The Gag Reflex

There are a number of things that make me gag.  Expired sandwich meat, my ex-boyfriend's stinky feet, seeing someone barf, smelling barf, thinking about barf...I have a seriously weak stomach so, I could go on forever.  Surprisingly, one thing that does not provoke my gag reflex is having a camera fed through my nose and shoved down my throat!  Where is the logic? 

For the past 4 months I have had an unusually scratchy voice.  I have to admit that it began when I started working at Cowboys.  At first it didn't bother me.  Actually, I kind of thought it made me sound tough like, "What?  This voice?  Pfff!  No big deal.  I work a lot.  I strain my voice and don't sleep.  What of it?".  Some people even thought it sounded cute like, "Awe!  Poor little Stephie just doesn't get enough rest, and now she has a small ouchie in her voice!".  Whether it was bad-ass or baby-like, my voice was draining more and more each week.

After a couple of months I almost got used to it.  But while I may have not noticed it as much, in the back of my head I still wondered if I was actually injuring myself.  After 3 months of listening to my scratchy/whiny/super annoying voice, my sister Jody (she's a nurse) scared me into going to the doctor.  

You could need surgery Stephanie.  What if your voice is messed permanently?  You know you could have throat cancer!

As alarming as these possibilities were, they were also pretty easy to ignore when coming from my sister.  A talent I had perfected many moons ago.  So although my doctor had referred me to a ENT specialist, I still chose to brush it off as no big deal.  But as the appointment drew closer and closer, I started to think about how important my voice really is to me.

Last night I laid in bed, tossing and turning at the traumatizing thought of losing my voice.  Not being able to vocalize my opinions, and needs, and wants...to state what I am thinking, my ideas, my reasons.  No singing, laughing, shouting, swearing...not having my personality heard!  The simple suggestion of such was enough to make me hurl.

BLEEEEECK!

I literally threw up.  Just a little...in my mouth...but it happened.  My gag reflex was shining a whole new light on the situation.  This was a big deal.  A big freaking deal.  This was MY voice.  This was ME!  It was the thought of losing myself that made me physically sick.  Although I'm sure that I was pulling a classic Stephanie by over-thinking the situation, it made me at least in that moment a little more thankful for my voice and the right to use it.  I even re-considered voting next time around, just because I want to be heard.

When I met with the specialist this morning, the first thing he asked was, "Stephanie, are you a talker?  Do you like to talk a lot?".  My answer, accompanied by a huge grin, was not just "yes", but "hell yes!".  So I let that doctor shove that camera up and down and around my nose to take a look at my voice inside.  I didn't gag.  I didn't shake.  My eyes didn't even water.  I felt like a Born Again Vocalist, and no procedure is too intrusive when it comes to the sanctity of MY voice.

Thankfully everything turned out just fine, because I have my doubts that any sign language professional could teach me to sign at the speed that I speak.

Recovery or Ruin?

Ingredients Needed:

- 32 year old male, about to get married

- 35 year old male, divorced, 3 kids, single

- 32 year old female, divorced, 3 kids, single

- 43 year old female, divorced, 2 kids, in a relationship-ish

- Me

Directions:

Stand all 5 ingredients together in an office space after 5 pm on a Monday.  Prompt relationship conversation.  Allow ingredients to sit for 30 to 35 minutes, or until visibly discouraged and defeated by self realizations.

Result:

The road to recovery, or the recipe for ruin?

Today I found myself in a rare work-place situation.  There we were, 5 grown adults with no apparent need to rush out the door at 5 pm.  No events to host nor meetings to attend, no supper to cook nor kids to pick up, no...(wait, what is it that I do?)...ANYWAY...What do single people do when stumbling into a conversation?  Turn it into a relationship therapy session!  Just last night a city in our province was burnt down by villainous forest fires, but we chose to talk about ourselves.

As the conversation circled around and around, it quickly took the shape of an A.A. meeting.  You know the type, even if you've never been to one in real life you've seen it in the movies.  Everyone in the group is there for the same reason.  They have a problem.  The same problem.  In our case it was a shared fear of relationships/commitment.  We all had a different root to the problem, but a similar problem non the less.  The only thing missing was the awkward, "Hi, I'm Stephanie, and I have a problem." followed by some high pitched microphone feedback.

One of us has a self declared abandonment issue.  One of us has a hard time trusting people.  One of us thrives on the new and exciting.  One thought the clock was ticking.  One refused to admit to any problem.

