luggage to be twisting around in front of you.

If you are also a normal human, you walk with your head up, scanning for human-sized things. So when you see a person with a slack hand and no immediate bag, you think the coast is clear. This is when the stumbles occur. I have never seen or been involved in a graceful wheelie bag stumble. It is always: slow, awkward, unbalanced, humiliating, and resulting in rage. Th humiliation usually comes form the fact that the person goes down. Not hard mind you, it's not a smash over but instead a tediously slow realisation you won't be able to recover your balance and therefore resign yourself to putting your hands out either on top of the small luggage or on the ground but most certainly you are keeled over.

Once the person rights themselves, they are met with the single most infuriating look ever. The look from the holder of, "can't you watch where you're going?" I am actually surprised there are not more deaths on public transport since the invention of these bags. The look of the holder is always pure disgust and never apologetic, and they are almost smug like they are happy stupid people like you trip over their bag so that one day they'll learn to look a little more carefully two chevrons behind each person in the world. I just don't understand this, because certainly these people have either been in a similar tripping situation or they have witnessed one where they completely side with "the tripped." It is like that old paradigm where if you are driving a car waiting for someone to cross the road, you immediately think, "can't they just f*cking hurry it up?! What's taking them so long??" However, when you yourself are crossing a road and you feel like a car is rushing you, you think, "I'll take my bloody time thank you, you can f*cking wait. What's so important that you can't wait 5 seconds for me to safely cross the road??"

I'm sure one day my body will become old and frail and the usage of a small wheelie bag will be necessary for me. I am also sure that when that time comes, I will become of a carrier rather than a tripped mentality but until then, I wish all carriers a swift tripping off the platform along with their little bags too.

Post-surgery foolishness

When I started the 31 in 31 challenge I thought it would be hard to come up with something to write each day. As it turns out, things happen to me. I would like things to slow down a bit for me now this month thank you.

It's unbelievable how much better I feel now that the giant ball of pus is out of my mouth. Turns out a cocktail of drugs can do wonders after a needle has pierced your throat. Had to go to the pharmacy today to pick up more steroids and unfortunately they didn't have the dosage in convenient little pills for me to take. I am to take 4mg twice a day. Instead, the pharmacy could only offer 500 microgram pills. Which means if you do some simple maths...carry the two....you get the ingestion of 8 pills twice a day. This on top of taking 2 pills 3 times a day and 2 other pills four times a day. I am a pez dispenser.

Today all I did was smash hours of True Detective. Somehow when reading a synopsis of one of the complicated episodes (read - too many god damn names being dropped without context)  I somehow misinterpreted an article about season 2. There was a blurb on google in the news area saying Season 2 approved and next to it, a picture of Matthew McConaughey and Woody Harrelson. Somehow I drew the ridiculous conclusion that they would be returning season two. I know, crazy right? I hope my dripping sarcasm is readable through my writing. I then thought it would be ok to burn through the remaining episodes because of this guarantee.  You see, up until that point I definitely thought one of the men would be killed or imprisoned. Although I was wrong and they both live, neither will be returning in season 2. I found this out instantly after finishing the last episode. Did not even savour it. Grim existence.


So I have nothing to live for during my remaining recovery.  Open to suggestions to keep me going. As I get better, the more stir crazy I get sitting at home, I challenge you to entertain me.

Brush with Death

My glands and tonsils hit an all time swell today. Last night, I was feeling rather shady when I went to bed, and got progressively worse through the night. I didn't manage to sleep much at all.

In the morning I went to the GP to get my throat checked again and she prescribed antibiotics and gave me emergency case status so if there was no progress in 24 hours, I was to be admitted to the hospital.

I went home feeling grim, and tried to have a little snooze. I woke up by the sound of my own throat swelling shut and the resulting choke. I looked in the mirror and my glands were so huge I looked like something from the Gooneys.

Long story short, I was admitted to hospital and had a lot of firsts happen to me.

Poor me

First IV, first doctor to gasp at the state of my throat, first ride in an ambulance (to transfer to a specialist hospital), first steroid intake, and lastly first draining of an abscess.

The real story is in the abscess, or what they call a 'quinsy' in the Ear, Nose and Throat world. I was delivered to the specialist hospital via ambulance with another woman. She was waiting in the hallway with me when I got called in first. We had already begun to bond over our pain while waiting for the doctor and she gave me the comforting smile when they called my name to go into the little room.

