In my younger years (ha! Listen to me at the ripe old age of 26 - who do I think I am?) I was not a shy person. I was very in tune in touch with my sexuality, and confident but not over confident. I was a flirt, open honest, a vagrant teenager. I didn’t have a care, nor did I want one. I wanted to enjoy life by being spontaneous and accepting of anything and everything that came my way. And I was, maybe too much.

I made myself emotionally available to someone I shouldn’t have. He was 4 years my senior. I was in grade 9 (freshman) and he was in grade 12 (a senior), I fell head over heels for him, I fell hard. So hard in fact, I have let to let him go.

See, he was not emotionally open to me, as he had a girlfriend. I was, for the first time in my young and naive life, the other woman. Conversations ensued and we became close. I was head over heels in lust. The dangerous, yet desirable relationship was so thrilling and intoxicating, I was completely consumed by this guy even though everything about the situation screamed to get out.

After a year of us secretly dating it was over.

The Girlfriend had found out, and I was tossed aside. The thrill was gone, and so was I.

When I look back now and think about how heart broken I was: the tears, the lying in darkness listening to “our song” over and over again, the constant whining to friends. I can’t help but shake my head.

How could I have been so free? So oblivious to what was really happening? So open? How could I still have feelings for ths person?

Yet. I don’t.

The feelings not are for that person anymore. Ten years later, I realize that. The feelings are for the time. The time in my life where I felt free: no responsibilities, no bills, no children, no future (or not one that I even remotely thought about). But that’s all changed with a mortgage, child, job, etc. I’ve since become a more guarded person, more self conscience, and far less carefree then in my teens. I crave that time again. I crave it so bad.

I am so envious of my prior self that was living in the now, blissfully unaware of what the future would hold, and had no desire to know.

Freedom.

:::

Posted as part of the Parent Blogger Network Blast! contest, “We’re Having a Blast with Sk*rt, and You Should Too!”. Bloggers everywhere are encouraged to write a post on the topic “What Are You Hiding Under Your Sk*rt?” sometime today (Tues. June 19), and then load that post up onto sk*rt (then send the link to PBN). The person who gets the MOST votes (not comments, votes) on their post at sk*rt WINS! If you feel like lifting your skirt, get over there and share your story! So get over to sk*rt, and while you’re at it, if you liked my entry vote for me!

At eight years old, my dad and his then girlfriend (now my step-mom) left the hustle and bustle of the suburban city life for a more relaxed country atmosphere. A dusty dirt road, gravel drive and 100 year old farmhouse about 15 minutes from the nearest town. Still commuting a good 90 minutes everyday to the heart of Toronto’s financial district, they craved the peace and quite away from the ever-growing urban environment, and my dad had a dream. He wanted a farm.

Living with my mom, 3 hours from their new abode, my brother and I took the three hour trek every second week for my dad’s joint custody visitation (sounds so criminal, but it was far from that). I dreaded that drive. Three hours on a Friday evening after school, we’d arrive at my dad’s house in time for bed. Then again, the three hour venture back to mom’s house. Those weekends seemed never-ending and tiring because of such horrendous car rides with limited activities. I mean, you can only play I spy for so long, then what!?

The farm was a fun escape though, and they had a pool! What kid doesn’t love a pool!? We’d run and play all day in the fields as well as the back wooded area. Though we didn’t have other children around to play with, it was a change of pace; refreshing. The house was an ancient farmhouse which had been refinished, but still had the old hitching area for the horses at the front of the house, as well as the ring in the cement step for another. Gorgeous wooden planks throughout, gently worn and weathered from the number of families and their pets who proceeded us.

One thing that will forever stick with me was the night I saw him.

My room was on the ground level by the front door while the other two bedrooms were upstairs. I was always afraid to go in there at night before the blinds had been pulled. I would race to the other side of the room and whip the blind down with one foul swoop, then jump into my bed and under the cover. I was always worried of people peering in through the window and see me sleeping.

I was nine years old. Fast asleep. I felt the weight of someone sit on my bed. I was terrified to open my eyes. I just lay there pretending to sleep, I tried swooshing my leg across the spot, thinking that it may be the cat, but I couldn’t move my leg! It wouldn’t budge. My heart began to pound as I could sense that someone was there.
As I gathered up my courage, I opened my eyes; facing towards my closet, I could see the figure of a boy. Too short to be my brother, not tall enough to be dad. He adorned long shorts with suspenders and a wide brimmed hat, I remember it clear as day.

He just stood there.

I closed me eyes. When I opened them again his back was to me.

I closed them again. He was gone.

I forced myself to believe that it didn’t happen. I forced myself back to sleep, thinking it was only a dream. My dad and step-mom moved from that house about 8 years ago.

I hadn’t even thought about that night until three years ago when my step-mom mentioned that weird things had occurred at that farmhouse. She had similar happenings a few times over the course of time they lived there.

Jump to today.

I was inside an old warehouse in downtown Toronto assessing its condition as they are building a(nother!) condo to the east. Constructed in the early 1920’s, the building has been abandoned for a number of years. It’s in poor, dilapidated condition with majority of it being gutted in previous years. Over the past 20+ years, only the main level has been occupied other then the odd movie shoot. On past days we had been through the entire building, which had given me goosebumps throughout, particularly in the basement.
Today, my co-worker was on the second floor while I worked on the third; as I made me notes I could sense that someone was there. As I glanced around, not a person in sight. I continued on my way, every now and again sensing that someone had either brushed past me, or walked by in another part of the room.
It got to the point where I was about to walk downstairs to meet up with my co-worker as it was getting really freaky. but decided against it since I didn’t want to be the ‘fraidy cat girl that can’t be alone in a big bad ol’ abandoned warehouse .

