Handsome.

I went through a bad breakup last Christmas. Like, 90210 bad.  It was probably one of the most starkly pivotal moments of my life.  Honestly, I couldn't even make up this brand of drama.  I should write a book. Moral of the story being: just don't date a boy who lies.. ever.  Also, I should interject here that, ladies? You probably shouldn't date boys, only men. Men only! Men are so much better than boys.  But that is just a whole new blog post waiting to be written. More on this later.

As the dust of tyranny from my old relationship began to settle, and the air cleared, I was exposed to clarity on a level I have not experienced in years.  And peace.  Jesus completely calmed and restored the dry, cracked pieces of my broken heart.  He gave me complete tranquility to move on and leave the past where it belongs: in the burn barrel in the back 40.

But before this happened, I did a thing Jesus probably didn't approve of.. I went on a bit of a tear.  I had drinks, I went on dates, I stayed up too late, I burned too many tires; I put a lot of miles on my truck.  

Spring arrived and, as it always does, brought with it a fresh excitement as the days began to grow longer, and the temperature warmed.  Drinks got colder. Skin became darker. And I became bolder.

I ran into an old acquaintance from years ago.  Our original meeting was while I was doing the whole waitress/going to school/I'm 22 and in limbo, thing.  We never really had a chance to connect due to bad timing. Slowly, we began to resume our old relationship again and agreed to go out and see if we could pick up where we left off. Allow me briefly to explain my attraction to this man.  Physically, he was perfect.  Tall, dark, handsome.  I mean REALLY.  How can I... hmm.. well, let's see here.  Take a little Chris Young, a little bit of Ben Affleck (present day, complete with beard) and maybe sprinkle on a little of that guy who sings "Redneck Crazy".  He was smoking manly hot.  Okay, okay, on with the story.

Handsome and I met up for drinks after work one sunshiny day and he was a complete gentleman.  We had such a great time that we decided to meet up again. And again. I even brought him out for drinks in my 'hood (also known as the country). But suddenly, somewhere, after a handful of dates, the truth about his life came out. Handsome, in his mid-30s, was still trying to reinvent himself after an unfortunate drinking and gambling addiction. He owned a small lap dog. Also, he lived in his parents' basement.

A LAP DOG, people! Look, I'm not shallow. I mean, I've even dated a French boy before. But I promised myself that I would not date anymore projects, or charity cases.  I just can't do it.  That's basically primitively setting my heart up for disappointment all over again.

We continued to text back and forth, playfully, and I will take full responsibility for letting things go further than they ever should have. But! I was bored, and I was reinvented! Single! I was pushing my limits. And I mean, gosh dangit he was handsome.  Finally I told him it would be best if we stopped seeing one another. 

One summer night I came home late from riding my horse at the barn.  I poured myself a night cap while I took off my makeup and slipped into my jammies.  I checked my phone (3 missed calls from Handsome. Creeper much?) and slipped under my covers while I caught up on The Vampire Diaries. I'm not 4 minutes in, and I hear something going on outside, in my backyard.  The mysterious rustling ceases as soon as I get out of bed and venture into my dark kitchen. I try to peer into the backyard through my patio door windows.  I hear the noise again, and reach for my shotgun instinctively and then I see it - the rectangular glow of of the screen of an iPhone.  

My heart sinks.  

I crack the patio door open. "What are you doing here!?" I hiss into the darkness.  Handsome's face steps into a sliver of light spilling out from my bedroom.

"You weren't answering your phone!" his tone is equally as alarming.

"So you thought you would just loudly stalk me in my backyard?" My shotgun is lying across my dining room table, mere feet from where I'm standing. I realize I have no ammo.  My mind races. Will I end up in pieces in my basement? I narrow my eyes, quickly trying to recall technique from a self-defence course I took in grade seven.

"I needed to see you," Handsome says.  "We need to talk." Now I know how boys feel when girls use that line on them. WOOF.  

"I have a gun," I warn. No shells, mind you, but he doesn't need to know that.

Handsome steps forward and totally disarms me.  He grabs my face in his rough, manly hands, and kisses me.  