The doctor immediately agreed it was an abscess and it would have to be drained with what can only be described as the mother of all needles. I asked if I would have something to numb the pain, to which he responded by holding up a spray bottle. "So I won't feel a thing?" I asked. "Oh no, you will feel everything, in fact most people opt not to have the spray as it doesn't really numb the pain, it just makes your tongue roll around in your mouth." I still opted for the spray. And it does make your tongue roll around.

He didn't want me to be misled though. He graphically described what he was going to do to me and that it would in fact, really hurt. He said he wanted me to be prepared because when the needle hits the abscess, I cannot move, otherwise he will rip my mouth the shit (I'm paraphrasing here).

He hooks what looks like a huge metal shoehorn over my tongue to hold me in place, while he slowly brings the mahusive needle toward my really sensitive fleshy bits. It is a pain I have never come across before or want to feel again. The only thing worse is the feeling that happens next when he unhooks my tongue so he can retract the syringe and suck out as much puss as he can.

blood bowl.

When he pulls the needle away, there is a loud pppssssss'ing sound of air popping out of the abscess, followed by leaking blood and more puss.

I weep. Like I'm six. He tells me he has to go in again and proceeds to wave the needle toward my face. I back away and lock my lips tight. We both begin to laugh at the absurdity of my actions. I tell him I need some time to cry and recover before I let him stab me again. We end up chatting and laughing some more before we agree it's time to repeat the process.

He manages to stick me three more times before he's decided I've had enough and he has removed all the puss. Each time he takes out the needle, I wail like a prisoner of war and spit copious amounts of junk into a bowl. I didn't realise how loud I was until I leave the room to get my prescription drugs, and the poor lady who has to go in after me is white as a ghost and sobbing, just because she knows she's next.

I try to convince her whatever she has, it's unlikely it's the same as what I have and even I feel much better now. I then ask what she has. A quinsy, she answers. F*ck. My face cannot hide fast enough that I know she's going to have to do what I just did. This causes her to down spiral again and start sobbing. I rub her back and fill her head with lies that I'm ok and it wasn't that bad. She disappears in the room and I cringe. See you never lady.

Data's bag of kindness

My gorgeous Data arrived at the hospital during this time as well, carrying everything he thought I would need at the hospital (we originally thought I was staying overnight). I nearly breakdown again at his kindness. He even brought my favourite stuffed animal. I guess he has human emotion after all.

Drugs, glorious drugs!

The one thing the doctor impresses upon me is that I MUST eat and talk as much as I can. Something that seems like unnatural advice. He explained that if I don't, the tissue and muscle will seize up and spasm, causing more problems. It's important I keep the tissue loose. I take this as an excuse to smash a Sub from Subway on the way home. I am so doped up at this point that eating is heaven.




I'm home now and beginning to crash from lack of sleep and the draining of the previous 15 hours of adrenaline that has been coursing through my body. I cannot wait to fall into a mini coma and wake up feeling refreshed. I do have to go back on Sunday to see if the abscess has refilled, and then potentially repeat the process all over again. Fingers crossed that NEVER happens again, but if it does, I know I can survive it. It's these kind of moments in my life where I am reassured that my spirit animal is Beyonce. Facing any challenge with strength and sassiness.

A Story for Al.

It is the lovely, Alison T's birthday today. We've been very close friends since tenth grade, when I forced her to sit next to me in Mrs. Zeinstra-Dye's English class. I thought it would be fitting on her birthday to try to write down one of the many infamous stories we have together. There are numerous to choose from, but I think I'll try one that hasn't been told in a while.


One summer, all of our crew in high school travelled to the lake to stay at a friend's cottage for the weekend. One of the activities we were allowed to do was tubing in the water.

I had never been tubing before.
Neither had Ali.

So naturally, we put on our lifejackets and decided to give it a go without any instruction or assistance. We were maybe 16 or 17 at the time. I remember being in the middle of the tube, facing Alison and casually holding on. We were excited as we thought it would be similar to a theme park ride, calm bumping and twisting, along the scenic lakeside. No one told us tubing is a sport and requires a great deal of upper body strength.

As the boat rev'd up and shot off, I watched as the rope tying us to the boat began to uncurl and tighten up. Like a cartoon, I can envision in my head seeing the rope go completely taught then our body heaving behind. It was like the snap of a whip. The driver of the boat was a sadist and the reason I can say this confidently despite knowing he is the father of a friend I still have today, is because I swear I saw a smile on his face during all of this.