We complained about men, and bad mouthed women.  Nothing new there.  We agreed and disagreed, sympathized and judged, and said things out loud that were tough to admit to ourselves let alone to other people.  We talked...and most importantly, we listened.

It really only lasted for half an hour, and as I walked to my vehicle after I instantly felt good.  I felt like I just had a break through session with a highly recommended and wildly over priced therapist.

Ahhhhh... :) See Stephanie...you're not crazy.  They get you.  You're gonna be just fine!  You're on the road to recovery!

This euphoric moment was quickly interrupted though when the over-thinker inside me realized that I had just found comfort in the words spoken by those affected by THE SAME DISEASE!!!!!

Was it like a heroin addict telling you how to "get clean" while shooting up?  A doctor prescribing you the patch then going out back for a smoke?  A fat chick instructing an aerobics class?!?!!!!

I was suddenly a bit frightened.  I have been confiding in people who are no pros!  At the same time, I too have been speaking as an authority on a subject I so clearly no nothing about.  I don't think it's a good idea for 5 people with the same problem to spend any amount of time trying to help each other over come and over power that issue.  It would be like forming a team of pyromaniacs and sending them to fight that forest fire. They wouldn't be able to do anything but fuel it!  This was NOT group therapy...this was a natural disaster!

I've spent the rest of the evening searching my mind's resources for the kind of help I need.

Who knows best?  Who has the answers?  Who are the relationship pros?  Who do I know and trust that has really mastered the technique of being happy with someone?  Uh-oh...*DUH-DUH-DUUUUUUUUH* Dan and Pauline...Platt.  My PARENTS.  The most disgustingly happy couple I have ever seen in both fiction and reality.  EVER.  Now, my little mommy is going to be just thrilled to read this, and since I thought of them I can't seem to think of any other sources of comparable knowledge and experience.  BUT...I better think this through.  Am I ready to admit that they have been right about every guy I have ever dated since I was 14 years old?  That's like accepting defeat by a life long opponent.  Hmmmmm...

Well, ahh...ummm, ya know...Come to think of it...Oh!!!  Maybe I'll generously donate my Platt Parents Therapy Time to my co-workers instead!  Yeah!  That's what I'll do.  It's only fair.  After all, I'm only 24 and haven't even gone through my first marriage yet.  There's plenty of time to source out other methods of distinguishing my wild fire, that don't involve Dan and Pauline Defeat.  In the mean time, I'll just avoid those relationship flammables!

Pick Me, Pick Me!

I know next to nothing about football.  Maybe this fact revokes my right to write on the subject.  But wait...oh that's true...this is MY blog!

The 2011 NFL draft took place a few days ago, and I have a friend who was up for grabs.  He recently wrapped up his senior year with the Nevada Wolfpack and had been putting himself through what must feel like hell, in preparation for the big day.  Conditioning like crazy, attending camps and Pro Day, downing protein like it was his job, and probably mixing in a few nighttime prayers.  It doesn't sound glamorous to me.  It sounds rough.  This guy doesn't just eat, sleep, and breath football...I'd say he makes love to it at night and serves it breakfast in bed in the morning.  100% committed.  Doing whatever it takes to get what he wants, and land the job of his dreams...knowing that the odds of any man making the NFL are bleak at best.  I'm sure that if eating grasshoppers and singing Spice Girls karaoke would increase his odds of being drafted even by .02%, you'd find him belting out Wannabe with a mouth full of bugs EVERY night at the local pub.  That's how bad he wanted it.  Still does.

Now, I'm not joking about the grasshoppers and Spice Girls...he would do it without a question, because THAT's commitment.

A commitment guy...ahhh...sounds dreamy.  Ladies LOVE to commit.  Please consider the following: 

If you know me personally, you've likely heard me say on more than one occasion "Bitches be crazy".  I don't just spout it off to be funny, I simply speak the truth.  If you're a chick out there reading this right now and are getting all offended, please stop for one moment and think...have you ever told a guy that your favorite band is Rise Against when in reality you find it hard to relate to any music that yells at you?  Haven't you ever baked a batch of cookies for a man and almost even convinced yourself that you enjoyed doing so?  Come on.  You'd be lying if you say you haven't sat though an agonizing game watching him belch and hi-five, while you cheer extra loud for his favorite team and offer to buy the next round.

