I love that word, it’s the perfect title for this post. My friend the Magpie posted a pic of me from Saturday night using the hashtag Smashelorette and I fucking love it so much.

You guys don’t even know. And I don’t even know if I know how to tell this story… but bear with me. The fog of booze around my brain is clearing, this might start coming together as we go.


I’ve been waiting for this so long. This night. This amazing night out with my girls, getting drunk, laughing. Celebrating like only girls can. With lots and lots of shrill yayys! and wooooos! to accompany every sentence. Excitedly hopping and bopping everywhere and into everything. Chanting deliciously filthy chants at every male we encounter along the way. “SHOW-US-YOUR-PENIS!”, “JUST-THE-TIP!”, and “EAT-MORE-DICK-CHEESE!” among the best  of them.

That’s what girls do. We make ourselves look as classy and lovely as we possibly can, then we go out into the world causing all the mayhem we can muster. And I do have a lot of mayhem in my heart, believe you me. I’m pretty sure that I head-butted one of my friends on the d-floor. Mistakenly, of course. But only because a bunch of mayhem had bubbled over and was going to translate into some insanely rad dance floor head-banging. I just forgot to step back first. Oopsies! It’s not the first time though, definitely won’t be the last either. Very sorry, friend.

That must be why my neck is still so sore two days later. I fucking head-banged the shit outta that dance floor. But when you’ve got a band of rad motherfuckers ripped on heroin and playing the same Led Zeppelin song on a constant loop, there’s nothing you can do but head-bang the fucking shit outta life. The power of Zeppelin compels you!

At one point I had a little chat with the guitarist, about the recent passing of Tommy Ramone. And I begged him to rally his band buddies and play me a killer Ramones cover. He nodded semi-agreeably and went to talk to his musically inclined chums. When they hit the stage again after the intermission, the guitarist tossed me a sly grin and started cranking out yet another classic Zeppelin tune… Oh man! Another 22-minute guitar solo. I shot a look of long-suffering at The Magpie, as if to say “oh well, what can you do?” and she didn’t even have to say a word. She perfectly mimed the tying off of a vein and shot a finger needle into the crook of her arm while rolling her eyes back in a perfect pantomime of druggie bliss. It was so excellent. We just laughed and danced. Then laughed and danced some more because that guitar never stopped.

But I’m getting way ahead of myself. This story clearly won’t be linear, that fucking ship has sailed. It was never going to be anyways, because I don’t remember it that way. I’m slowly remembering my way through the events of the Smashelorette. And every time I talk to someone about it, another little gem of memory is unearthed and lovingly relived.

Like when Joce reminded me that she stole a platter of 20 sliders off of someone else’s table and our motley group of girls gobbled them up in a feeding frenzy! No I didn’t dream that, it actually happened. It’s such a perfectly Joce-force thing to do.

Or when I put on a fake moustache with Dame Edna glasses and Shannie told me that I looked like Freddie Mercury. Dreams really do come true. Playing dress up in general. I mean, if you’re at a party and your friend gives you a box of costumes to dress people up in, it’s going to be a wicked time.

shannie the raver

my little peacock

Playing the underwear game! Everyone bought a pair of panties and I had to guess who bought them. An absolutely hilarious idea. Especially when one of your friends decides to buy you a pair of 3XL men’s tighty whiteys. Oh, Caitlin! You’re a beautiful little sexual harassment just waiting to happen.

she'll get ya

big underwear

Twirling and swirling around the dance floor with a very tall gentleman who didn’t speak a lick of english. But he didn’t have to. He spoke an even more important language: the language of the dance!

Eating a piece of penis cake. Thank you Bec. I always wondered what chocolate ball hair would taste like. It’s sweet. A little sticky too. Not unexpected at all. An unsavoury delight. Much like the dick cheese my friend Hoben moulded to glorious perfection. I’ve also wondered what green onion ball hair tasted like. Cross another thing off the bucket list, darling.

