ratchet

My street cred: I am so smrt

I woke up with a bad headache, which progressively worsened throughout the day. A hangover, really?! I didn’t drink THAT much last night. Some beer with supper, a glass of wine at my friend’s bday and a splash of delightful 15 year Guyanese rum. Must be the rum. Those bastards. I launched the emergency recovery procedures – a hangover on Monday is pretty shameful, gotta be productive, yo! I hydrated myself. Ate greasy, carby food. By 3pm, I’d maxed out my Advil consumption for the day.

I was really perplexed by this hangover sitch. Could it be old age? My bday is in 2 months and 10 days, one year closer to becoming a senior citizen. At one of my many bathroom breaks, the consequence of my diligent hydration policy, I noticed a smudge under my chin. Tried to rub it away, except it wouldn’t fade.

And that is when I understood. Not a hangover. No.

A mild concussion.


I went to the gym on Saturday. First time since March 2nd. Such a happy reunion with Coach and my crew. We skipped happily about in a circle, holding hands, in blissful companionship. Except really, we did burpees and bear walks, and Coach laughed at all our swearing and sweaty misery. Same thing.

During the warm-up set for our work-out of jerks (not the male variety; the lift), I boasted how 65lbs was too light a weight, “I’ve been gone for 5 weeks and look at that: no loss in strength. I’m AWESOME. I’m an AMAZON. BEAST MODE ON!!!!” And immediately rammed the barbell straight up into my chin, full-speed at max acceleration. I saw stars, felt my brain bounce back and forth in my skull and dropped the bar.

Coach, unperturbed, watched me and asked me kindly to refrain from killing myself on my first day back, “10 years I’ve owned this gym. Not one death. Please, Vanilla, brain-damage only, that’s to be expected in a boxing gym. But I’d rather not find out what my insurance policy covers with regards to client self-inflicted loss of life.”

I finished the workout, despite my swollen jaw, and the red bruise under my chin. Complained of a headache, like the ones I used to get after sparring.

I drank the whole weekend.

Spent all day today staring at a computer screen.

At no point did I connect the dots, and realize this was worse than getting a clean, brutal uppercut to the jaw, and with my history of (mild) boxing concussions, my grey matter is rather sensitive to getting bruised. Instead I did 100% of the things doctors tell you not to do when concussed. Woohoo!!! Brain damage for the win!!!!

Part of me is relieved that I am not allergic to delicious Guyanese rum. That would have been a real tragedy.


I tried to take a selfie, for the blog, to prove the extent of the jaw bruise (it has spread in size since Sat. In the next 48 hours, it will develop a charming yellow hue, sexy zombie-style). I failed. So I slapped on a filter to my pic, and behold, my artistic failed selfie:

Kim Kardashian would be so impressed with my selfie skills, I just know it. DUCK FACE!!!!

FYI – I’ve a history of breaking parts of my body:

Working through the Beaut legacy

New year, new me.


Beaut‘s status: beautiful guy with ok rhythm in dance class who is good for a laugh. I’ve unfollowed him on Facebook, but he’ll tag me in things that he thinks I’ll enjoy, and I will check in to see pics of his adorable little girl. We occasionally text. His penis is never ever coming near my vagina again. I don’t initiate any activities or hangout times: having previously over-invested in this whatevertionship, salvaging this friendship ain’t my burden. I’ve a busy life to live.

My feelings: Some sadness. Some nostalgia and remnants of affection. He is as fucked up as they come, but he remains good people. He is a badly abused puppy that bites the hand that tries to pet it. Cute and heartbreaking, but I’m tired of having bite marks and wondering if imma wake up with rabies one day. I’ve stopped petting him.

