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Whenever I’m 10 drinks in and my eyes start crossing, I experience a particular phenomenon uncommon to most drinkers. I begin seeing people as less attractive.
This often works to my advantage. I don’t feel tempted to bring men home for a tumble between the bed sheets. On the other hand, it also leads to a lot of missed opportunities, like on New Years Eve.
My friend’s party was winding down and most people were leaving, when I started talking to a guy on the staircase. We sat together and chatted for hours it seemed, I didn’t get home until 4:30 a.m. I have no idea what we talked about, all I know is that he’s a postal worker from St. John’s. I thought I had given him my phone number, but apparently I didn’t. Anyway, he made some vague reference to going home with me, which set off alarm bells in my head. When he got up to use the bathroom, I bolted like a bat outta hell.
I have absolutely no explanation for my behaviour. I’m completely lacking any sort of interest in the opposite sex. My libido-meter is at 0. It’s just not happenin’.
Anyway, the next day I was talking to KJax, our mutual friend, and she was like, “Dude, my friend loved you! He couldn’t believe you bolted!” We kinda laughed about it and then she brought up his Facebook profile.
Dude is effing hot. SMOKING HOT. I’m a moron. I did, however, run into him last night and he totally brushed me off. I guess I deserve it.
I’ve been meaning to do a New Years update, but you know what? I have no resolutions to make. 2009 was incredibly amazing. I rung in 2010 with a few good friends and a house party, and one hell of a gorgeous dress.
Then last night a few of my lady friends got together again at KJax’s house, seeing as how it was Caper’s last night in town. We ordered sushi and proceeded to drink all the leftover party booze, which was an incredible amount of wine, tequila, beer and saki.
FYI, shooting Fireball whiskey and Wild Africa cream liquer is a horrible, horrible combination.
We took shot after shot and ended up walking to a party, and after that, my memory is blank. But for some insanely weird reason, TOR heard me come home wheezing like an asthmatic 90 year old man…from UPSTAIRS. She said I was wheezing so hard she got up to check on me to make sure I wasn’t dying. WTFH? I have absolutely NO recollection of this. Why the hell was I wheezing? I don’t even think I walked home. Time to get back to the gym, I think.
Entirely too much drinking on my part. Back to adulthood.
I’m sitting here filling out Christmas cards (yes, less than a week before Christmas) when I realize the cheapo cards I’ve bought have the following message on the front:
’twas the night before xmas…
Now what kind of lousy, irresponsible editor purchases freaking Christmas cards with the word “xmas” on the front?! ME. That’s who.
Christmas has me stressed beyond belief. I’ve attempted shopping at least a dozen times now, and have gotten nowhere. I’d rather have FORTY WISDOM TEETH removed than step foot in that fucking mall. I have to finish everything tomorrow. I hate that I can’t buy pretty things for myself, and I’m working so hard and getting nowhere with my finances. And yes I know there are starving kids in the world, but holy crap, I want to feel pretty sometimes. Y’know? I’m tempted to stock up on lingerie just to feel better about myself.
Speaking of lingerie, I have ex-flames crawling out of the woodwork lately. They keep sending me messages and engaging in exceptionally friendly conversation, like the Karate Kid and Skank Master. I don’t fucking get it, they want to hang out over the holidays. Guess what buds? I’m not jingling your bells, I’VE ALREADY MADE THAT CLEAR.
Time to insert some cheer into this post:
I’ve attended at least a million Christmas parties over the past two weeks. Great fun. My REAL office work party was on Thursday, which meant I could only get a little drunk as I had to work at 9 a.m. I crawled home at 2 a.m. after dancing an epic jig with Susie-Q at Bridie Molloy’s. We were the only two left standing. TROOPERS!
Some of my coworkers and I did go to this little hole in the wall called “The Fiddler’s Pub.” Weirdest. Thing. Ever. The place was a perfect example of an ancient bay man’s pub where old alcoholic sailors come to find prostitutes. IT WAS AWESOME.
The entire place was covered in tacky 80s Christmas decorations and the walls were adorned with weird artifacts, i.e. a bed pan, WOOD SAWS, and really old photographs. One lady was there with her German Shepherd. I started bopping to a song and one of the dirty sailors called out, “YEEEEEAHHH, SHAKE IT!” He then proceeded to do the limbo with another guy.
