Something about getting naked in public.

Eh, that placeholder wasn't actually supposed to be the title of this post, but it works.

Anyway, as every wife knows, you can put something on the to do list but that doesn't mean he's gonna do it. Well "Blog" was put on the list. Then a tornado came through and ripped the list of the fridge. Worry not! The list was recovered from the rubble. But then the hamster ate it. :/

Okay, that's only partially true. And by "partially true" I mean "completely false," but I felt the need to provide you with a reason for our hiatus. Hiatus. That's a good word. We're like an awesome TV show that completely devastates its viewership by announcing its winter hiatus. Or in our case our winter, spring, summer, and half of fall hiatus. Except we didn't announce it. And we can't promise that another hiatus isn't imminent. But we're trying.

So what happened? Mike (that's me...you do remember me, right?) moved to Canada and started graduate school. Kayla fell in love (I wanted to use the "L" word here, but Kayla pretty much threatened to rip my heart out through my nose because they hadn't actually used that word yet), started a new job, and finished graduate school.

So we were both super busy. Heck, we both are super busy (I'm avoiding homework at this very moment!). I was also distracted by my other blogging efforts which included a blog devoted to immigrating to Québec (RIP) and another devoted to becoming a published author successful ventriloquist. That latest version is still alive-ish, but I haven't had much time for ventriloquism-y stuff so I instead post motivational (ish...) gay ramblings.

Anyway, Kayla and I recently discussed the fact that ridiculous things continue to happen to us even if we live in different countries and they're not happening to us simultaneously. So, we've decided to return to our loyal readers (reader? Hi, Mom!) and tell you about the crazy shit (Hi, Mom...) that continues to happen to us.

So where to start for me? Well, there are a lot of challenges and mishaps that arise from moving to a new country. Cultural differences, a different language (I live in French-speaking Québec...hey, look, my bachelor's degree isn't so useless after all!), being accosted by street performers, and the list goes on and on.

Still, none of it compares to the horror of what I experienced today.

When writing this post I was shocked to discover the tag "working out" already existed. Turns out that once upon a time I posted about how I worked out (and my motivation). Well, that routine went the same way as the relationship I was in at the time.

Anyway, last week I enrolled in the workout room at my university's athletic facility. As part of that enrollment I was entitled to a free meeting with a personal trainer to establish a workout routine. I was extremely nervous. Mainly because 1) I'd have to interact with someone (and worse, probably a straight guy!) and 2) I'd have to know the right vocabulary. A gym-going, French-speaking friend told me not to worry, that all the terms are in English. I was relieved to hear that. Unfortunately, the trainer was indeed a young straight dude. I don't know why they terrify me so much but they do. I arrived at the gym early and actually found myself trying to act more masculine as I paced waiting for my appointment. Seriously. Even I told myself I was being an idiot. Anyway, the trainer was super nice and I was very happy to have my routine all planned out. Finally! A routine put together just for me! After the trainer had showed me how to use all the machines, I did my first workout. It was pretty much a success and I headed to the locker room.

I had gotten my routine, done my first workout, and was feeling very optimistic about the future. So I called my mom right away after leaving the gym and told her about my biggest accomplishment: "I SHOWERED IN PUBLIC."

See, after my workout I was, as one would expect, sweaty. I needed a shower. I had brought shower things but I knew I'd never do it. Shower in public? NO WAY. I could have just gotten dressed and returned home to shower, but my O.H.D. (Obsessive Homosexual Disorder) got in the way. See, I have a relatively modest wardrobe (read: I'm broke) and if I went home sweaty, then the outfit I wore to the gym (before changing into workout clothes) would get all sweat-covered (too cold to just wear the gym outfit home) and be unwearable after showering at home. So I'd be on my second outfit of the day. PLUS it's Friday night so it was possible that I would go out tonight and I wasn't going to get ready for that right after the gym. So, my going out outfit would make a THIRD outfit in one day. I couldn't handle it. So, I SHOWERED AT THE GYM.

Seriously, this is something I never thought I would do. Like ever. But I did. The gym has the classic big shower room with a dozen shower heads. Fortunately, it has four of these rooms...and one of them was unoccupied. So I raced to one of the corners, dropped my towel, and did the showery stuff. I hoped that the fact that I was facing the corner coupled with the sound of the running water would shield me from the knowledge of someone else entering the room. I got through my whole routine (okay, an abbreviated version...baby steps) before someone came in. By then I had towel in hand. SUCCESS! (As long as "success" means "hiding my man parts from other people at all costs.")

On an unrelated (or is it?) note, I need beauty tips for the gym because there be some hotties up in there and I can't be looking like my "I just rolled out of bed" self. Which reminds me...am I the only person that showers before going to the gym? Cuz I did. And I'll shower again if I go out. Three showers in one day, totally normal, right?

