And hello to the lovely ladies mentioned in the following. I trust you're all literate.
I met a good friend for lunch. A random non-school, non-work, non-friend-of-the-family friend. She's doing her masters in Edmonton, so time together is rare. But it's always fun and inspiring as we fire off our crazy dreams for the future. My circle of theater friends has dwindled significantly since university, so it's great to spend time with someone actively pursuing a future in that field. Oh, and we have the same brain when it comes to the things of life and love. And adventure. She gives advice like, "Maybe you'll fall in love. Or your heart will break. Or it will just be a complete disaster. Either way, great writing material." I love that girl.
Oh, and she discovered Brooke Fraser's brilliance while living in New Zealand. Which makes her exponentially cooler than I'll ever be. I've accepted that.
Post-lunch, we wandered around downtown, Christmas shopping. And then we hugged and parted ways, planning to reunite this coming summer either in Calgary (Stampede greatness) or in Stratford (MacBeth awesomeness). Or both.
Another friend was having a birthday dinner at a local pub. A pub no one could remember the name of. Thanks to the waiter's sketchy behavior the last time she visited, we all called the joint "Perv Place." And while our service was perfectly civil this time (almost disappointing), the name will probably stick for a while. This friend is a friend from my post-grad days. She, too, is awesome. Awesome enough to invite a complete stranger to her birthday.
The stranger came. Immediately she became a friend. On a working holiday from Australia, she came looking for a traditional Canadian Christmas. So I invited her to spend Boxing Day with my family. 'Cause that's what we do. We like people. And she's pretty great people.
Oh, and we chatted about how 7th Heaven is not my life. Because we had a homeless man in our basement and his pregnant ex-prostitute girlfriend in the guest room. She had machetes. He had nunchucks. We were one big happy family. And my mom took me to jail. That was the starting point of the conversation, I believe. And oddly, people were envious of my life. Maybe I tell stories too well.
A new friend from my home church picked up me, my birthday friend and my Aussie friend (yes, we adopt people quickly). We went to church. We heard this:
You cannot buy your own happiness, but you can buy someone else's.*
*Money has been proven to improve a person's happiness in only two cases: the person is very poor or very sick. Since I am healthy and not destitute, money won't do anything for me happiness-wise, but I'm in a position to help the down-and-out. Essentially, I can buy someone's happiness. Which makes me happy.
And then we went to lunch. And drew on paper tablecloths with crayons while gabbing at light speed. As four random new friends, it didn't take long before we were planning road trips and coordinating gym schedules.
Sundays are my days for adventure. I try to steer clear of the temptation to sit at a computer and type the day away. And so I stay out of my apartment, exploring the city. This past Sunday was no exception. Three of us (one had other equally exciting plans) headed to the Science Center. For a cold blustery day, it was the perfect outing. Free passes also contributed to its perfection. Our friend from Oz got a real Canadian schoolgirl field-trip experience.
Here's where some of those odd comments from the previous post fit in:
I have an unbelievably fast karate chop: 71 km/hr.
In the sports area, you can measure the speed of your karate chop. And so I did. I saw a cushion and hit it as quickly as I could, not sure how the whole sensor thing worked. My first chop was the fastest,** intimidating the little boy behind me who couldn't come close. Don't feel sorry for him. He whipped my butt in a rowing race. My rower was broken and said I was moving at 0 km/hr.
**The screen actually told me it was "unbelievably fast." In this case, I will not argue with technology.
Hugh Jackman is a better person than I am.
The three of us tried to do a personality assessment together. It said to pick a person you know and then answer a list of questions about their personality. Well, the three of us know Hugh. Besides, Australia was the theme of the weekend. We were kind to Hugh and gave him the benefit of the doubt, assuming he's the loveliest man on the planet. We didn't realize that we were then to answer the same questions about ourselves. It was supposed to reveal how we judge others and/or compare others to ourselves. We were a little more realistic about our own shortcomings. We were too lazy to actually read the whole explanation as to why we made him look better than us; we just accepted that neither of us three women in the Science Centre on a Sunday afternoon will never be the Sexiest Man Alive.*** Ever.
***This isn't my personal option. This is fact. According to that beacon of journalism, People Magazine, Hugh trumps all. He's even sexier than [gasp] Batman.
Flirting calms me down.
File this one under: Most ridiculous test ever.
I put my hand on a screen. It took my skin's temperature. It was colder than the test was prepared for. As per usual. I'm the ice queen. Then I held a handlebar and let it measure my heart rate. Next, I chose someone to flirt with. Seriously. My options were, A, a generic decent-looking young man, and, B, a generic decent-looking young woman. Shockingly, I picked the man. Not really my type, but more so than the alternative. There was no sound, so I had to read his pick-up line on the screen. I then chose a flirtatious line to spew back at him. And he reciprocated with something horribly unsexy. I was so bored during our digital exchange that I started skimming through his words and selecting responses without even thinking. The end of the test didn't come soon enough. When it was finally over, the computer took my skin temperature and heart rate again. I was still cold. My heart rate had DECREASED. Apparently this means that flirting calms me down. I like to think it means that I will never date a computer.
Early evening, we hopped on a bus and returned to our separate worlds.
Whew. I did some other stuff too. But my fingers are tired. So the typing stops...now.