Last night, I attended Chef’s faculty’s Christmas party at the GeoCentre. I tried SO hard to find a giant globe to mount for Candice Does the World, but all to no avail. We had a blast though. Chef started cranking out Outkast and a bunch of other oldies, and me and my entourage basically just took over the dance floor and scared everyone off. Seriously. We were all over the place, huddled in a circle and kicking our heels up, and the next time we looked up the entire floor had cleared. So much fun.
It’s been a crazy week between dealing with a massive workload, juggling a social life and coping with the worst insomnia I’ve ever encountered. Dirty Sailor is also staying with us again for a while, which generally results in us having heated Scrabble games over a Texas Mickey of Crown Royal.
So, on that note, Happy Holidays ya’ll!
And so goes the headlines of my life.
Crap, I so badly need a new site right now. So so so badly.
Anyway, Friday night I got dressed up to check out the Monte Carlo fundraiser at the Sheraton Hotel. Getting ready for the event was frustrating enough, because I only have like FIFTEEN DRESSES and we all know you can’t recycle the same dress within the span of a year. At one point I stomped my feet like an unruly toddler and screamed, “I’M NOT PRETTY ENOUGH FOR DOCTORS.”
(The Monte Carlo is some fundraiser thing hosted by the med school students, including my buddy Jagerbomb. And I just realized I missed this week’s episode of Grey’s, omg.)
So we had some drinks at the house and then Chef’s friend proceeds to get stupid-drunk and puke in our sink. This happened all very quickly as we were leaving the house, and I kinda remember seeing it out of the corner of my eye and thinking “did that guy just puke in my sink?” But pushed it off because it seemed like SHEER INSANITY that I’m 23 years old and still have people puking in my sink.
Let me tell you something, having to clean that up after returning home at 3 a.m. isn’t a pleasant stroll through the park. As payback, we drank his $30 bottle of wine.
Anyway, Monte Carlo was alright, but my friends didn’t want to stay long as drinks were $7 each. I did see my super mega hot gym crush there though, so now I’m wondering if he’s a doctor. I run into him everywhere, we’re total soulmates. I can feel it. Except oh yeah, I’m asexual and haven’t been physically touched in months. Did I just say that out loud? TENSIONS ARE HIGH.
We spent the remainder of the night at Lottie’s, taking over the dancefloor and having impromptu photoshoots. People definitely hate us. My quiet, stay-at-home weekend to catch up on shiz turned into me running all over the city and making crafts with the Rangers. I went to the St. Thomas Church and checked out some puddin’ makin’ event, and poked around a museum where Kevin Major was doing a reading. Why is it that everytime I’m in the company of “good” people, I want to roll around on the floor clasping their ankles and begging for forgiveness?
Oh yeah, here’s why.
I know I’m being ridiculously gushy, and I know you’re sick of hearing about how happy I am, but seriously, I’m really, really grateful for all the support. Like Sabina pointed out in a comment, the fact that I’m 23 years old and I have a position as associate editor at such a huge online magazine is incredible. Plus the warm welcome I’ve been receiving from everyone, including the team, is mind-blowing. I feel really, really good right now. And I love being on the inside, it’s almost like that high school feeling of inclusion I never had. Hah!
And then of course I received another award, from one of my new favourite bloggers, and I’m pretty sure this qualifies as the greatest week ever! Thanks Carissa. If you haven’t already, check out her blog. She’s hilarious, outgoing, and totally, brutally honest. If you don’t believe me, just read her TMI posts.
So I’m supposed to list 10 things that nobody really knows about me. Tough job, considering I have no inner censorship.
- I have seizures. I’ve been prone to seizure activity for years, but always minor ones that feel like insane bouts of deja vu with nausea and panic. Sometimes even intense feelings of relief. I was prescribed medication about two years ago, but stopped taking it once a rash broke out from head to toe, and never bothered going back to my doctor.
- I have no idea what intimacy is. Not joking. The longest relationship I’ve ever had with a person is 0 seconds. The only guy I can somewhat claim to have dated for a few months slept with one of my good friends, banged multiple hos, and may actually be gay. Why do I suspect this? He once told me “I think I’m a little gay.”