Like really, he's the hottest thing in the world, and if you forget about the small things like his lifestyle, his living situation, his lap dog and really every detail about him...did I mention he drives a 2005 Ford Focus? He drives a Ford Focu-

I break from our lip-lock and push him away. There is a mild struggle. He wants to talk, he keeps saying, I keep trying to push him out the door, he leans in to kiss me again, I move my face out of the way, and unintentionally smoke him in the nose with the side of my face. I feel my face getting warm. I feel something warm trickling down my face...

"Oh my gosh," Handsome's hands fly to his face. "My nose is bleeding."

Is this real life? I feel like I've seen this movie..

There is blood. Running down my face. It's not my blood.

"I'm so embarrassed," Handsome says, with the clout of a sixteen-year old girl.

(Please refer to earlier posts) if you draw blood, it's game over. Sorry, these are the rules.

He rushes to the bathroom, completely embarrassed, and spent the next 20 minutes trying to stop the bleeding.  Like I really must have gotten an artery or something.  I wasn't too phased by it, but he made it completely awkward.  He used up every paper product in my house to try to stop the bleeding.

"So, can we talk?" Handsome is holding a nest of toilet paper over most of his face.

"No." I shake my head and point to the door. "No."

And that was the end of my whirlwind romance with the man formerly known as Handsome.

The next time I saw Handsome I was at a football game, months later.  He yelled at me all the way down the concourse.  I was on a date, so understandably I didn't respond to him hollering at me from 100 yards away. My date slipped his arm around me. "Is someone yelling your name?"

"It's nothing." I smiled.

Handsome texted me immediately: you can do so much better.

Keep it classy, Handsome.

One month deep.

Every cigarette is my last cigarette.

I've been whispering this to myself since the first time I lit up.

I have been a smoker for ten years. I love cigarettes. The cheap thrill of unwrapping a fresh pack, lighting up a smoke at the end of a long day and just relishing the current moment of my single obligation, which is to sit back and inhale.  I love the feeling of the smoke swirling in my lungs, and exhaling slowly, crafting white lines in the air.  The mild crackle of the amber cherry as it glows with every lick.  Within a lit cigarette lies an absolute - the next 6 minutes are completely spoken for.

Quitting smoking has been one of the most challenging obstacles I've had to overcome alone; selfishly. Yet this is a hurdle that I can only address on my own, by myself, and nobody can do it for me.

I've tried quitting before, and I've been very nearly successful.  But somehow, the road of good intent never quite allows me to clear the woods unmarked, and before I know it - I am holding a white filter between my lips, right back where I started.  

What I did not expect to stumble upon in my journey to end my codependency with my old flame nicotine, is a large portion of my high-strung personality.

Cigarettes are the sprinkles on my cupcake.  The third encore at a Bon Jovi concert. A rye and coke after last call. They are so unnecessary. But they fill empty space, and they create diversion.  The proverbial white noise of my life. Cigarettes are a crutch. I can avoid tasks, certain conversations, and lean on excuses as I flick my lighter - cue flame! and inhale my poison.

My restlessness is rooted in this dirty habit.  Smoking is a distraction. It's like this: I'm never able to fully enjoy being in the moment, because I'm always looking forward to the next best thing...the next adventure.  I would be chain-smoking around a bonfire, tossing the smoke prematurely, only to light up minutes later. My affection for wanderlust absolutely has no rationale. I only know that smoking isn't helping me focus.

My motivation to quit smoking isn't because cigarettes are gross, or because they are not accepted by society, or because at nearly $20 a pack, I'm spending my savings on a broken habit.  I want to quit because if I don't now, I probably never will.  Because I am stubborn in every area of my life, except this area. Until now. My mom calls it growing up, but it feels more like a time-out for bad behaviour.  

For now.

Social Anxiety

As far as quirks go, I have many.  More than ten, for certain. I am not ashamed of my phobias, however - there is a small area that I wrestle with and am confronted with daily...a small, albiet very real, thorn in my side.  The preverbal thorn of social anxiety.

I know I can't be completely alone in my suffering.  It's not a constant state by any stretch of the imagination.  She is a mild, thrushing heat that quickens my heartbeat by a hair and a half. My cheeks may blush slightly, my eyes may dart, but to the untrained eye, you wouldn't be able to tell I was in the thick of some type of mild turmoil.