We met up once he’d finished. As he came into the last room I was surveying, I made a comment about seeing things every time I looked down to write.

Guess what?

He. Did. Too!

OMG.

So freaky!!

He saw shadows and creaks and moans throughout the second floor. (Luckily for me I was on the third floor because there were also spent shell casings from guns on the second floor used in a previous filming there — soooo freaky!)

Got any ghost stories? Share them, please! I love stories!

Oh, and the shit part?

Yeah, I was shit on by a dirty devil bird pigeon today. Asshat. I hate pigeons.

I moved my links to a page, but had accidentally put them on a post page first, that’s why they’re showing up in the reader this morning. Sorry! I complain and complain about how slow the readers are to pick up my posts, then the first time I don’t want them to their right there waiting. Stupid readers.

So, farts. What a disenchanting topic I know, but this is where you get to see my colourful prepubescent little boy humour. Because I totally find gas funny. Totally. I can’t help but laugh/smirk/smile when someone lets one go. While growing up, my brother and I used to lie awake in out separate rooms and having competitions for who could be the loudest. We’d bust a gut laughing between each round until we were hushed by my mom’s footsteps coming up the stairs.

To this day we still find it rather hilarious when someone farts. Family gatherings we will revert back to our childish ways and indulge in a little competition after our meal, much to the dismay of my step-mom; she just doesn’t find the humour in it. My mom though, she can hold her own.

For me, public washrooms are torture. Nevermind the thought of public washrooms - that’s another post entirely.. but someone passing gas? I have to leave before I start to giggle, and probably cause complete embarrassment for the unknowing culprit.
Which reminds me of last summer, I was at a wedding; the bride’s step-mom came in the washroom jut after me and let one go. I couldn’t help but start giggling, I was completely caught off guard, and mortified! I laughed at the bride’s step-mom! Worse yet? She CAUGHT me! Peeking through the crack in the stall, she could see me laughing and commented! Oh. My. God.

Or my boss. The founder of the company. He’s nearing 80 and won’t retire; he’s one of those people that loves what he does and will work until the day he passes away. Regardless, his ability to control his bodily functions are ailing him; that man will stand right beside me at the filing cabinet and let one go; like he’s testing me or something. He can remain totally stone faced sober and I am dying inside, trying so hard to ignore the fact that he just passed gas right. beside. me. and didn’t even flinch!

Mike can’t understand the humour. He rolls his eyes at me every time. Secretly, he’s jealous. So jealous that his wife is the Queen of Gas Passing, and he’s but a mere Jester of Gas Passing. Be it burps or farts he cannot top my abilities and it kills him.

EDITED TO ADD: I was just over at Vodkarella (aka Troll Baby) and she’s got a similar post! Tis a day of farts I suppose. So, her post is REAL funny. Go read it! So, yeah I do that to my husband on purpose, snuggle right in for some spooning action and let one rip on his leg. Awesome! (Does that make me dirty!?)

I love such potty humour, can’t help it. Stop shaking your head at me!

So there you have it. A small insight into my prepubescent boy-ish humour.

I know what you’re thinking. Geez, I can’t believe I just lost a good two minutes of my life reading this.

You love it.

:::

Hey, did you get over to MBT for your chance to win a full 2 day pass for BlogHer? Get over there and check out the details for BlogHer or Bust!

From eight years old, I had long hair to the middle of my back. I remember how much I detested having the try and manage it. Brushing it after bath time, ponytails, pigtails, headbands, clips, combs, barrettes. Ugh. The rats nests that would ensue in my ponytails when I was ten were horrific. Rats could of had families - extended families - in that mess of hair and I wouldn’t have know.

In my mid-teens I did as many teens do – follow the trends and defy their parents. One fight my mom and I would constantly have would be about my hair. I wanted to dye it, she said no. Perm it? No. Crimp it? No. Cut it? Just a trim.

I fought and fought her, but come Hell or high water that woman was always adamant that whatever I was begging to do, I would regret in the near future.

I incessantly pushed her. Always with an argument – “It’s my hair I can do what I want!”

When that failed I tried the, “You’re not the boss of me. I can do what I want!” or “Why are you so mean? It’s just hair! I can do what I want!”

The stomping to my room, slamming the door, crying; nothing worked. That woman was like Fort Knox. How the hell was I going to break that? I tried every tactic.

And one day she just broke. Or let me think she broke.

I was allowed to cut it off!

When I say cut it off, I mean Cut. It. Off.

We went to the hairdresser we’d been using for years. I remember walking in, head held high, victoriously smiling, as though I had defeated my mother, worn her down and made her subject to my request. I proudly told the stylist what I wanted.

[blank stare]

With an exaggerated nod, I ensured her that this is what I wanted.

She glanced towards my mom who shrugged her shoulders and nodded.

snip, snip, snip, snipsnipsnipsnip

The weight fell away. I was free! As I watched the hair float to the ground I felt a little queasy. I looked in the mirror and realized it. was. ALL. gone.

OMG! What have a done!?

Me and my fuckin’ pixie cut (note my friends hair too!)

A pixie cut. A fuckin‘ pixie cut!

jesuschirst!whathaveidone!

Worst part? I had to fake just how great it was so that my mother would have no idea how right she was.

I can’t wait for those days! As a parent, I am so looking forward to letting my child do something totally stupid (within reason) that I can rub their noses in and laugh at their expense, because I know my mom must have been enjoying this.

Got a bad haircut story? Tell me about it in the comments, or link to a post in your blog! Pictures are great! I wanna see pictures!