- I totally believe in ghosts. I’ve felt uneasy in a number of houses due to weird events, and have been later informed by other people that they’ve felt the same way. Just a “feeling.” In this 100 year old townhouse, I feel fine.
- I’ve been having nightmares about t-rex since I was 9 years old, and it’s all the fault of Jurassic Park.
- I was a head bangin’, heavy-metal lovin’, hardcore goth wannabe in high school.
- I don’t fit in anywhere. I’m too artsy for the logical crowd, and too logical for the artsy crowd.
- I keep a list of all the guys I’ve kissed in the back of my diary. Don’t ask what the stars besides some of the names mean.
- I’ve written several book series as a kid/teenager, including one titled Pen Friends and another titled The Adventures of Lady and Beauty.
- I can’t paint my own fingernails worth shit.
- I was really good at drawing and painting. Then I took an art class in my first year of university, and haven’t picked up a pencil since. Going against his lumberjack appearance, my father is an incredibly talented painter.
I’m also supposed to award this to ten bloggers, but I’m just going to pass it on to two people I’ve seriously neglected. The first, of course, is V of Uncorked. FINALLY! An award you don’t already have! V is a kickass, sexy lawyer who enjoys shots as much as I do. She’s charmingly intelligent, witty, and has excellent taste in books.
The other is Cammy of Classroom Confessions. She recently went through a bad break-up, and I admire her for being honest about it on her blog. Takes guts to spill the beans. She’s sweet, talented, and an all around role model.
Weekend was fab! I decided last night that I hadn’t gotten “happy drunk” in a very long time, so I made it my mission to get sloshed without getting sick. Unfortunately the majority of my friends have become severely lame (seriously you guys, when did everyone become Mormon?), so the girls came over and I went downtown with Lottie and Lil Sister.
We decided to hit up Lottie’s Pub (not to be confused with the friend) for some cheap White Russians and Blue-Eyed Blonde shots from the hunky bartender with the rippling muscles and bald head. Did I ever mention my affinity towards bald men? It’s a little disturbing.
I knew I had reached the goal peak of drunkness when one of the girls commented on how young everyone at the bar was, but I hadn’t noticed due to being totally intoxicated. Then Lil Sis tried to make me hit on her friend who was apparently interested in me, but he didn’t make a move, and there’s nothing I find more attractive in a man than someone who has to express interest in me via a friend. Just sayin’.
When we left, me being significantly poorer, I had just chatted up a guy. We stood outside for a bit and him and his buddies tried to convince Sis and I to go to Trinity Pub. Then I pulled a random lollipop out of my purse and started sucking on it.
Here’s a tip: If you want to command the entire attention of a group of young men, stick a lollipop in your mouth. It doesn’t matter if you’re devouring the candy like a hungry wench, they will look on completely enraptured. Awkward.
Oh Halloween, my most beloved time of year. The only occasion in which it is perfectly acceptable for young children to take candy from strangers, and for women to take any sort of profession in the world and turn it into something slutty. Sexy hamburger-flipper? Skanky gas attendant? You got it.
I defied the odds by dressing as Carmen Sandiego, appropriate attire for milling around downtown. Turns out it’s not really appropriate attire for a house party, as my hair ended up becoming plastered to my head with hat-sweat and my black gloves have given me a rash. Such is life.
Anyway, I tagged along with Hevs to her friend’s party, which was super decked out in Halloween gear. Not only was the party killer, but St. John’s radio station K-Rock showed up to host live from the dinette, bringing tidings of free beer and pizza. If you think having a radio show hosted from a Halloween party is pretty kickass, you’re right. Especially when the hosts are all dressed as Billy Mays. I’ve often wondered if radio talk-show hosts ditch the radio voice when they’re engaging in casual conversation. The answer? They don’t .
TOR, Lottie and I ended up going to the Mardi Gras celebrations on George Street, but I wasn’t nearly drunk enough to be there and I don’t remember the event EVER being so ridiculously chaotic. I couldn’t even call people on my cell phone because all the lines were blocked. FYI, Mardi Gras in St. John’s is a pretty momentous occasion, and one that involves huge cash prizes for best dressed, but it should never be confused with the REAL Mardi Gras. There are no beads, parades, or anything of that nature…just lots of naked people, and the opportunity to drag home a guy wearing a mask and then politely requesting that he not take it off lest your dreams be dashed.