It was in this snap of the whip, that our unpreparedness got the better of us. Our bodies were thrown from the tube at such a force that I am sure we looked boneless...like rag dolls. The only analogy I have ever come across that accurately depicts how I picture it looked, is from X-Men. Rogue is in the car with Wolverine and says that he should really wear a seatbelt just as a log falls into the road and his body is thrown through the windshield. Click the link below to see how his lifeless body explodes from the car. This was us.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_AElabDAOqU

I vaguely remember landing on my neck/head and having the sense that Alison was nearby. In a daze, I floundered around trying to get my bearings. Then I heard it, the "what the fuck?!" exclamation from Alison's pretty blonde little mouth, followed by shocked guffawing. This was common for us, to always laugh. I felt like my fingers were still attached to the tube handles and that I probably was paralysed from the waist-down, but still we managed to laugh at the ridiculousness of what had just happened.

It wasn't long before the boat circled back and we heard that condescending, "I thought you girls had done this before? You have to lean IN to the wave break!" How the flying f*ck would I know to lean in and what the f*ck was a wave break?

The story doesn't end here though. We decided to give it another go and shrieked for the father to slow it down. We assumed the position again, Alison's legs squeezed in between mine which were spread apart like a dude. I blew gently on my reddish-purple fingers before holding on to the handles once more. The leg positioning is crucial to what happens next.

As the boat began to jostle us around at the pace of a toddler on a petting zoo pony, I'm not sure if it was the concussion I had just received or the cold water, but I felt the need to pee. Around the same time, some idiot shouted "go faster!" I'm not sure who it was because, like I said I was concussed.

Once again our bodies were bouncing lifelessly on the tube, but we did have the sense to hang on more tightly. It was this bouncing though, that caused me to lose control of my bladder as I have so often before. Unfortunately for Alison, her legs were directly in between mine. Bullseye. Direct hit. It's been years since I've told this story, so I'm not sure what I've exaggerated (none of it) or what actually happened, but I do remember her repeating over and over something like "it's so warm" and for me crying out in laughter "I'm peeing, I'm peeing!"

If I hadn't already known, it was reaffirmed then that Alison was a best friend or certainly my kind of friend. Anyone who knows me, knows you have to put up with a little pee and a lot of 14 year-old-boy-like behaviour. We laughed about this whole event so many times and I remember us tag-teaming the retell to other friends and our families. This story has been in the vault now for over 5 years, so I hope I did it justice.

Happy birthday Al. I couldn't have marked my territory on anyone better. Love always, xo.

MWAH * kiss kiss

So I've had these swollen glands for a while and I've been putting off getting them checked out because it's been crazy busy at work. Today was a whole new ballgame. I woke up and it felt like every airway was grated with a cheese grater, sprinkled with lime juice then buffered out with sandpaper. As a child I read Roald Dahl's biography, Boy and he graphically describes his adenoids getting carved out of his throat while awake. I was pretty sure that one of my flatmates, angry with me for soaking lids in the sink for days, snuck into my room and acted out Roald's scarring experience.

I, being a teacher of epic proportion, still tried to go to work and was halfway ready when I decided on a whim to look at my throat in the mirror with a flashlight. Not.a.pretty.picture. You know it's bad when you send a picture to your Mum (a Hungarian mum at that, which no doubt has seen worse of everything in the world and just got on with it) and she tells you she had to delete it off her phone immediately. I knew right away that I had to call in sick and get a doctor.

The doctor instantly thought it was mono. I was misinformed by some uneducated fools (flatmates) that mono did not exist in this country. So when I mentioned that to the doctor, he gave a Dr. Hibbert laugh and replied "Oh we have it, and you've got it." To confirm the smooching sickness, I had to go for a blood test at the hospital. I had to take a number and wait in a room where I was the youngest there by about 100 years.

Sitting surrounded by older people really makes you never want to get old. Especially when all you seem to do at that age is wait around for them to call your number in blood clinics.

The wait was unreal. It's funny when you think how close the numbers 566 and 546 are to each other until you put them in the context of waiting for your blood to be taken. 20 places is a huge amount of time for you to mull over the fact a sharp object will be thrust into one of your most sensitive areas until your blood squirts out.