Also, I need a new inspiration board. Maybe an inspiration wall. I love working out. :)


UPDATE:
Guys... Guys... I was so nervous on Friday that I just ran into the shower without much thought...or observation. Well today (Monday) I went back to the gym for my second workout (despite the fact that I'm still in so much pain from Friday's workout that it's difficult to wash my hands) and the locker room was much emptier. Guess what I found in a less rushed stroll into the shower area? Private stalls lining the wall of one of the four shower rooms. *sigh* This is pretty much what it means to be me.

The Three Bedroom, One Bathroom Death Trap with Working Fireplace and Hardwood Floors.

Evidently I’ve moved into some sort of slum without knowing it.

When my roommates and I first walked through our apartment we were blinded by its charming woodwork and working fireplace. We loved the location, it had plenty of space, and it had off street parking! I love old buildings, so I was smitten and absolutely had to live here.

I’m writing this post so I can look back on it next August when it’s time to move to a new place because I guarantee I’m going to fall head over heels for another old building and think that it’s a brilliant idea to move into a place that is falling apart around me.

This whole fiasco began on the day we moved in. The previous tenants didn’t clean at ALL after they moved out, so we were left with grime everywhere. They also left nails in the walls and peeling paint. How sweet of them to make it as shabby chic as possible, right? But I still loved all the pretty woodwork and the awesome fireplace.

Then our landlord informed us that he would be having the parking lot ripped out and repaved so we would have to park on the street (like peasants!) for two weeks. Again, just a minor annoyance that I was willing to get over for the sake of my cute apartment.

Then on Sunday morning whilst I was sleeping in after long night of drinking, I heard a loud crash in the dining room. Being the paranoid person that I am, I assumed someone had tied a death threat to a brick and thrown it through the window. But, being still drunk I decided to wander out and see what the heck all the commotion was. It turned out the light fixture in our dining room decided to spontaneously fall from the ceiling and smash into a million pieces. I have no idea how I managed to avoid getting broken glass in my bare feet, since I walked around the whole damn dining room (a drunk Kayla is a stupid Kayla) before realizing that I should probably go put shoes on. Luckily, Boyfriend helped me clean it up. And when I say he helped me, I mean that he really did everything and I just kind of wandered around and tried to make the Swiffer Wet Jet work. I don’t know why he puts up with me.

Upon closer inspection (I like to Sherlock Holmes the shit out of everything) I discovered that the fixture was being held on by nothing more than two rusty screws and some tape. Our upstairs neighbors like to stomp around like elephants and crank up the bass every weekend, so it was only a matter of time before SOMETHING fell. I’m just hoping the ceiling continues to hold up.

When I arrived home from work the next day the ceiling fan had been replaced, which was delightful but puzzling because I had yet to email him about it breaking. I’m going to hope that one of my roommates emailed him first because the only other way he could have known is if he had the place bugged. I’m so not willing to delve into THAT theory.

The cherry on top of this whole thing is that after I discovered the new fan, I also discovered that our toilet no longer flushed. Our indoor plumbing had been reduced to what amounts to a chamber pot.

I can handle shit falling from the ceiling, but DO NOT mess with my plumbing, sir!

I always have to try to fix things, even when I know NOTHING about how they work, so of course I had to open the toilet tank to see if I could tinker with it. Lo and behold, I discovered that the flusher was being operated by none other than a STRING and a PAPERCLIP.

I’m not exaggerating. That’s all there was to it. And the string had broken, leaving our flusher inoperable.

Being the MacGyver wannabe that I am, I immediately found a string and rigged it so we can flush and not have to live like heathens until this new little problem is fixed. Unfortnately, the string only works with the tank lid off so we now have the most ghetto looking toilet situation ever.

At this point, I’m just waiting for total catastrophe. What’s going to happen next? Will our windows fall out of their frames? Will our couch fall through the ceiling and into the basement? It’s like a fun guessing game except everyone loses. Except our landlord of course, he’s laughing all the way to the bank.

Oh, and now we have murderers in the basement. Probably.

This has all the makings of a fantastic Lifetime movie.

Conversation between me and Emily. She's that Asian that wrote about pumpkin pie last year. And I still have no idea how she eats pumpkin pie with chopsticks...but I digress.

Me: After you're done brunching you should stop over and check my basement for murderers. Please? This is not a drill.

Emily: ...are there typically murderers in your basement?

Me: Not usually, but the outside door to the basement was open when I got home yesterday so I'm pretty sure there are murderers in there now.

Emily: At least they're being nice and staying in the basement and not coming upstairs to bother you...

Me: That's true. But I really need to do laundry and I feel like they're just too lazy to bother breaking into the main floor.

Emily: Maybe if you just throw your laundry down the stairs, they'll wash it for you.