Let's not forget all the secret stuff too that guys don't even see or hear or smell you doing.  The stuff we want him to think is natural, which makes us more desirable/date-able.  Bra stuffing, Spanx wearing, make-up caking, eyebrow plucking, hair straightening, LEG SHAVING!  I once shaved my legs 10 days in a row for a guy.  Did I really think he was going to want to be my boyfriend simply because of my smooth skin?  Ever farted in front of a guy you want to date?  No?  Holding it in doesn't hurt at all, right?  Yeah, I'm going here.  I have a friend who went on a 14 day tropical get-a-way with her new beau, where they shared the most beautiful hotel room...with NO door to the bathroom.  She spent the ENTIRE vacation making up excuses, sneaking around, and running to the lobby to take care of business, just so he wouldn't know she was human.  Now THAT's commitment.  By the time they were boarding the plane to come home, he was probably wondering if she was some kind of spy or secret agent for the FBI.

We do it all with the hope that it'll increase our chances of a relationship by at least .02%.  Personally I've yet to see any of it work, but women will continue to commit to such wild practices until they can get the guy to commit to them.  It's like the draft is here, and we're all screaming "Pick me - pick me!", and doing whatever it takes to show off our amazing skills and feature attributes.  Commitment can make a person do absurd things.  Chomping grasshoppers and soloing Spice Girls to make the NFL wouldn't really be a big deal now would it?  Nope.  It's the NFL after all.  But for a relationship, one that does NOT even pay a signing bonus...BITCHES.BE.CRAZY.

I can only imagine the circus acts performed when a chick is trying to snag a guy who is preparing for any sports related draft.

Hear That? Me Neither!

Have you ever slept with a fan?  I'm not referring to a person who is enthusiastic about an interest.  Nope.  I'm talking about a blower of air.  I'm sure psychologists around the world could come up with all sorts of negative diagnoses of my neurosis, but I sleep with a fan every night and do not plan on stopping! 

Since I was a small child possibly as young as age 4, I have been obsessed with falling asleep to the steady sound of an electric fan.  At first I was only allowed to have a small fan in my room on warm summer nights.  I specifically remember one evening when I asked my mom if it was hot enough for a fan, and as soon as she nodded I immediately told her I was tired and wanted to go to sleep right away.  I was about 5 years old, it was 6 pm, and the sun was still shining.  That's how much I loved sleeping with a fan then, and like any true love, my fan love continued to grow every day.  I am now 24 years old, and sleep with a roaring jet engine like fan right beside my bed...365 days a year.  Yep.  I'm a grown adult who needs a sound-making sleeping aid...Because it drowns everything out!  The TV in the living room, dishes clinking in the kitchen, neighbor man mowing his grass at 6 am.  EVERYTHING!

I live in what is considered the "Getto" of Red Deer, Lower Fairview.  My condo is pretty fantastic and because of it's location, my rent is rediculously low.  I figured I'm a pretty tough bitch, so I signed the lease.  I hear a wide variety of sketchy sounds on the regular that I could really do without.  Some days I can overhear a classic white trash domestic dispute going down across the parking lot.  A few months ago I heard a SWAT team bust into the condo above me.  Why...just yesterday evening I heard 3 gun shots (I quickly discovered that they were in fact fireworks, but not before shitting my pants just a little).  Those kind of sounds are easy enough to escape from during the day when I can leave my house, but when the night is upon me even within my own apartment walls I might fall subject to obnoxious and uncomfortable sounds (my roommate and her man friend bumping uglies)...IF I didn't have my fan! 

Thank god for my Aloha Breeze.  Without it I may be forced to choose between cheap rent in a nice condo, and...sleep and sanity. 

If you have trouble sleeping, or live in the Getto, or have a jerk partner with a snoring condition who can't figure out how to successfully snort Dristan...please be advised - ANYTHING you don't want to hear can be downed out with the right high-powered fan.  

The only problem is...when I find myself stuck in one of those super irritating one-sided conversations, with someone who is carrying on about something that interests me less than water chestnuts...I end up dangerously close to inviting them into my bed!

*The Aloha Breeze can be found at the following locations: Walmart, Canadian Tire, Home Depot, Home Building Centre, Zellers*

WARNING: May significantly increase electric bill.

Get Me the Flick Outta Here!

Last week my sister and I went on a vacation together.  Now that I am home, getting some rest, and thinking back on our 4 day trip to Las Vegas...it wasn't a "vacation" at all.  It was exhausting!  Firstly, spending any more than 24 hours with my sister is a bit strenuous, regardless of the location.  She LOVES to shop, dress up fancy, and requires more attention than Commoner Kate.  Secondly, the Vegas Strip is so long that I think I put in more than enough cardio for all of 2011 in just 4 days there!  After a full day of walking and shopping up and down those 5 miles on Las Vegas Boulevard, my feet were almost too swollen to stuff into my "dress up fancy" shoes.  Thirdly, I have never before spent so much energy turning down men!  Now before you go getting all judgmental on me thinking that I am over-confident or just erroneously flattering myself...keep reading.