I had a pretty good time, but this cold I’m wrestling with has zapped my will to live, and mostly I ended up being Ms. Cranky-Pants. I’m sorry, girls. I wasn’t feeling the general tiredness that accompanies ten bottles of beer and an early evening, it was more like my weary body screaming “Why are you doing this, you miserable fuck?”
On the upside, Halloween still rocks. What other time of year can you rock out with a Pimpin’ Jesus, a chimney sweeper, Lady Gaga, and the cast of The Price is Right?
And look, I finally got a sensible video!
I’m actually looking forward to the work week so I can relax. Seriously. I’m exhausted. I keep falling asleep on the couch and drooling all over my cushions. I don’t even have the energy to shower. So I’m not gonna. Deal with it.
In case you missed my mad pimpage, Matador Life picked up an article I wrote for MatadorU about my hometown. Remember how I said it was difficult to capture how I feel about home? The feedback from this article was amazing. Are the editors over there getting sick of me yet? I’m a little sick of myself. I’m not sure if every writer feels the way I do when getting published, but lately I’ve been finding myself in a constant state of shock and awe and profound gratefulness towards everyone at Matador. I’ll go into a deeper discussion later, but I have a feeling they’re mostly to thank for the slow shift of my attitude towards the world/travel/people. Big things are about to happen, folks.
So, Friday night I dropped money I don’t have on a party bus for my roommate’s friend’s graduation. Are party buses popular anywhere else? Here, they’re HUGE; I’ve been on at least six. Actually, click the Boob Emancipation banner on this blog and it’ll take you to a special memory from my all-time favorite party bus night. Apparently St. John’s loves party buses way too much, but they’re rare elsewhere (?), so I’ve uploaded a video for your viewing pleasure. Note to self: take longer videos, stop moving the camera, and get some filmmaking lessons.
I don’t understand how this is legal. I mean, it’s a moving vehicle, everyone is drunk, and there is a POLE. At one point, the bus lurched forward and sent most of us flying to the back of the bus. Several minutes passed before I realized I was sitting on some girl I didn’t know. The best part? Not one drink was spilled.
Last night I volunteered at the closing gala for the Women’s Film Festival. HOLY CHAOS. I was terrified that I’d be manning the merchandise table because I can barely count to 10, never mind count change. The merch table is exactly where I ended up, as well as handing out comp tickets. Surprisingly, I handled it reasonably well and had a lot of fun in the process, met some cool people, and was able to watch the screening of Crackie.
Holy crap. I don’t know much about movies, but I LOVED Crackie. I even cried. A lot. If you ever get a chance to see it, I highly recommend doing so…it’s filmed locally and casts the amazing Mary Walsh and Meghan Greely. I’ll blog about it later for Signal Blog if you want all the deets.
I enjoyed getting mixed up in the arts scene again, although I never quite fit in. My favorite part of the night was when a guy was telling me and another girl about what kind of face painting he does, and I thought for SURE I heard him say he painted vaginas. But no one flinched.
I turned to the other volunteer when he left and said, “did that guy just say he paints vaginas?”
Man, that’d be sweet. Just walking around with a giant vagina painted on my face.
Anyway, then I met up with the lovely ladies and headed to Trapper John’s to see Crashing Carmine’s performance. Geez louise I love that band! And the bar. I mean, one of the girls hauled a 60-ouncer of Captain Morgan’s spiced rum out of her purse in the bathroom and gave me a swig. Perfect recipe for swine flu, agree?
Finally, today I went orienteering with the Girl Guides at Butterpot Park, situated right next to Candy Mountain. Just kidding, there’s no mountain. We trekked through bog, trees, rocks, paths, crappy trails and mud in search of candy. We lost miserably, but I deserve a fucking medal for dealing with all that, plus one extremely hyper kid, all on four hours of sleep and severely hungover.
I have tons of reading and writing to catch up on. I need to submit more articles. Goddamn.
I find it funny that while I’ve been slowly removing my “angryredhead” identity from the Interwebs, I’m pretty angry about a topic that’s arisen lately. After reading this article on Brave New Traveler, it’s come to my attention that many non-drinkers are assholes.
Read the article. A lot of the information seems seriously flawed, like the fact that people who drink are less likely to be depressed or suffer from anxiety. I would assume most often, however, that these issues often drive a person to drinking.