Also, in this day in age what is there to do while waiting if you have no internet signal? Hospitals are black holes for the 21st century and I was not prepared today. I had absolutely nothing to do whilst waiting. I actually wrote notes on my phone about the people around me in hopes of getting a blog post out of it. It turned out, the jottings were too much like the Mean Girls Burn Book and I was afraid the 87 year old man next to me would read what I wrote about his decrepit wife on the screen. Looking back, I shouldn't have worried at all as I wasn't writing in font size 120 so I'm sure he wouldn't have been able to read it.

Finally my number was called and luckily I got a charming Murse who gently took my blood. I've never had gentler hands on the inside of the fleshy part of my arm.

I must wait now to make sure it is "just" mono and not some other crazy disease that is destroying the slender nature of my neck. My swan neck is the one Hungarian trait I didn't get thank god (thick necks...strong like bull). Until then I'm smashing episodes of Seinfeld and planning lessons from home whilst sucking on ice lollies. I must say, this youthful disease is bringing me back to university times, when I was allowed to sack off school for a month and just laze about in bed. I'm glad I'm not too old to still be crippled by the smooching sickness. I bet soon enough I'll have chickenpox again as well. Maybe I'll never have to work again! Huzzah!

Anyway, back to bed. As I'm writing this my eyes are already getting heavy and I'm beginning to lose control of my figrs tyig on th kebord. nalkdsjdnf zzzzzz....

It Wasn't Dead

There has been a spider under my computer desk in the classroom for about...oh I'd say...6 months now? Ya 6 months. Now, this is a computer desk built for children as well, so it is quite low to the ground and has a built in footrest for the kidlets' little legs. This is where it has taken up residence. I would never have known it's there except, when the kids sit on the carpet and they flop over to put their heads by their feet (happens often that they crumple like an accordion) they come eye-to-eye with Shelob. Surprisingly, none of them have screamed or freaked out about it, like I would have as a child. They just raise a quiet hand up and say "Ms. Thomas, there's a big spider under there."

The first time I heard this, I laid on my stomach to look under the footrest and nearly shat myself. This isn't a little house spider. This brown, hairy beast looks like if it uncurled its legs, it would stand as tall as my knees. I jiggled the entire desk, to see if it would move or scatter, but it didn't even budge. The class and I voted, and we believed the Hell-Beast to be dead. It's so gangly and awkward-looking, that the thought of even picking up it's rotting corpse made me cringe, so I left it where it lay.

Months have passed, and every so often when I change around carpet spaces, a new voice will pipe up about the spider and we'll all go through the same routine.

1. Crouch and squint under the desk with possible aid of mobile phone flashlight
2. Banging and shaking of the desk, without really moving the desk
3. Whole body shudder
4. Vote between alive or dead
5. Ignore that area of the class for the rest of the day/week.

Today, my life took a turn for the worse when Satan decided to awaken one of his minions to challenge me. Today, Shelob moved.

It all happened so fast that I didn't know how to react. Again, a fresh child pointed out that there was still, in fact a spider under the desk. We repeated steps 1-4, and when we were about to ignore the desk for a lifetime, I heard my first shriek. A little boy screamed out that the legs moved. Me, fully believing this child was a rotten liar, got down on the floor and put my head parallel to the floor, when it shot toward my face with high velocity.

A small side note, when I was about 10 or maybe 12, I was staying at my dad's one summer weekend. He had a deck outside his house, but it was on the second story. This meant that the entire first story of the house was in darkness and also there were major beams holding the deck up to the second floor. One day, frolicking in the back garden, I ran under the deck and back out. Another demon had woven a thick nest-like web in and around the beams of the deck. The web wrapped around my face - lips, nose, eyes, eyelashes - spider and all. The spider ended up crawling across my mouth until I screamed for my stepbrother to swat it off my face. This is my reality.

As this desk demon ran out toward me, I shot straight into the air like a cat thrown into water. Its legs really were up to my knees. The speed of it was unbelievable. It was the Usain Bolt of arachnids.

Of course, my pathetic, ridiculous, cowardly, obnoxious mature reaction tore the children in two groups. Half of the class could see how ridiculous and funny this moment was of seeing their teacher flip out. These are the kids who are already better than me. Then there were the other children, who fed off my nervous energy like oxygen to a flame. Soon, loud, uproarious laughter and screams were all you could hear echoing off the walls.