My feelings part 2: Given Beaut’s history (he has a tendency of women snapping and going full-blown psycho. Not the cute “imma stalk you on instagram” pyscho, but the “you should probably call the cops on me” psycho) I’m a little nervous about Main Girl. Around the time of peniscation, she announced on Fbk her intention of attending a kuduro class. When I freaked out, “hell nah – kuduro is MY joy, I ain’t gonna smile and hold your hand, pretending to be one happy incentuous family. You are not welcome here”, she innocently wondered about my reaction since, as per my blog post, it was all over between me and Beaut. She convinced Beaut that by writing To be or not be a Queen B, I meant to do her physical harm – Beaut called me in a hysterical rage, and said some vicious things I’ll never forget. In any Fbk post he tags me in, she leaves a comment highlighting how special their relationship is. Recently, she has started a blog, in the same vein as mine. True, writing is not something I own; it has brought me joy and self-awareness, and I theoretically wish that upon everyone. However… Does she so need to piss on her territory that despite my absence from Beaut’s top girls on speed-dial, she must attempt to eradicate any memory of what made me unique by taking up my hobby, blogging? She has yet to realize that talent can’t be imitated. #pettyAF #idonotfollowherblog


Having turned away from Beaut & Main Girl’s toxic shit, I’m left with myself. Blank slate. New year, new me. I alone bear the responsibility of building the life of happiness I desire for myself. But the Beaut legacy lives on inside me: I’m different now.

I’m cynical.

I’ve met a few men since Beaut. During my December trip to Paris and Madrid, one guy in particular grabbed my attention. Sassy conversation, plenty of alcohol, sexy surroundings, lowered inhibitions. We had fun. Eurodude asked for my contact info, I gave it, and we parted on the most pleasant terms imaginable.

48 hours later, it dawned on me. Eurodude hadn’t added me on social media, despite me providing him with a link to a picture on my IG profile. He must be married. I spent an hour stalking him on social media. While not conclusive, I’m confident in my assessment. Beaut legacy part 1: my main reaction was one of irritation for not having suspected earlier. Beaut legacy part 2: Eurodude’s conscience ain’t my problem. I had fun, and wouldn’t mind seeing him again, should we ever wind up in the same continent again. #whereismymoralcompass

Eurodude has emailed me a handful of times since that trip. Pre-Beaut Vanilla smiles when she sees his name in her inbox: clearly the connection was legit, since he stands to gain nothing by emailing me – we live on different sides of the pond, let’s enjoy our fun correspondence. Beaut legacy kicks in and whispers that Eurodude is emailing me to boost his male ego and keep me interested, such that if he should ever come to Montreal, or I be in Europe, he wouldn’t have to work hard to get into my pants.

Remember flower dude? He started flirting with me again when he realized Beaut was out of the picture. Only for me to realize he’d forgotten to tell me about his new Main Girl.

There isn’t a guy who talks to me that I don’t now coolly assess what his angle must be.

I reject the concept of vulnerability

Recently, I was having supper with an older guy, who remarked there comes a moment in each of our conversations where he hits a wall, and I shut him out. I’m an open book up until the point where I’m not and no matter how hard or carefully he tries to regain my trust, I remain withdrawn. Sympathetically, he explained that with him, it was either vulnerability or nothing. So far, I’ve chosen nothing – with regret, because he is fascinating and fun. But he is one that can burn me, so hell nah, bro.

It occurs to me that in setting my sights on Paris within 2 years, I am providing myself with the perfect excuse to avoid a relationship with anyone: nobody will distract me from my Dream. It happens to be mighty convenient that in so doing, I’m avoiding vulnerability like a champ.


New year, new me.

I wish I liked the new me a bit more. Not sure how to work through this Beaut legacy, but I’ll find a way. 2017 is the year my joy will shine brightly: I will not allow anything to dim it.

Aujourd’hui, je me choisis. Je choisis de cultiver ouvertement mon bonheur au sein de gens qui partagent mon désir d’avancer. Je choisis de reconnaître la vie et les gens pour ce qu’ils sont: allègres, beaux, multicolores. Du moins, c’est ce que je choisis de voir. La veuve noire

The art of photobombing

Exhibit A

This pic was taken a month ago. That would be me and Nene, at the bar, trying to take a pic celebrating our graceful handling of the hilarious 5 types of cereal moment, earlier that evening. Photobombed by alleged Chair Thrower dude. #brilliant

Exhibit B

This pic was taken last night. That would be me and Nene and KizBoxer, trying to take a pic to show off our sexy swagalicious good looks. Oh and hey! Chair Thrower photobombing like a pro.