But what pissed me off the most was the condescending, holier-than-thou commentary from the non-drinkers. More specifically, the people who abstain from booze because they chose to do so.
I love alcohol. I am a heavy drinker. Some days, all I need is a cold bottle of beer to set my nerves straight. And there is nothing, nothing more refreshing than sharing a pitcher of Molson with some good friends on the deck of a restaurant during the height of summer. People have different coping mechanisms. At least I’m not beating my children.
Waste of money? Depends on how you look at it. I enjoy spending money to go out with my friends, hang out at pubs, go dancing, and meet interesting people. Cute boys with dimples and firm bums. If that’s what I enjoy doing, then why is it a waste? My money is my business. I put in my hours as a good citizen, working with charities and doing local volunteer stunts. If I want to get hammered and unwind, who gives a shit?
Drinking has never interfered with my professional life. I openly share my drinking escapades with the Internet and my readers because never, ever has alcohol prevented me from getting my work done. In fact, during my second year of college, I went out at least three times a week, sometimes crawling into bed at 4 a.m and then heading to class at 8 a.m…and I made the honour roll. Again.
Yeah, some people are irresponsible and reckless. Some people cannot handle their booze. Some people drive their cars into fences, or worse, other people. But seriously, an incredibly large, global drinking community cannot be held responsible for the actions of some morons.
The thing is, I’ve never looked down on people who don’t drink. I’ve never had problems connecting with non-drinkers, unless you’re religious and you find my lack of morality offensive. If you’re able to go out and have a ridiculously awesome time without alcohol, good for you…very admirable quality indeed, and I’ll be the first to admit I’m a little envious. On the other hand shut the fuck up, because frankly, you’re a small minority and nobody wants an arrogant prick for a friend anyway. On that note, when drinkers make non-drinkers feel uncomfortable for not drinking, or try to force them to wrap their lips around a beer bottle, those people aren’t worthy of friendship either. Nine chances out of ten, they’re just teasing anyway and will forget all about it when they’re blitzed themselves.
I’m writing this because some of those comments made me feel guilty about being a drinker. I’m well aware of the fact that I’ve done some pretty stupid things while drunk, but I’m on a mission to bare myself honestly to the world and I’m not going to mask my life for anyone. The way I look at it, everybody needs a good hangover day every now and then to appreciate the rest of the week. Everyone should wake up at least once a month with a searing headache, a mouth that tastes like an ashtray, and an enormous amount of shame, just to put things in perspective. Laugh at yourself. Laugh at your ridiculous friends. Laugh at the random guy’s number in your phone. Laugh about how you get laid more than non-drinkers.
Most importantly, laugh at this photo:
Seeing as how our company is lame, Cubemate and I decided to crash her fiance’s work pubcrawl for the second time around. We’re both really competitive, it’s kinda scary. Anyway, the team gathered at 3 p.m., bearing delicious pre-drink foods to keep ourselves on top of the game. Boy, we were determined to win this year…no getting distracted by Jagerbombs and leaving our bag of supplies in a bar.
We were a good team: the boys could drink themselves under the table, three of us girls were competitively trying to kick ass, and the other two women were more or less non-drinkers who got extremely outgoing after a few drinks. When it came down to the bonus points, like doing the worm across the bar, we sent those folks in like soldiers in battle. Glorious.
We ended up collecting all the items on the list and finishing first, WAY before the deadline of 9 p.m. We totally kicked ass. One of the bartenders at a bar we visited happened to be my friend, so he went out of his way to collect a bunch of stuff. So then we kinda sat around scratching our heads and wondering what to do next.
“Drink?” someone suggested.
And we did.
We didn’t win. The mission of the crawl was to collect as many items on the list as possible, and then wracking up bonus points by doing ridiculous shit, like singing at Karaoke Kops. So, despite our obvious awesomeness, we lost. LOST. I didn’t actually care at that point; according to the tally on my shirt, I was on beer number 10.
Then it was off to Howie’s birthday party, me still dressed in my pubcrawl uniform and covered in glow-sticks. I was a walking rave party, it was awesome. Unfortunately, I was also significantly more hammered than everyone. But I had it under control, was totally cool and suave. Tried to unbutton a guy’s shirt, had a religious discussion, hung out with my best friend’s ex-boyfriend I haven’t seen in three years.