The worst part is, after I gained control and we all wiped the froth away from our mouths, that none of us tracked the rat. We have no idea where it has no taken up residence in the class. It must be somewhere but I haven't got the faintest idea where. I feel like this is now Guerrilla warfare and I'm about to get a tomahawk in the back of the head. I had no idea spiders could live that long without a food supply and could play such a wicked game of don't blink. Six months of being covert. I might be terrified, but I have the respect.

Only child

I am my mother's only daughter. Child for that matter. Keep this is mind for the following anecdote.

On the phone with mum. 

Mum "Oh geez, don't hate me for asking this but I really can't remember...you have your tonsils right? Or were they taken out?"

She has completely forgotten what getting tonsils out would involve or the level of involvement it would take on her part if her child were to get an operation. 

It's ok mum, I've forgotten if you've had yours out too. 

Lesson planning

Today, like any other, I have a ton of planning to do for school. Also, like any other day, I have procrastinated so that I have accomplished very little.

What I did instead:

- watched the first hour of Alan Partridge Alpha Papa when my internet cut out and it restarted my stream from zero. I gave up and moved on. Probably worth noting I have seen this film before. Twice.

- I plucked my eyebrows. I do this every morning, but today was the long haul. The angle of the sun was just right so I used my mirror with the times 1000 magnifying power. I will never have confidence again after seeing my face that close up. This also led to a 30 minute beauty regimen to correct the now seen flaws. 

- watched a few episodes of Seinfeld Season 5. Always worth every minute. I will be parsing my sentences like Jerry and George for the next few weeks as a result. 

- walked around West Hampstead, just lingering really. I did manage to buy items for the class such as cute note pads and baskets. They will be appreciated in a way that only 5 year old can show you, like winning the lottery. If I give them a new table basket, it's like I am UNOS and they have been approved for a new heart. I will be showered with love, compliments and little kid hugs around my knees...who am I kidding, they reach my shoulders now.

- went to the gym...reluctantly. 

- people watched out our front windows above the high street. West Hampstead has beautiful people living in it, but they still make the mistake of thinking no one is watching them. I saw someone stumble onto their knees and one man go to town on picking his nose. I wanted to vomit but could not look away. I then had to google scientific studies on nose picking. Apparently it's not as bad as we think it is, just a social norm we find disgusting. Thanks science. I'll never listen to you again.

- Danced in my underwear to a shuffle on spotify. Dancing isn't as fun in clothes.

- Read all the live tweets from the Malaysian missing aircraft. Wallowed and worried about my own family and how we have to travel so frequently to see each other. Tried to calculate the odds of a plane crash happening to me based on noted plane statistics. Anyone who knows me, knows I can't mathematically work out these kind of problems. The answer I came up with is I have a 50-50% chance of it happening to me. Pure terror. 

- Watched panda videos on youtube as a cheer up, curtesy of A-Tay. Those pandas really love slides. I really love pandas. 

Now I'm going out for the night. At least I won't have to procrastinate tomorrow morning as I'll be recovering and therefore all the above behaviours become acceptable as I will be not feeling well in bed. Just a mind reframe really. One day I'll plan an entire week on the weekend. And that day will be great. Until then, I'll take it one day at a time...in a scramble. Way to go.

Single Bed Problems

I live in one of the nicest areas of London.
I live in one of the nicest flats in my area.
I have a single bed in the nice flat in the nice area.

This poses many problems.

1. I feel like Harry Potter living under the stairs of my crazy uncle and aunt's house. People see my gorgeous flat then realise I live in a cave. It's a nice cave with flowers and pretties, but a cave nonetheless.
2. The idea of having a single bed seems cosy but it's really not. It's more like a confined space such as a prison cell or a padded room. I don't think I've had one good night sleep in this bed because to roll over, you have to wake yourself up fully, sit up, then turn on one hip so no pillows/blankets shoot off. I do this every 30-40 minutes. I haven't had a REM sleep since September.
3. The shame of telling people your bed is just a single is almost too much to bear. Plus you can never have sleepovers unless the other person is really willing to share. And by share, I mean snuggle. And by snuggle, I mean melt into your body. You really do feel like you are in fist year university again, however this time you are working full time in an adult career and you buy your own groceries, make your own life decisions and floss your teeth but then always have to end the day in a child-like state.
4. This might seem obvious, but a room containing a single bed, is proportionate to the size of the bed, obviously otherwise who would ever opt for a single bed? If the room could hold ANYTHING bigger, you would make it. This means if I change out of clothes quickly and leave my trousers on the floor, it looks like a back-to-back special of Hoarders. Everything must always be hidden away, as clutter is simply created by one item out of place. One time I felt my entire room was a dump and I couldn't quite pinpoint what was giving me cleanliness anxiety. Then I realised I had some bobby pins scattered about my bedside table. It was the visual representation of the auditory expression 'so quiet you could hear a pin drop." My room was so small you were able to see a (bobby) pin drop(ped on the table).
5. Friends don't even want to come over, because if they do and they want to talk privately, they have to sit quite intimately beside you on your little bed so the two of you can fit. Whatever they also felt needed to be said in private away from others, is now taken to such an extreme level of intimacy that it is undoubtedly making their secret harder to share. You therefore end up always going to the other person's house and feeling that resentment of constantly being the one that has to make the effort to see them. This also breeds insecurity. Why won't they just come see you? Why don't they want to snuggle up in bed with you? What's wrong with curling up with you? I would curl up with them if they had a bed only the size of their body plus an inch. Wouldn't I?