Doing oh so many grapefruit wedge Jell-O shots! Best summertime booze treat you can have.

jell-o shots

And of course, chugging dirt cheap champagne that made me throw up in my mouth a little…

champagne chug

When Caitlin found me a hunk with a ponytail to talk to. I got to touch it! The ponytail, of course. It was curly and sweaty and magnificent. Mmmm, oh yeah. That’s the real dream, a man with a ponytail. I’m totally being serious right now. Just wanted to make sure nobody thought I was being purposefully flip about that. Gimme them long luscious locks any time. Let me run my fingers through your hair, baby. Oh yeah, just like that!

Omg. THE MIDGET STRIPPER. *facepalm*

He was small and sweaty and he blew in my ear. Aggressively. It wasn’t sexy. It was like the blast of a backfiring car right in my earhole.

Oh right, this is an important detail: my Smashelorette party was Star Wars themed. Yeah, that’s fucking right. My friends lovingly coloured a bunch of images from a Star Wars colouring book and used them as decorations all over Joce’s apartment. It was very beautiful and meaningful to me. There were also bottles of chase with Yoda’s picture on them and labelled “Yoda Pop”. Brilliant! There was a hand drawn “Pin The Penis on Darth” game. Oh Sara, words cannot describe how much I love you for making that. And how much I loved seeing the bad first attempt at a drawing of Darth showing through the sliding glass door when I was out on the balcony. Priceless. He’s a hard dude to draw, I was very impressed with the end result.

But back to that stripper…

We were grooving along to some sweet pre-drinking tunes when suddenly the music changed. A very recognizable piece of music started to play. Is that…? Oh yeah, it is! It’s the frigging Star Wars theme music. I got really excited at that point. I sat on the special chair and buzzed with excitement. I’ve always wondered what Darth Vader’s penis looked like and tonight I was finally going to find out what he’s been hiding under that codpiece.

Just as the epic entrance music was fading out, he stepped into the room. All 4 foot 8 of him. Probably more like 5′ 3″, but who’s measuring? And he’s… um. What the fuck? He’s a cop? And now he’s making some lame cliché joke about a noise complaint… that’s something, I guess.

i'm so impressed

Actually, this worked out really well. Even though he wasn’t dressed as the Dark Lord and I couldn’t climb him like a mountain, I’ll never forget pointing and laughing at his sweat-stained underwear while he shook his crotch in my cousin’s face. AND, most important of all… he wasn’t supposed to show us his wiener but he did anyways. Joce told me she wouldn’t pay extra for him to do the full monty. So he was either such a trooper or our rowdy chants just eventually wore him down, but either way, WE GOT THAT DICK FOR FREE!

I just had a great idea for him! He should dress up like Prince when he strips. He’s got the perfect build for it… dammit. Someone should call and tell him that. I bet there are a lot of ladies out there who’d love a lap dance from The Purple One. I know I would.

There’s so much to remember! Too much to remember really. I’m grateful for cameras. And I’m thankful for all of my wonderful friends. I’m so in love with all of you.


my lovely family

Dreams come true. I should probably divorce D and then re-marry him just so we can have another party like this. Another super mega-awesome blast of a time, just us girls.

But I guess even though I’m getting married, that doesn’t mean I have to slow down my bad ass partying ways, does it?


Maybe we just need to do one more of these before the wedding. It was always going to take more than one really excellent bender to get it all out of my system anyways, right?

There’s Even Sand in My Crack: Day 3

We have been walking a lot. Constantly. Everywhere we go, we walk there. It’s taken its toll on my feet, that’s for damn sure. I have two big blisters on the bottom of each foot, and another big one on the side of my toe. So I felt like having a day of minimal walking. So, to the beach we go!

You can lay out on your towel for hours, or take a few quick steps into the ocean. Either way, you’re off your feet and it feels good. We’d gone for a brief swim on our first day after eating breakfast, but we hadn’t done the full on beach day yet. D has been wanting to relax while catching some rays.