Allow me to explain. I want to disengage from any type of medicated state of anxiety or stress that is often found commonplace among adults (not to confuse myself as an 'adult', I use this word strictly for my readership).  This is a much more juvenile sickness, and perhaps not as taxing.  Social anxiety can be featured in a multitude of situations.  At first, I misdiagnosed the bedlam I was experiencing.  It's just heartburn, I said to myself. Or maybe you've just been smoking too many cigarettes, I would say. And perhaps, the latter is a gaining factor in the intensity of my troubled state. Allow me to expand:

It began when I was in 4H - the dreaded speech night.  Standing alone at the front of the Domain Hall, speech cards shivering in my clammy, inexperienced hands; vacant, blinking faces staring at me, transparently expectant upon my ability to entertain. The girl who went before me delivered a top-drawer speech on her family’s trip to Stonehenge.  I had never even heard of Stonehenge. Stone what? Sounds made up.  But honestly, she really nailed it.  Suddenly my speech on my dad's new combine didn’t seem to equate. Deep breaths.

Piano recitals also paralyzed me with social anxiety. My fingers became lead on foreign ivory keys in a large and elegant white room echoing hushed tones; paper programs fanning proud mothers in the audience.  
No pressure, my piano teacher would tell me.  Just pretend you are in your own living room.  Yeah. Right.  Whose living room is this? A Kardashian's, apparently.  I have never overcome my fear of public speaking but it's especially poor in front of an intimate crowd.  I mean, if I had to? I bet I could play the Opry. No sweat.  But ask me to sing at church in front of 100 people. Not on your life, baby.

Remember grocery shopping with mom? 
I forgot milk, Mom says, can you just wait in line while I go get it?  I nod and watch helplessly as my mother disappears into the chasm that is the grocery store. 

But wait, the line is moving!  

Mom, I call out. Mom, the line is moving.  I see no sign of her anywhere. Mom can you please hurry up the cashier lady is about to check out our groceries... 

I suck in a deep breath and hold it as long as possible, hoping to wake from my current nightmare.

The cashier looks at me. Next!  she says. 

Mom can you please hurryI'mhavingaminimeltdownandIcan'tbreathe...

I'm at a restaurant with my friends, and the server comes back to the table for the second time in less than two minutes.

Are you guys ready?  She asks, and starts taking orders immediately while evidently ignoring my panicked breathing.  I'm still grazing the menu like it's my first time. I haven't even passed salads!  I can't live with just salad.

Hurry, I tell myself, just close your eyes and point to something on the page. I shut my eyes and point.  What! That’s not what I want at all.  Our server is taking orders like she's got some type of personal vendetta against my indecision   The circle is closing in on me and it's down to the wire. Hands. So. Sweaty. My appetite is rapidly diminishing the closer it gets to my turn. 
And for you?  She smiles at me so condescendingly...she must know my secret.
I'll have what he's having,  I point to my friend beside me, following blindly.  What a bitch.

Missed the deadline for all my bills this month... I have no idea if my credit card is maxed. Did I even pay last month? I can't recall, my mind is blank.  My truck is a thirsty gal, can't fill 'er up for less than $120.

Just insert your chip, says the 17 year old boy behind the Co-op gas counter, instructing me to pay for my petroleum with my fraudulent credit card.

You go to Sanford, right?  I used to go to school with your cousin, I tell him.  I'm trying to stall him.

You can just insert your chip, he repeats.

Oh, like this?  I feign ignorance and deftly embed my card into the machine.  I hit enter rapidly; secretly praying it won't be maxed out.  The 17 year old just stands there, judging me.

I'm at a reception, something for work probably.  I'm being introduced to people I would normally never cross paths with.  I'm hanging out by the shrimp cocktail, and officially just became the weird girl who just eats all the food standing alone by herself all night.

Hello there, says a guy with skinny lapels.  How are you?  I cram more shrimp into my mouth.

I'm great, I tell him, these shrimp are to die for.  He smiles back so clearly he's not getting the message.  

What's your name?  He extends his hand in my direction.  Here we go again.

Chandra, I say.

Kendra?  he asks.

No, no, it's KANDRA. Like Kendra, but with an A.  I lean on the A extra hard for good measure.

How do you spell that?  Skinny Lapels asks. I sigh.

C-H-A-N-D-R-A, I tell him. But you don't say the H.

Shawndra?  he asks.