Anyway, I don't want to move as I do love the flat itself and the people I live with. I guess I'll just have to deal with the cave and continue to use my flatmate's master bedroom to store all my extra clothes, laundry, coats, shoes, and get changed in there when picking through multiple outfits. He won't mind right?

Zombie Tag

About a week ago a little boy at school introduced THE best game I've ever played.

We were outside in the large play area, which is basically a caged soccer field, when we started playing every variety of tag you could think of. The setting is important as it adds to the hysteria later, so keep that in mind. Side note: the kids at school call Freeze Tag, 'Stuck In the Mud' but the rules are still the same - when you get touched, you have to stay frozen or stuck until someone crawls through your legs. The kids find it hilarious to crawl through mine, so usually I just have to stand with my feet apart in permanent freeze so a constant stream of children can shoot through them. The best was when I tried to dart through a little girls legs and we both fell over in a fit of giggles as I bulldozed her over.

After about two minutes, the kids get bored of playing the same kind of tag and we have to try to  give it a remix.

One little boy, who is five and I am sure plays too many video games, started moving really slowly with his arms out and shouted 'Zombie Tag!' I probably should have stopped it, as I think it even gave me nightmares that night, but it was WAY too fun at the time. The added layer of excitement was that he began to groan and, I kid you not, drool as he stumbled for us.

Quickly we established rules that everyone could agree on: 1. zombies can't run (Sorry 28 Days Later, you lose) 2. once 'bitten' you are also a zombie and must begin moving slowly and groaning (drooling is optional, but highly recommended). 3. The last child 'alive' is the winner.

As the game progressed and more and more of us were zombies, I stepped back to watch them evolve much as they would in a real apocalypse. As the healthy children continued to evade the infected children by just running away, small pockets of zombies began to organise to corner the healthies, leaving them no place to escape. A real fear washed over the children as we were in a trapped environment - a cage. I am sure I am not the only one to have clocked that you might try to run away, but you're never ever really going to get away, are you? It was then that the infected spread out to attack the untouched through intricate traps and orchestrated movements. It wasn't long before no child could claim to be the winner, because they all succumbed to defeat at once.

It was horrifying.







But also awesome.

I hope we play again tomorrow.

Train journey

I'm currently sitting on an overground train on my way out. Public transport combines all the things I hate most in life: strangers, smells, loud noises, and close proximity.

Right now I am surrounded by:

- teens shouting about nothing. Mostly just making loud noises and whoops and hollas.  What I hate most about them is not what they are actually doing but the fact that their actions directly result in me feeling my age. F*ckers.
- an old man hacking into what looks like it used to be a handkerchief but now is simply a combo of dust and lint.
- someone speaking very loudly into a mobile phone in another language. If you're going to speak that loudly, at least let me understand it so I can live tweet your gossip. If you refuse to let me listen in but are still managing to penetrate my noise-cancelling headphones, shut up.
- a mid-something woman who is groaning at everything. When she got a seat I heard her moan for about 10 minutes as she rubbed her aching muscles....life isn't that hard lady and if it is for you, perhaps you should quit it. I don't want to brag but my mum is older than this woman and I've seen her scale a mountain. Shape up or ship out.
- a youth eating what can only be described as a used diaper from the smell of it. I want to find out where he got  his food from just so I can never got there. Ever.
- another man on his phone that must be deaf as he just can't figure out that his phone is actually making beeping noises every time he touches keys on his phone. It must be really hard to be deaf. Imagine never hearing music, a child's laugh, the meow of a kitten, a funny joke or that loud, obnoxious, ear-piercing beep of different tones representing different keys on his cell phone. No wait...he's not deaf, he's just an asshole.