After breakfast at the hotel, we walked down to the beach to get ourselves some prime real estate on the sand. At the glorious hour of 8:00am no less!

morning calm

morning calm

A dip in the ocean to cool you off and send the beads of sweat forming on your brow packing. I’ve never swam in the ocean until this trip. I’m blown away by how salty the water is. The first time some of it got into my mouth I thought I was going to die. It was like I’d just poured the contents of a full salt shaker down my throat. I can’t say that I’m a fan of that…

so not digging the salt

so not digging the salt

The beach is a lot more calm in the morning. Some of the more ambitious parents are up and about with the kiddies. But most of them are still getting their shit in a pile to start the day. They don’t usually start filling out the beach until later in the day. It’s gotta be tough, right? We’re exhausted after a full day, and we don’t have any kids to haul around with us. I can’t imagine how people do it. Props to the parents with energy to actually be active while on vacation with their kids.

We see a lot of babies, surprisingly. D said that if he ever found out that his parents took him to Hawaii when he was way too young to remember it, he would be hella pissed. “That’s such bullshit,” he said. “You’ve been to this amazing place, but you’ll never remember.” I guess that sucks. But if your parents are rich enough to take you when you’re a baby, I’m sure they’re rich enough to take you when you’re a bratty, unappreciative tween/teen.

It’s not that expensive really. Or at least not as expensive as people seem to think it is. It’s not an all-inclusive kind of place, so you do need to pay for your meals and booze. But if you shop around and find a good rate on the hotel and flight, then you do a little extra saving for your daily expenditures and you’re ready to go.

You’ll find an ABC Store basically every block, and you can buy super cheap booze and snacks. You can buy a 6-pack of Corona or Heineken for $8.50! You cannot get good beers that cheap in Ontario. And because these stores are literally everywhere you look, you don’t have to think about where the closest LCBO or Beer Store is. You just walk out the door, and there the beer is. Ice cold, and waiting for you. It’s heavenly.

D swam for a bit and then lounged in the sun. As I watched him sunning himself, he reminded me of a little lizard nestled on a rock in a pet store somewhere, hogging up as much of the heat lamp as it can get. Using the solar rays to recharge its battery. I started taking pictures of him while he was sunning and he told me to stop being creepy and go for another swim.

So I took my camera elsewhere. As opposed to some dreamboat photos of a half-naked D, these pictures of the beach will have to suffice.

a shitty substitute

a shitty substitute

took some of this stuff to go!

took some of this stuff to go!

my view from the shore

my view from the shore

Once we’d had our fill of surf and turf, we thought the next best thing would be to get day drunk. We needed to cleanse our palates of all the salt water anyways. So we walked down the street to Jimmy Buffet’s for Happy Hour. $3.00 for vodka, gin, or rum and $4.00 for a draught beer. Hells yes! This is just the place for us.

Thinking we’d have a snack with our drinks, we very stupidly ordered nachos. We assumed they would be just enough to tide us over until dinner. We were not expecting the fucking cheesy tortilla chip planet that fell from the sky and landed on our table.

what have we done?

what have we done?

I'm really going to hate myself in a minute

I’m really going to hate myself in a minute

They were taller than they were wide! Holy shit, how are two people going to eat this many nachos? We did the best we could. But in the end, we’d barely made a dent. Next time, we’ll just stick to the drinks.

The nachos stuck with us all afternoon. We barely had any appetite for dinner. We barely had the will to live anymore! So we parked our asses on a geezer bench at the beach and just sat in silence for a while. Trying, really trying, to digest the wads of cheese in our bellies. We sat on the bench, on powered down mode for 30 minutes or so. Enough time to straighten ourselves out.

When our brains started functioning again, we took a leisurely stroll down the beach. It had started getting cloudy out. A few drops of rain here and there. Our bold and beaming sun decided to take the rest of the day off. No beautiful sunsets tonight, come back tomorrow folks.

We’re tired and full. Too full. So we make our way back to the hotel room, and grab a movie for the night. Our hotel has these little DVD rental kiosks in the lobby. You just touch the screen, pick a movie you want to see, and it spits out the disc. Then, when you’re done, you just bring it back down and put it back in the machine. It’s a good little contingency plan for rainy days, and inactive nights. And it’s free! You don’t even have to pay for them. Just grab a movie whenever you feel like it.