No no no no no no no no NO, I say. It's KAN-drah. Get it? It's like a silent H.   I try to resolve the situation by adding humour but regret my decision immediately.  

My mom must have had too much epidural in her system when she named me... I start to say, but Skinny Lapels has taken a pretend phone call and politely shrugs and points to his phone with his free hand in a "hey sorry but I gotta take this" kind of a motion.  I go back to my shrimp cocktail.

Maybe I should just stay at home.

Girls don't like boys, girls like cars and money.

Every gal throughout the course of her pursuit of friendship/dating/socializing career has, at some point, bookmarked a fella or two (..seven?) who have stood out - due to circumstance, personality, or otherwise. Men have the uncanny ability to lead our emotions to the extreme when we are invested in them.  They can make us feel like a million bucks, and yet how converse that they can make us lose sleep and question our ability to make any type of rational decision. Scoundrels!

So, who is more particular? Men? Women? Why do we, as females, react the way we do to men? Why is everyone so mysterious?  My parents are convinced that I'm the pickiest girl in the ENTIRE world when it comes to dating.  To defend myself, I can only explain that I am very meticulous about my taste in men. I mean, wouldn't you rather be alone, than settle? Think about it. I'd rather be barefoot than suffer in a pair of uncomfortable heels, no matter how pretty they are.

Upon moving back to MB, my balmy interaction with the handsome guy working in the office down the hall from me at my new job was enough to spark my social anxiety to new heights.  For the sake of the story, let's call him Romeo.  He was taller than me, dark, and very handsome.  Most girls fall for the whole musician thing - not really my cup of tea, but that didn't deter me from wanting to touch his arm as he passed me in the hallway.

One day, he popped his head into my office.

"Hey, lady." He grinned, exposing pearly whites, and I spilled half my coffee onto my keyboard.

"Oh, hey." I said, as breathily as possible, trying to ignore the searing pain of hot coffee droplets on my forearm. 

I flipped my hair back nonchalantly, and my fingers instantly tangled in the midst of my split ends.

DAMMIT.

"Wanna go for lunch with me?" He raised his eyebrows hopefully and I had to bite my tongue to keep from leaping out of my chair and lunging in the general vicinity of my jacket.  I methodically counted to two-and-a-half....

"Love to!" I didn't even make it to three. My fingers were still interlaced in my knotted mane.

"Great!" His shoulders slumped under the weight of his very visible alleviation. "I'm meeting an old co-worker and reallllly do not want to go alone.  I need a third wheel to keep the conversation going.  Everyone else in the office has already left for lunch, so I guess it's you and me, kiddo."
My heart dropped.  I don't even want to begin to dissect all of the things wrong with all of that. Let's just move on....

His restaurant of choice was about 5 blocks away, and it was pouring rain.  I looked like the back end of a drowned rat by the time I peeled off my jacket at the table once we had reached indoors.  Lunch was awkward (are you surprised?) so I drank my feelings, and then I spent the remainder of the afternoon in the office bathroom trying to dry myself under the automatic dryer. There would be no second date.

Romeo gave his two weeks shortly after that, after accepting a job much more tailored to his musical, gypsy soul.  At his going away party, I was the lone country girl in a circle of socialist, city boys.  Romeo told us a story about a girl he had taken on a date.  Romantic dinner, floor tickets to a sold-out John Mayer show, and when he went in for the slow, goodnight kiss on her front step... she told him she 'just wasn't that into him'. (I bet she was blonde).  She left him outside on the front porch with a heavy heart and an empty wallet. Romeo continues the story by saying he was so disgusted with the amount of effort he had just devoted to this ungrateful girl that he stormed off to the bar to meet up with his friends and proceeded to burn it to the ground. Upon reaching the bar, his apathy took a turn for the worst and his blatant disrespect towards the waitress was noted by everyone at his table; even vocalized by his friends.  Romeo made no apologies and continued his rude behaviour towards her even to go so far as to withhold her tip and make her cry.  The waitress hadn't done anything wrong.  But she was a woman and therefore an extension - and reminder - of his fateful date.  Basically the moral of the story is she must have had all kinds of special daddy-issues, because Romeo took her home at the end of the night.

Why does this happen? Who are these girls? Why are they giving us such a bad name?  I stood in the circle of metrosexual men, trying to defend every good country girl's honour, but these gents would have none of it.  