We all headed to Dusk, where I ran into a guy from my second year of university. I had a big crush on him back in the day; he was all hardcore and troubled and pensive. I told him this. We made out. Our love affair was fugacious, but he has my phone number. He’s also the most incredibly metro guy I’ve ever met, but I kinda blacked out when he kissed me on account of his lip piercing.
Anyway, I eventually found TOR and we went home. I was incredibly competent for someone who had been drinking for TWELVE HOURS. I slept like a baby.
This is going to be one hell of a week. I just came home from pickle making with the Rangers group, had supper at 10 p.m. and just hopped out of the shower. The rest of the week I’m juggling my time between the gym and volunteering with the Women’s Film Festival…I luckily got signed up for the opening and closing parties, yay me! The greatest part is that I’m actually signed up as a writer, so I’m writing for Signal Blog, St. John’s official blog. I also signed myself up for the sex toy show on Wednesday. I figure if I can’t turn that into a good story, I may as well quit my job.
I debated whether or not to post this entry for a long time. Now that there are professionals reading my blog, I recognize the fact that I must maintain a respectable image. But dammit, the events of Friday night were so ridiculous I cannot help but write about them.
Wine Extravaganza, the words that will resonate dread, horror and nausea creeping up my spine for the rest of my life. The one event in the history of Candice in which all of my friends, well-seasoned drinkers, were completely destroyed by 40 bottles of wine.
The precedent for the night: 30+ people contributed $20 each for 40 bottles of wine. The night was meant to be a classy affair, one where drinkers could sample the various wine goodness purchased on our behalf.
Herein lies our first mistake. Perhaps many people could handle such an event, but what happens when you throw 20 or more Newfies, many of which are from the bay, into a room with a handful of strangers and unlimited alcohol? They get super fucking competitive. When Chef told me how many bottles of wine we had, I immediately divided the number of bottles by the number of guests.
Damn, I thought. Just little over a bottle each? Not taking into account that, where I can drink a dozen of beer in one night and still have a coherent conversation, most others can drink only a fraction of that amount.
By 10:30 p.m., our house was rocking. Literally. I have a short video of everybody dancing and singing in the kitchen to Faith, and I’d post if it not for the severe dizzying effects of my hold on the camera. Also, I caught two of my girl friends making out on camera, and I probably should not post that.
I woke up the next morning in bed still fully dressed, chuckling about how three of my friends had spent the latter part of the evening hugging the toilet bowl/bath tub. I owned it! I thought.
When I expressed my pride to TOR, she looked at me gobsmacked. “Are you serious?”
Apparently, what had actually happened was that I went downtown, had to walk back with TOR, we were picked up by her cousin in a police car, and then I fell asleep on the stairs inside.
I’m not even bragging about this, I swear, I just felt the need to express that I have officially reached my limit. The last two weekends have left me in dangerous situations that I have not experienced in all my 23 years as an experienced drinker. Today, Chef left for Morocco for seven weeks, and DirtySailor is headed back out to sea tomorrow. I’m taking the next few weeks to detox, seriously.
On the other hand, what a freaking awesome night!
Uhhh. Totally reconsidering my direction in life after this weekend.
Here’s what Friday night involved:
-DirtySailor climbing over a fence, falling, and possibly breaking his ribs
-Chef dropping the table on his foot, possibly breaking his toes
-Said table breaking in two, and Chef taking it outside and smashing it to smithereens
-Us no longer having a table
-Me waking up in the middle of the night and being violently ill…everywhere
We actually all went to bed at like, 1 a.m., because none of us could function. Totally unexpected. I was supposed to work at a cruise ship on Saturday morning, but fortunately it was cancelled. So I did what any reasonable person would do…I went shopping. I dropped some money on some pretty kickass Guess designer shades, because this new vision thing continues to blow my mind.
Saturday night, me and some lady friends went to a party, despite me being totally messed up. New development: besides one or two of my friends, I am the only single person left in my social circle. LAME. Lottie and I went to Lottie’s, with the intention of doing a “Lottie’s loop” (buy a drink, walk the course of the bar, leave). Instead, we ended up getting hammered, forcing the DJ to play “Shots” by Lil John, and danced our faces off.
No more drinking. Other than Winefest this weekend. Dammit.