We rented Looper, which I had been wanting to see. It was good, but not what I had expected. I was picturing something similar to Blade Runner. Not something so Omen-y. All the bullshit with the mom and the kid was so boring. I wanted to see the past and future Joes engage each other so much more. I wanted tension, active, adventure. Not sappy self-sacrifice for a demonic little kid who is clearly going to grow up to be an asshole anyways. But, you get what you pay for I guess.

Every room has a PS3 to play the DVDs on. I feel like this is great for the youth, and maddening for the really old peeps. There are a lot of people at our hotel who are getting on in their years. Surely some of them know how to use it, but I’m sure most are more frustrated by it than anything. I barely know how to work the controller sometimes, so I can relate.

We needed a nice quiet night in. We’re going to tackle the hike up Diamond Head tomorrow, so we’ll need our rest. Which is also why I’m posting tonight. I’ve gotta get a head start on the day and doing the blog post in the morning can be a bit of a time-suck.

So, now that I’m done, nighty night!

The Grilled Cheese

Laughing always helps. Over the years it’s proven itself to be the best way to diffuse my bouts of atomic anger. I wouldn’t characterize myself as an angry person in general. I think I just got gypped on patience the day that it was being handed out amongst the newborns. Got heaps of stubborn and disrespectful though. Oh yes, lots of those.

But back to patience. My temper has always been the result of my significant lack of patience. Not from some inherently angry demon troll that lives within. Nothing crazy like that. But I was that kid that would erupt in rage, seemingly out of nowhere, to the horror of my family and many bewildered onlookers alike. That is, if we happened to be in public when the very last imperceptible vestiges of my patience had waned. And by waned I mean instantaneously depleted the second something fucking stupid happened.

Yeah, I was that kid. I’m sure my mom got plenty of those glances anytime I went off in public. You know, the “wow, your kid’s got mental problems” glances. She probably got lots of disbelieving eye-rolls too. I’m sure she did, how could she not? Don’t you roll your eyes at the screeching red-faced little brat in the supermarket that just won’t take no for answer when mommy tells him he can’t have a candy bar? Yeah me too, what a freak that kid is!

If we were at home though, I had the luxury of relative privacy when going all berserk on whatever had incited my rage that day. If a toy wasn’t working it would be hurled furiously across the room before an attempt to investigate the root of its malfunction had crossed my mind. If my sisters were pissing me off, I would hurl myself furiously across the room in an attempt to bash and claw their jerkiness out of them. When a crayon dared to step out of line, threatening to ruin another would-be masterpiece of colouring excellence, the colouring book page was viciously torn to shreds.

But just as suddenly as my rage would ignite, it would extinguish too. I’d scamper over to that toy I’d hurled in haste, pick it back up and treat it more kindly. My sisters and I would decide that teaming up and using our combined jerkish wiles to terrorize the neighbourhood kids made more sense. Underneath the ripped out page an even better page would appear, with much more masterpiece potential than the previous one had. I’d erupt and cool down almost simultaneously.

During those intense throes of eruption, it was like I would momentarily leave my body. It was like sanity had stepped out for its regularly scheduled break. I would step outside of myself, silently observing as my physical being proceeded to freak the fuck out over something usually quite trivial. Then the realization of how ridiculously I was behaving would strike, and I’d laugh myself back to reality.


I vividly remember one time just going apeshit, and savagely beating the life out of an Eggo waffle because I’d gone to the tremendous effort of toasting it a beautiful golden shade of brown, only to find out after the fact that we were out of syrup. That’s an astonishingly shameful true story. It haunts my dreams, for reals. Then I laughed it off two minutes later when I noticed a new jar of strawberry jam in the cupboard. I could just dip the massacred bits of Eggo into that, and it would all be okay. As long as my mom didn’t see, of course.