Chair Thrower had forewarned me that he’d wear a black shirt for the sole purpose of improving his odds of photobombing me.

#geniustakesallforms #soulofanartist #dammit #ilaughedandsworeoutloudalot


Well. I forgot this still happened. Part II.

Yesterday I had another date with Young Boy (YB). You can read Part I here: it gives a little context about my mindset going into said date. A low-key affair, as we were both burnt from a long week at work. I like low-key dates because they often result in good conversations; useful in the getting-to-know-one-another stage, regardless of where that stage is headed (dating, naked gymnastics, friend zone).

Convo flowed freely, possibly because we have very different lifestyles and tastes. Even interests that we share, we approach from very different perspectives. For example, I exercise primarily because I need to remain mentally and emotionally stable: my appearance is bonus. For the longest time, despite exercising 4-6 times a week, I was rather thick (80+kilos), because of my emotional eating. Sure, that self-destructive habit made me ashamed, but thanks to my former therapist, I still felt some pride in investing the necessary time to take care of my brain and happiness. YB exercises because he feels it is a duty to remain healthy: anyone who lets him/herself go is lazy and signals to the world that they don’t respect themselves and don’t mind being a drain on society by clogging up the healthcare system with avoidable health issues. OYE. On so many levels. Yes, agreed that being overweight is linked to avoidable health issues. No, disagreed that it is a matter of laziness and lack of self-respect: those might be factors, but adulting is fucking hard, and the emotional and mental scars of life often translate into bad eating habits. Also? Life is a balancing act of conflicting priorities. To surmise a person’s whole character from their appearance?! OYE. Yet… I am not surprised. Many people share his point of view – hence my concern with maintaining my newfound #skinnybitch and #bangingbod status.

We started comparing Instagram profiles, and sharing the backstories of some of our favorite pics. I showed him a pic of me and Coach, after a particularly good, sweaty booté workout at the gym – seemed like a good choice, especially after our convo about exercising.

That’s one big black guy. How much does he bench/squat? Cute pic. Wait, you don’t fool around with black guys, do you? You DO?! Oh.” [Accompanied by a slightly nonplussed look.]

Oh, indeed.

Remember how my emotions are overwhelming, I can’t always properly identify what I am feeling, and as a result I have slightly delayed reactions? I had NO PROBLEM identifying my anger, and the only difficulty I had was biting back the impulse to reply,

Yeah, going back has been tough, you’re my trial run, white boy, and honestly, I don’t know that I am ready to make the switch back. You haven’t sold me on the concept.

SO ANGRY. Because the question didn’t revolve around me fooling around with guys. No. Specifically, it was concerned with black guys. My willingness to expose my body to black guys merits judgment. What, boy, bothers you so much about the black part of the guys I have fooled around with? Lets break down some of the most common aspects of their reputation:

  • big dicks: so is this a sizing issue, boy? Worried you can’t measure up? That I have been stretched out and am a loosey goosey?
  • into dirtier, nastier sex: well, for someone who has boasted about having a broad range of naked gymnastics interests, surely my possible exposure to similar concepts (7.5!!) can’t bother you, can it? Or are you worried I’ll call your bluff?
  • aren’t legendary for their monogamy: worried that I might be crawling with diseases? Dunno if you understand how safe sex works, but it isn’t related to the moral code of the person you bang. It is only related to whether or not the dude wears a raincoat. Worried that means that I might not be the greatest at the whole concept of monogamy? Because obvi my character is influenced by sexual osmosis. I cannot maintain my own moral compass if there is a penis around.
  • can actually cook and dance: nothing to be said, really.
  • are BLACK.