On average in Vegas, every 20 square feet you will find a different man recruiting women to whichever night club he works for.

"You girls goin' out tonight?"..."Hey ladies, what club you wanna hit tonight?"..."No line, no cover, free drinks"..."Pure, Surrender, LA X, The Bank"...

With those cat-call like lures, you also hear the forever flicking of cards.  These men are armed with thick stacks of "VIP cards" for each and every night club under the Vegas sky.  They flick those things like they get paid per flick.  Flick-flick-flick-flick-flick.  As we later learned, they actually get paid per girl.  If they can get your name and number to put on their VIP list, they literally get paid by you entering the club that night.  The theory behind it is quite smart really.  As my Asian Boss Man's wife once told me, "Where there are women...the men will follow.".  If the club is busting with chicks, men will be lined up around the block.  Lined up to pay the $40 cover charge and buy the $15 dollar drinks, all for the 1% chance that they might get laid.  Likely better odds than they are used to back home in Rainbow Lake, Alberta.

Speaking of getting laid...Why don't all these horny dudes just grab one of the hooker cards that are also being handed out like free candy from a pervert at a playground?  In Vegas the girls get offered VIP passes to clubs, and the men get offered dirty sex that they have to pay for.  Since I am a female, I was never offered one of the hooker cards.  I saw the people wearing shirts that said...HOT SEXY GIRLS, but they never flicked their cards at me, nor did they cat-call.  I wonder what they say to the men...?

"You guys wanna put your dick in a stranger tonight?"..."Hey brotha, your wife at home right?"..."Yo! Might not even catch an STD, maybe."..."Latino, Asian, blond, red head, short, tall, fat, skinny" FLICK-FLICK-FLICK-FLICK-FLICK  How do those people make their money?  When a guy enters the hooker?  Hookers scare me, and at the same time I just feel bad for them.

At the MGM Grand, there is an indoor lion habitat.  At any given time you will find 3 lions on display in the thick glass enclosure.  At first I felt bad for the lions.  Then I listened to the live voice through the surrounding speakers and learned that the MGM lions in fact have quite a nice life.  They live on a lovely farm just outside of Vegas and get rotated into the MGM for no more than 5 hours at a time.  The habitat is sound proof and kept very clean, and the lions get to nap and feast on juicy steaks all the time! Don't you think it would be smart for one of the hotels to unveil a hooker habitat?  The hookers could just relax in their well-kept enclosure.  They could bathe properly, and get some rest in clean beds.  They would have stripper poles instead of trees, as to feel more comfortable.  They could eat healthy food, and maybe mix in some Nicorette in place of the Marlboros.  Then the tourists and sightseers of Vegas could watch them up close and personal...but be completely safe on the other side of the thick glass walls!  The tree-huggers would be thrilled if they knew I came up with a way to promote hookers without printing off millions of those damn flick cards!

See...my vacation truly was fatiguing.  Endless miles of walking, thousands of dollars spent shopping, infinite catering to my sister, avoiding the flick cards and their over-assertive holders, and mapping out genesis hooker habitat hotel plans.  I didn't need to play any slots or blackjack...making it out alive was gamble enough for me.  I think my next vacation should be somewhere a bit more relaxing, calm, and low-key than the fabulous Las Vegas.  When are Canadians allowed to fly to Libya again?

Veto My Vote!

I was brought up on the far right side of what is commonly known as the political spectrum; conservative.  Things were either right or wrong, black or white...Dad's way or the Hi-way.  There really wasn't room in the Platt house for politics, and if it did sneak in for a visit here or there it was shuffled out the door quicker than an unwanted relative.  The point is, I will be the first to admit that I am politically ignorant.  I know about Obama, Osama, and Oprah, but it doesn't go much further than that...and that's how I like it.  (If you are extremely passionate about politics, take that as a warning that you aren't going to enjoy reading further)

Apparently there is an election coming up.  Federal?  Provincial?  Who gives a shit?  I don't know, because I don't care.  I do however, work with an individual who DOES give a shit.  In fact, he damn near makes it his job to let the entire office know just how MUCH he DOES care.  His name is Joe.  Joe knows I don't vote.  