As I got older, I learned to control myself. I had tantrums less and less. I learned the joys of shoving everything that ever bothered me deep down inside myself and internalizing it for all eternity. When stupid shit pisses you off, just breathe deeply and seethe. Sometimes I still have an outburst, but it’s usually only brought on by things that really warrant it. Like when bitchy cashiers close their checkout lane and tell me to move to the next one after I’ve already unloaded half of my shopping cart onto the conveyor belt. Yeah, I’m talking about you way-too-skinny-and-unnaturally-tanned clerk at Loblaws. Or annoying morons talking way too loudly on their cell phones in the morning on a crowded train. Guess what, I don’t give a shit what happened at the party on Friday or what you’re baking for the holidays, just shut the fuck up and have your conversation somewhere out of my earshot.

As a recovering Tantrum-aholic, I’m pretty good at spotting the warning signs in others. I’m perceptive. I can sense when someone is on the brink of a complete meltdown. Like D, on Sunday.

We didn’t have the energy for cooking anything too complex on Sunday, so we opted for soup and grilled-cheese sandwiches. A simple, satisfying staple. D does the bulk of the cooking, mostly because he’s good at it and I don’t want to. But for some reason, he has problems with grilled-cheese. He’s burnt quite a few of them in his time, burning as the result of negligence. For some reason he just gets negligent around grilled-cheese. Maybe he thinks it’s too easy and just switches his brain off, I don’t know.

He was in the kitchen making dinner and I was watching T.V. I got up to get a glass of water and I glanced at the frying pan. There was an unusual amount of smoke coming up from the sandwiches.

“I think they’re burning”, I mentioned casually.

I looked up at him and his jaw was tense. His brow had creased, and he was sporting a formidable frown. I reached for a flipper, and he grabbed the pan off the stove at the same time. He drew in a steady, menacing breath as I manoeuvred the flipper under the first sandwich. “They better not be fucking burnt” he growled. I looked up at him as I flipped the sandwich, and offered a pre-emptive “it’s okay” to soothe the fury that was brewing within him.

I could see the sandwich as it started to turn, and sure enough every inch of it was pitch black. I looked at D gently, beseeching him to accept it and let it go. But it was too late.


D is quiet and collected by nature, so a freakout of this magnitude from him is quite rare. Still clutching the frying pan he dashed towards the kitchen door, his intentions were clear. I knew that if I didn’t stop him those sandwiches were on a one-way trip down 24 stories to the visitor parking lot. I jumped in front of him, blocking the way.

“It’s alright, we’ll make new ones! It’s okay”, I pleaded. He glared back at me, still furious. I smiled. “Imagine that poor person who walks out to their car and finds two grilled-cheese sandwiches on the windshield” I said.

He hinted at a smile. “One side all burnt to shit and the other still raw. Think of how ridiculous that would be if it was your car”, I continued. He considered, rolling the image around in his mind. Then, when the realization of how extreme his reaction to a couple of burnt sandwiches had been D laughed and so did I. It would be ridiculous. To find two sandwiches in such a way on your car. You’d be able to deduce exactly what had happened too. You’d see the burnt disgusting side, and you’d just know.

My heightened tantrum-sensing abilities had kicked in just in time. I was annoyed that the sandwiches had burnt too, that was my dinner after all. But diffusing D’s tantrum just took precedence. Laughter saved the day, it always does.

Having given in to many a temper tantrum in my day, I always appreciated it when others who’d borne witness just shrugged it off and acted casual, like I hadn’t just beat the living shit out of a breakfast pastry. It was outrageous behaviour yes, but understanding helped. Catching that slight, affectionate twinkle in my mom’s eye after I’d settled down made me feel better. I knew she’d get on the horn and laugh about it with my nana later that day. But that was okay, laughing about it made it better.

And I’d sensed that D needed the same thing. He needed to freak the fuck out and have me not make a big deal about it. I stopped him from doing something completely absurd, like chucking the sandwiches off of our balcony. But I also let him shout it out and helped him laugh it off.

We ate the burnt sandwiches anyways, and laughed our way through every bite.

Tripped on a Bike

I know that we’re here to celebrate exemplary little moments of the day-to-day, and the title of this post may not seem very inspiring but I assure you this was the greatest moment of my week by a long shot.