"Girls seek the chase," Romeo explained his theory.  "Every girl claims to want the quintessential 'nice guy', but it's not true.  The first girl, I wined and dined and took her on the most amazing date, and she wanted none of it.  I treated the waitress from the bar like trash, and she couldn't get enough of me."

The reality he presented to me that night was far too crude to be authorized by my heart. Every girl wants a good guy. A great guy. Am I right?

Then, one day, out of the blue - it struck me.  Romeo was right. Think about it!  Dust off the history books of your life and take a spin through the pages.  Think about the big loves in your life - how did they happen? What's your story? 

The last boy I dated was a heart attack on speed.  I chased him, I begged him, I prayed for him, I screamed at him, and I think I could have honestly shot him some days.  But I loved him. (At least I thought I did.) Nothing about our relationship was easy or uncomplicated.  He was wild and I couldn't tame him, but God knows I sure tried.  In the end he broke my heart like I knew he would, but I had no one to blame by myself.  What am I searching for? Why does my heart seek out the strays that need to be fixed and loved and tamed? No, no, don't leave me, I can't live without the abuse! I need you! Please, stay, and continue to treat me like garbage. Right? What is this about.

A short time after he and I had parted ways, a boy from church asked me to 'hang out sometime' (that's like a date, right?) and as I began to spend time with him, I quickly realized that my feelings for him paralleled warm milk.  This boy was so darling, so what's my problem? He was handsome, down to earth, polite, laid-back and loved Jesus with his whole heart. He was practically perfect! I would amp myself up each time before seeing him, convincing myself what a good man he is, and how it would be so refreshing to date somebody so grounded.  But every time I would see him, I would feel like I was letting part of myself down - my heart.  He was willing to make our relationship into something more, and I knew that I would never be able to allow it.  There is nothing wrong with white bread; it's just not for me.  

Perhaps I am blessed with a polarizing personality that restrains me from living a balanced lifestyle.  Perhaps Romeo was right, and that every girl wants some sort of chase, throwing caution to the wind and raising our blood pressure to soaring new heights.  Perhaps I need to invest in some girl friends....

The more boys I meet, the more I love my dog

Several summers ago, a boy actually asked me out on a date. (This is a true rarity, but we will revisit this subject matter at a later date).  

It was a beautiful summer night, so I suggested we go down to the dam and throw a line out and try and catch some pickerel before sunset.  He was driving out from the city, so I requested he pick up 'refreshments' (aka Budweiser and old dutch chips - the two staples in my diet), and I would supply the fishing rods and the bait.  Now, I realize I am a little bit hick, but even though it was a date, we would still be sitting on a creek bank swatting mosquitos and yanking oversized catfish off our hooks - so I chose to dress appropriately. Cut-offs, a red and blue flannel button-up wrangler shirt, and rubber boots. I drove down to the creek, parked in the bushes, and waited for my partner in crime to show up with snacks.  Twenty minutes later, my phone rang.

"Hello?" I answered.

"Hey! Can you come into town and pick me up? I just washed my car and don't want to drive gravel."

Strike one.

I met him in town and parked beside his steel gray mustang.  My date for the evening emerged from his V6 with a six pack of.... imported beer.....in bottles? Six? That's like... three each?  Wait a minute, that ain't right. Did he not get the memo? What part of 'refreshments' doesn't he understand....? A curt moment of confusion must have shocked my face, because he looked mildly confused after so proudly presenting his token.  I changed the subject.

"You gonna fish in those?" I nod to his shoes. He must be new. He's wearing a deep v-neck t-shirt, a pair of dark, slim jeans, and loafers.  LOAFERS, people.  We're going FISHING. 

Strike two.

After we park, I lead the way down to the creek, and Pretty Boy carefully picks his away around the puddles until we find a clearing and sit down in the grass.  I waste no time in throwing out a line, hoping to make up time as the daylight around us is fading quickly.  Pretty Boy stays seated beside me, reaches for a beer bottle, selects one, and then pauses.

"Chandra?" 

My attention to my taut fishing line is briefly interrupted.

"Hmm?"

"Do you have a bottle opener?" He asks.

"Do I have a bottle opener?"

"Yeah. These are imported beers.  They aren't twist-offs."