Now I've reached the main stop on the line and everyone has got off. I stay on another 3 stops.

It's really quiet now. Very creepy. I wish people were on here...,

Riveting Updates

I have some sort of cold or infection coming on. I don't really feel ill in the traditional sense, but over the course of the last three days, the glands in my throat have swollen to the size of huge golf balls. Not the ones you used for mini putt, but mahusive ones just under my jaw.

I'm a bit worried about what it could be, but luckily when I told my teaching partner about it, she pacified my worry by telling me of a time her glands swelled up and then her hair started falling out. She had a bald spot on the back of her head. I was immediately at ease.

I'm not normally a hypochondriac and will often go into work/live life until I physically cannot move anymore but I am a bit nervous about this one. In the last couple of years, my skin gets unbearably sore when I begin to get very ill. This morning one of the kids touched my back and it felt like they stabbed me with a burning hot poker in the shoulder blade.

Hopefully it clears up before the weekend, as wallowing in a sick bed does not seem fun.

Oh these 31 in 31 are filled with exciting updates and every day hilarity aren't they? I promise I will be looking for more content in the coming days. I will push someone on the train over if I have to.

Nanny's Video Cassettes

When I was younger, my grandmother (affectionately or trailer trashingly called, Nanny) looked after me after school until my parents got home from work. She also watched me during summer holidays and school breaks. I use the term "looked after" quite loosely as I am sure the standards by which she "watched" us could be called into Family and Children Services today. She was a wonderful woman and loving in her own way, but was of a generation much like that of Stand By Me or Now and Then. My cousin and I could pretty much run wild so long as we didn't interrupt her "stories" ...read - Days of Our Lives. In fact, I do remember one summer looking for bodies in a nearby cornfield. No exaggeration.

On holidays, after she picked us up from our respective houses, we were sent outside until lunch time and then cast back out into the wild until 5 when we were taken home. She was lucky that I had instilled in me a tremendous sense of Roman Catholic guilt from an early age, otherwise I'm sure I could have got into a lot more trouble than I did anyway. In these days though, I did learn to become quite crafty and sneaky, partly to entertain myself and partly to continue to trick my grandmother into thinking I was an absolute angel (a falsehood she still believes to this day).

The worst days were when it rained. She lived in a nice retirement trailer (when I just state trailer, people immediately jump to thinking 8 Mile - F.O. Eminem - when in reality it was more like a cabin in the woods) with fantastic room to roam outside with wooded areas and cornfields. When it rained though...hell on earth. The trailer was small and not suited to children. In fact, I can't remember a single child's toy being kept at her house, even though she watched my cousin and I from the age of birth to our teens. I remember once asking to play a board game and I got a deck of cards and a cribbage board.

One thing she did have were dozens of video cassettes recorded from tv. Many of them were inappropriate for children (see above note on availability of children's toys) but the excitement was in the barely allowed ones she did let us view. I think from the age of 6 to 13, there were only 6 films I ever watched at her house. Ones I can still quote word-for-word now.

They were:

- Firewalker (starring Chuck Norris)
- The Three Amigos
- Last of the Mohicans
- Star Wars (only the first one)
- Top Gun
- The Bear (a film about an orphaned bear, shot with real bears. I had mass separation anxiety as a child, most likely stemming directly and solely from the viewing of this film)

I think you can begin to see how none of these were suitable for someone in my very young youth. I'm sure there was another one but I can't recall it, which probably means I didn't wear the tape out as much as I did with these ones. In fact, none of these films are ok for six year olds. I do remember the nightmares I had after first watching Last of the Mohicans (I was a sensitive soul) and I'm sure my mother does too...as she is currently reading this and cursing my grandmother's name to hell. I should probably mention Nanny was my Father's Mother, so I am certain my Mum is cursing her to hell frequently.

You can also probably see that none of these films were very popular in my age group around this time either. It was hard to relate to all the pretty blonde girls at school (partially because I was a Hungarian built like an ox) but I also could quote none of the Disney films to the level they could. Sure I had the movies to watch at my mum and dad's, but really when you have Firewalker playing on repeat for 6 hours a day in the summer, there really is no competition.