This past week has been one of those black holes of bullshit kind. You know the one, you’ve had them before. The week where every “Worst Case Scenario” comes true. The one that ruthlessly rapes your will to live again and again. The kind of week that makes you want to fling yourself from your balcony, even though you only live on the second floor and at best would sustain a minor head injury or ankle sprain. Yes, it was one of those weeks…

I started feeling like a zombie by the end of it. Not just feel like a zombie, but I think I went through the stages too. I got infected by the virus, but denied it and thought I’d bravely carry on. Then I succumbed to the maddening fever, and eventually faded away into the bloody grey un-dead oblivion of emotionlessness. The numbness had officially set in by the end of the week.

All that kept me hanging on was the thought of Friday night. Sweet, sweet Friday night. Friday night will go one of two ways for me now: extreme couch-potatoing or getting back to my roots by seeing how much beer I can chug before I barf in someone’s mailbox. This week I was really looking forward to the couch-potato option. I just wanted to put on my eight dollar Wal-Mart sweats, consume a metric ton of Doritos (Zesty Cheese, Score!), and only move from the couch when 100% necessary.

Friday afternoon on my way home is when the incident occurred. I got out of work, plugged in to my iPod hoping some sweet jams would make me feel human again, and hopped on the bus. A short while later I was feeling alright. I survived this hellish week and my tunes were kicking in. I strolled up to my building, walked through the door, and headed for the mailbox. I grabbed my mail, which by the way counts as mail even if it’s only coupons for burger king, and turned down the hallway to the stairs.

I should mention that the main floor of my building is rife with children. Unsupervised little assholes that run around screaming at the top of their lungs all hours of the day. Friday was a rare exception. There was nary a rascal in sight. They usually leave their shit all over the halls too. Case in point, the bike.

A fucking pink, purple, and green two-wheeler with training wheels was left right in front of the corner I turn down to get to the stairs. And here I was just enjoying some choice tunes while fantasizing about the plans I had for my newly acquired burger king coupons. Needless to say, I was in my own little world. I know I should have expected it because these asshole kids are always leaving their bikes around the building, but truth be told my keen ninja senses weren’t what they usually are.

As I turned the corner to the hallway I stepped on one of the training wheels which smashed the bike into my shin. I tried shifting my weight to gain my balance but I ended up toppling head first over the bike. I did make one last ditch effort to grab the walls for support, but they were out of reach and I wound up frantically clawing at the air. As I did so, the coupons went flying and I did a truly spectacular crumple into the ground. The bike was caught on my pants and on my way down the seat jabbed into my ribs knocking my breath from me.

I lay there gasping for air like a fish out of water for a moment or two. I raised my head off the ground and scanned the hallway to see if anyone was around. Thankfully I was alone. I was raving mad about the bike, and I could feel an angry snarl building in my throat. When I finally regained my breath I promptly erupted in laughter. My nasty snarl gave way to whooping waves of laughter at the thought of how ridiculous I must look. I didn’t have the energy to get up just yet, all I could do was lay there and laugh like a maniac.

I barely managed to get to my feet and gather my composure before the rotund woman living in the apartment across the hall came out shrieking “Watchoo doin’ out der girl? I gotta sleepin’ baby in here!” Although she was apparently deaf to the perpetual war-cries emanating from her 4 beastly children on the daily, she felt that I was making a real ruckus out in the hallway.

I smothered another hearty snicker in my coat-sleeve, grabbed my coupons, and bolted for the stairs.

I had forgotten what laughter felt like. My week was so grim, that I forgot about laughing, which is usually one of my favourite things. I just barely clung to my sanity this week. My main goal was to get home and cry into some empty calories. But damned if that bike wasn’t a wonderful blessing in disguise. I just let it all go.

I let the bad vibes wash away and laughed with abandon at what a magnificent sight my tumble would have been for an onlooker. It revitalized me, and brought me back to reality. I had been so wrapped up in my own troubles, I literally did not account for the world still thriving around me. I felt like myself again.

My ribs hurt like hell the next day, but I suspect that had more to do with the laughing than the bike.