Around 4:40 PM today, Joe decided to strike up another one of his political debates.  He informed me of the new "genius" media campaign that was recently launched to once again encourage young adults to vote.  As per usual when Joe refers to things of no interest to me, I was silent...at first.  But as he rambled on about it being my right to vote, I closed my word document and opened my mouth.  I told him that no matter what kind of genius campaign has been thought of to force voting upon me like a rapist forcing sex...I still wasn't going to vote.  The frustration that instantly dominated his face made me giggle inside, and honestly fueled me to continue.  I explained to Joe that because I know so little about politics I am actually doing our world a favor by staying home on election day.  Do we really want a bunch of plumbers performing brain surgery?  I don't think so.  This analogy should be no insult to a plumber.  No matter how kick-ass that plumber is with drainage systems and water fixtures, we aren't about to sign him up for a Craniotomy any time soon.  Can you imagine the mess?!  It would be catastrophic really.  Having said that...a plumber is more than welcome to apply for med school if brain surgery is something he wants to dabble into. 

Joe didn't even flinch at my well-played analogy, so...I folded.  I told him if he bought me an ice cream afterward, I'd vote.  It was almost 5 PM anyway and I didn't want to miss my tanning appointment due to plumbers nor politics.

I have always hated censorship.  If I have something to say, I will say it.  When I can form an educated opinion I will present it.  If you ask me to vote on which heels look better with your little red dress...I WILL vote!  I consider myself an expert on shoes.  But with freedom of speech and the power to vote, also comes the responsibility to know when to keep quiet.  And when it comes to legislatures and lobbying, reform and residuals...I'm going to exercise my right to remain silent.

Lucky 21?

I am slowly growing older...1, 2, 3, 10, 24...........meh...
There are a few numbers that become increasingly worrisome as the years, months, and sometimes even minutes pass.The most important is quite obviously age. 
Now, I'm no old crow...in fact, my boss calls me a "Spring Chicken", but I am certainly not getting any younger - any more "Springy".  I have celebrated my 21st birthday 4 times because for some reason that was my fond age.
At 21 I was living alone in southeast Calgary, working for Rogers Radio Group.  Rogers was fine but in such a huge city where I only knew 2 people, I spent most nights bored and lonely.  My sister lived a half hour drive away and my friend, Carlene...even farther.  What else happened at age 21 for me?  Oh, I got in that head on collision.  That was a treat.  Totalled my car, and with no collision coverage was sans vehicle for a while.  At age 21 I moved from Red Deer to Calgary and then back again for a guy I really shouldn't have moved around the block for let alone back to Red Deer.  Then I went from jobless to working at the worst station in the market at the time.  Yeah...21 wasn't so great.  But, I held on to 21.  I liked how it sounded, "I'm 21.".  It's so nonchalant.  It's like no big deal.  At 21 it doesn't matter if you haven't been to college...yet.  No one cares if you still drive a Sunfire at 21.  If you are single and promiscuous and irresponsible...its fine, at 21.  Really if you are anything more, you're put on a pedestal.  When I was 21 I had an education, a career, an apartment, and an automobile...so despite the crap year, I was a success!  The thing about aging is just like time, it never stops.  You can't stop time from ticking, and I am 24 not 21.  24 feels different.  It's only 3 years past, but what was more than enough then, seemed to fall short of satisfactory now.  Why?  I'm actually doing significantly better now...and so I should be!  More importantly, I should be proud of where I am, and where I can still go...beyond 21! 
In the game of Blackjack, 21 is the lucky number.  If you play your cards right, you take the cake.  Anything past 21?  A bust.  But wouldn't it be something if the game didn't end there?  If you could choose to stay in and let the pot grow?  If 21 wasn't the be all end all?  If you could carry on and win even bigger?  Perhaps that would take the meaning out of Blackjack, but for this girl...it puts the meaning into life.  If I keep the ambition and allow it to grow, there's really no way to go home a loser...no such thing as a bust. 
At 15 I wrote in a diary.  At 20 I began writing commercials.  At 24, I added a blog!  Soon I will write a book.  Eventually I'll have a hit, so I will write another, and another...each paperback more successful than the last.  I will live wherever I want, write whatever I feel, and nap whenever I please.  Non of that has anything to do with a number, and I'll be thanking God I got over 21.
And somewhere inside that book, on my first published pages it just might read: To Me, on my 40th birthday.
...and if I'm wearing my slippers, sipping my coffee, and making my living from anywhere in the world...the number 40 won't matter either.