I wonder how I turned out as normally as I have when I look back on my childhood experiences. I probably can only thank my Mum and Stepdad for this miracle and their intense reconditioning of my personality on weekends and dinner time conversations. Writing this has re-peaked my interest in watching some of these movies, but I'm sure if I were to, I'd be bored within the first 5 minutes of viewing. I can't wait until I have small children, to fill their heads with images of tomahawks and hallucinations in the fire... not.

The Glow

A very short post as I am about to dash out. Again, not a great start to 31 in 31.

Today was the birthday of a very lovely friend, who constantly shows me love and affection.

As I sat in the room of her house today, which she hosted a birthday party for herself including cooking all the food and buying the wine... I felt such love that my heart seemed to grow two sizes bigger as did the Grinch's.

Sometimes you find yourself looking at your life with such happiness and contentment that you can actually feel yourself glowing. My London friends have made me glow.

It's great to be part of a circle of friends who care about you and accept you as you are. I am grateful every day for finding this here. It's hard when you are away from your close circle of friends, to find people who appreciate you and love you the way someone does who knew you when you had acne and bad style.

I count myself as very lucky. xo

31 for 31

It's 11:08 on a Saturday night and I have just got back in.

A week ago, I mentioned to my stepdad that I would be writing an entry every day for the month of March to get back into a more consistent routine. So far, not a great start. I am just squeaking in before the deadline.

It was an entirely uneventful day today, with the exception of a minor shopping spree to upgrade my wardrobe. I'm beginning to realise that 31 posts in 31 days is going to include some of these extremely mundane events whilst frantically searching for content to record. This day did include some quality time with my own I Robot though, which I have not yet introduced to all of you.

I currently live with three men, and one of them is my lovely flatmate, who I have lived with since October. He will forever be referred to as Data in this blog, as he often personifies the android from the series Star Trek. I adore him as a friend and a fellow human being, although you could call into question his humanity at times, as I often do. He is almost super-human. And when thinking of a name to refer to him as before writing, Bionic Man and Million Dollar Man all floated around.

I kid you not, he has 0% body fat which is a result from a strict regime of constant physical exercise. He doesn't even sit at his desk during the work week, he has his work space elevated on risers so that he can stand...all day. He also wakes up each day before the sun rises to cycle to the pool, swim competitively, then cycle through London risking life and limb. Today I even saw him run up the Bond Street escalators, taking stairs 2 and 3 at a time, without breaking a sweat. He didn't even flush. Then shoe shopping, I asked for what kind of shoes he needed to buy. He described dressy work shoes with the final factor of needing to be able to run in them. Run in them? In case M calls you and you have to chase a scar-faced terrorist through the streets of London? It was hard to find a pair of leather shoes that allowed enough give for a quick sprint, but he managed. I imagine his core to look like an upside-down muffin cooking sheet...I'll wait for that to sink in and marinate in your minds...

He also has the emotional range of Rain Man and just as clever. One time I asked if he knew anything about creating a website. Over the course of the next 20 minutes, I saw more scratchings of a madman than I ever had before. He was writing codes down like A Beautiful Mind...only not from the perspective of Russell Crowe who believes he's solving government secrets, but at that moment in the film when you realise he's a lunatic and he's just circling random letters of the alphabet with lipstick in tabloids. I just walked away and closed my door.

I - being a somewhat emotionally intelligent individual - will sometimes ask Data questions to see how his mind processes thoughts of love or feelings...he doesn't. To him the world is a simple, straightforward, rational place. Oh to live in that world....away from the Land of Lady Crazy. I once asked if he loved his girlfriend (a fact I am certain of that he does) and his response was, "well I speak to her." To me, this summed up exactly how Data feels and the correlation of talking to an individual and love, is stronger than the greatest left-skewed graph (*insert google search to ensure my Grade 12 data collections teacher, Mr. Gmach drilled that into my brain correctly).

It's fantastic to live with such an even-keel robot human, because the world is a messy place. Sometimes you just need someone who can see it simply. He also motivates me to take the stairs to our flat instead of the lift, and that's convincing enough that I can't live without him. I'm sure over the remaining 30 days, you will hear many short snippets about Data as he features predominantly in my day-to-day. Perhaps a quote from him to start each blog, like "why wear heels, are they comfortable? Wear your trainers with that high-waisted skirt and blouse" or "I haven't been to the doctor since I was 9 and my mother forced me. Just a little blood really..." Look forward to it.