Strike ...ah, two and a half.  He's pretty cute.

Pretty Boy spent the next half hour trying to Macgyver the tops off the beer bottles off. His last resort proved to meet success as he used a flat stone to slice the very top of the bottle off, exposing a jagged edge to meet our thirsty lips.  We fished in sporadic silence (I fished, he sat in the tall grass and answered any questions I directed at him.  How's your job? What are you doing this summer? Why are you wearing loafers? Know how I know you're gay?) and when I had exhausted all hope of genuine conversation or procuring any fish, I curled up in the grass beside him, hoping to spark some embers and revive the dregs of this outing.  He and I found ourselves in the very middle of a country song as a hot pink ribbon of sunset dissolved into the horizon and the stars appeared brighter than I have ever seen in a crystal clear night sky.  The creek bubbled, frogs and crickets sang softly in the background, and the soft breeze lifted my hair off my shoulders.

"One more?" Pretty Boy handed me a beer and fixed his attention onto his bottle - the last bottle, tapping the stone along the neck,  harder and little harder yet, and suddenly the glass imploded, sending small fireworks of glass sparkles everywhere - followed by blood. 

"My shoes!" Pretty Boy cried out into the night.

"Are you okay?" I lept to my feet, searching for something to wrap his shredded hand in. My mind wandered immediately. Do I have bandaids in my car? Will my grade three quack-grass braiding skills hold up in an emergency like this? Is there an artery in your hand? Will he bleed to death? Does this mean I don't have to finish my beer?

Strike three. That's it. You draw blood on the first date, and it's time for me to cut my losses.

The date ended prematurely on that note, and I never saw him again - until the following Sunday at church, where my curiosity got the best of me and I had to ask about his hand.  It looked much worse than it actually was. Sometimes I wonder if he still has the scar..

The more boys I meet, the more I love my dog.

Two creams only.

The coffee maker at the farm never sleeps.  I am caffeine dependent.  My dependency was handed down from my mother, who is also addicted to coffee.  It is a small wonder that such a trivial moment of our day making coffee provides the sustenance to keep us alive as kin; we - she and I - would no doubt fail at life without it. It is our answer to most pressing questions.  When faced with a most probable sized quandary, coffee is always the answer.

Do I really need another little black dress? Let’s get a coffee and think about it.  

Do you think I should take the job offer? How about I make us a cup and we can sort it out over coffee.  

What do you want to drink with lunch? Coffee.

So God made a Farmer..

The moment I burst into this world as a tiny, black haired baby, I had become - before anything else - a farmer's daughter.  It is my original identity, and the key to my heart.  As life goes on, we become to know ourselves on a personal and relevant level. We begin to investigate likes and dislikes, strengths and weaknesses, hopes, dreams, desires.   But at the very root of all of these wonderful things, is something quite fundamental. It is who we are.

I love the land more than anything. It's in my blood, and it's a part of me.  

Now, I have always, always, ALWAYS, been a GM gal.  However, I will put all of that aside in light of the most amazing commercial I have ever witnessed in all of my 27 years.  I cried a little when I first watched it.  Paul Harvey's narrative sums up my daddy - and many other farm dads, I'm sure - and this only scratches the surface.  We are so, so blessed.

Good intentions

Sticky notes have taken over my parents' farmhouse.  It’s the latest Rempel trend.  Tiny fluorescent squares arbitrarily garnishing random surfaces, mainly in the kitchen.  Short, pertinent messages scrawled in pen. Pay cell phone bill.  Take garbage to dump. Oil change Saturday 8 AM. Call the vet.  Said reminders were created nameless, but all serve a relevant purpose: to battle procrastination.  A hopeless attempt to organize pink, orange, blue and green squares only leads to confusion of the original placement of the notes and a brand-new explosion of rewritten reminders. 

Most trends do not last in our household.  Other tendencies have included: compost heaps in the garden in a mild effort to support the trend of “going green”, recycling (see previous), family meetings implementing a token “talking-stick”, and revoking vehicle privileges as a form of punishment. 

My mother deserves a medal. She is the most proactive woman I know.  She would rather hand-till the garden or weed an entire shelter-belt than sit and, heaven forbid, relax.

To her chagrin, she was stuck with four lackluster individuals named family.  

Again, the shelf life of good intent in our house is short and sweet.