Me: That's actually a good plan. Unless they wash them with poison that will kill me slowly. The cops would never figure it out.

Emily: Do you have poison detergent down there? Or is it more of a BYOP deal?

Me: Definitely BYOP. You think I have high-tech slow-killing poison detergent laying around???

Emily: Well, if their plan is to kill you with slow-killing detergent, then you should be safe to go down there. No knives?

Me: I'm not saying that's their plan. Killing someone slowly with detergent isn't as much fun as slicing and dicing. Probably.

Emily: Probably. But they just bring slow-killing poison detergent JUST IN CASE? That seems impractical.

Me: Maybe they were Boy Scouts. Aren't they supposed to always be prepared???

Emily: Murderous Boy Scouts?!

Me: I don't know! I just know this is totally unfair. I'm super nice about murderers. I'm totally pro-Dexter.

Emily: But you're not a bad guy.

Me: So...you're saying I should kill someone? So they make me part of their murderer club instead of killing me?

Emily: ...yes.

So now I'm pretty sure this murderer thing is just an elaborate scheme by my friends to get me to commit murder and end up in jail forever because there's no way I wouldn't get caught. I'm just not sneaky enough. Which means I have terrible friends. Or a little too much imagination for one person. One of those.

A case study on case studies. (Also, I love reading!)

Okay, I know yesterday's post seemed phoned in--okay, it was phoned in--but when Kayla was like "Put this on the blog!" I was all "But...but...but I have...um...I have to...um...look! Something shiny!" Unfortunately, unlike me, Kayla is not easily distracted. So I cheated because I love you and I figured a screenshit screenshot (though maybe the typo was more accurate...) was better than nothing.

The good news is that I'm back for a second day in a row! The bad news is that I'm kind of phoning it in again...

At least I'll give you a premise to this one:

Kayla started her last year of graduate school this week and I'm in the process of applying to graduate school. (Attention university I applied to: the below is just a joke. Really...) (No seriously though, it is. I love reading. Like lots. I actually only like writing because I like to read so much that I'm afraid I'll run out of things to read if I don't write some stuff to keep the pot of book-like-things full.) (No, seriously though. Reading is totally fine with me.) (Really.)

Oh and also I totally had to Google how to do a screenshot on a Macbook in order to give you the below so it's totally not phoning it in, right? And now I might not get into graduate school. See how much I love you?

Awash in manliness.

And then Mike died.

Okay, not really, but he did go to Canada and then he started a new job. And now, apparently, he speaks in third person.

As for Kayla? Well she’s busy being adorable (read: gross) with her boyfriend. No, Mike is not jealous, why do you ask?

The point? We (they?) are still alive and we/they love and miss you.

Because I like a little danger in my life, and by "danger" I mean anxiety and by "a little" I mean TONS.

Generally, I love quirky things. They're unpredictable and I find that endlessly amusing. However, one object that I would like to stop being quirky is my phone.

I have that Blackberry flip phone thing (I have no idea what it's called) and I was so excited when I got it. I'd always wanted a Blackberry and the fact that I could get one in the form of a shiny purple flip phone was just the cherry on top. No pocket dialing, easy-to-use keyboard, and the completely necessary Twitter and Facebook apps led me to believe that this phone would be the best ever. We strolled blissfully into the sunset, my cute little Blackberry and I.

Cut to 6 months later when I'm literally bashing my phone against the wall to make it unfreeze, because however quirky you may be, NOBODY wants their technology to be acting of its own volition.

 Recently it's started this new SUPER FUN feature where it throws all of my carefully selected settings right out the damn window and does whatever it pleases. Usually this occurs when something needs to be updated, even if it's something nonessential like an app. So when I take it to the Sprint store and am all "WTF you guys, this phone is the WORST," the Sprint Guys are all just like "Oh, well you need to download the latest version of the Facebook app. Don't worry, I'll do it for you," in a very patronizing sort of tone that makes me feel like an invalid (that's probably just in my head though because it's embarassing to be a 24 year old that can't fix something so simple on technology that she's been using since FOREVER.)

This morning, my phone decided it was time to play games with poor fragile mind and changed the ringtone for my alarm. Now, this normally wouldn't have bothered me; I don't really care what sound my phone makes as long as it wakes me up.

Unfortunately, my phone chose "Silent."

Really, dude? Silent? There should be a freaking 24 digit passcode that has to be punched in before any phone can even BEGIN to change its owner's alarm to Silent.

My mom has zero sympathy and just asked why I'm not using the alarm clock she bought me. Um, hello? Because that would require me taking it out of the box and setting it up, and why bother when I have a perfectly good phone that will wake me up MOST OF THE TIME.

The saddest part about this is that I'll probably just continue playing Russian Roulette with my phone. Old habits die hard and I hate alarm clocks.