Its the last one that bothers me. Because while I am sure the other items probably were part of his reaction, its the BLACK part that really was the sticking point. So shocking that a white girl like me might actually view black males as humans worthy of my attention, time and occasionally body… the same as I do white boys. Or Arab boys (only because I find the possibility of being blown up during sex to be extremely exciting, duh). Or any other male that is alive, taller than me and funny.

Unconscious racism. Soooooooooo sexy.

There won’t be a part III.

Where I prove that I am still quite Vanilla

Lately, I’ve been feeling less Vanilla thanks to all the interesting experiences I’ve had with Coach & my boxing crew (7.5!) and my dating trainwrecks. That implied a certain loss of innocence which is rarely a good thing. Long gone are the days where my biggest concern was whether or not I’d be respecting the half-your-age-plus-seven rule with whatever guy I’d make out with when clubbing with Dynamo and the boys. [Fun story: almost 6.5 years ago, recently single, I was out on the town and saw this be-au-ti-ful athletic boy at the bar. I was 25 – a true cougar, so I thought. I flirtily asked him his age: 20. Pffffft, I thought, no way: his muscular development was such that he must at LEAST be 23-24. Why he’d understate his age remains a mystery, to this day. Fast forward the evening, and I began a torrid makeout session with him, in a darkly lit corner of the bar, because #matureandclassy. Despite his excellent kissing skills – further proof that he must be older than 20 – a nagging doubt about his age persisted in my brain, distracting me from the activity at hand. So I asked him for ID. A little bemused, he showed me his driver’s license which clearly showed that he was born in… 1990. Aka, many years after me. Aka, the next decade after me. In shock, I sat down, gave him back his ID, and announced I was unable to continue kissing him. Poor guy tried so hard to convince me, but the damage had been done. 1990. Child labor!]


Last weekend, I was out with Superwoman. Context: Superwoman counts amongst her close friends many big players in the Montreal, and even international, nightlife DJ scene. I have no interest in this scene. Over the years, her friends have become my friends that I see socially at house parties and gatherings; I frankly do not care how big/small of players they are, other than a general goodwill that they may achieve whatever professional goals and success they set out for themselves. At last weekend’s event, 2 such DJs were playing, and several other key figures from the scene were present (using words like “the scene” makes me laugh. I try apply it into an accounting context. “That partner is a big player in the aeronautical manufacturing scene. A big player!” Or better yet, “The CFO of my company is really starting to be a key figure in the carpet and flooring surfaces scene.” Totally works.) During the event, I flirted with all the guys because flirting is a lot of fun, although one of the DJs did catch my eye, and I his.

After the event finished, at 3:30am, I was ready to go home. But nooooooooo! Of one Superwoman’s DJ friends invited us over to his place to continue hanging out. I was a little dismayed. 3:30am is definitely after my bedtime. Superwoman told me to not be a little bitch: to decline the invitation would be impolite. I decided that I could suck it up for 45 minutes, long enough to not be rude, but short enough that I could be in bed before 6am. Off we went. I patted myself on the back: for the first time in my life, I was participating in a after-party, however small. #wildVanilla

At said DJ’s place, I didn’t drink: I’d long since reached the happy tipsy state that I enjoy, and had no interest in consuming more alcohol if my end goal was to sleep within the next 60 minutes. #practicalmoderateVanilla. Cute DJ was also present, still tipsily flirting with me, in front of everybody, which made me very uncomfortable: I hate having my business be entertainment fodder/gossip for others. One of Superwoman’s friends decided to intervene. He took Cute DJ aside, “Bro, you gotta close this deal! She’s a good girl! She doesn’t party much, she doesn’t do drugs, doesn’t drink too much. A good girl. Has a real job, is serious, obviously pretty, and her head screwed on straight. No drama with that girl. And she doesn’t sleep with ANYBODY! You won’t find many other good girls like her, who are also fun! Go for it!” Because, you know, nothing is sexier than a sober nerd with cobwebs in her vagina.

35 minutes into my 45 minute countdown (which was surprisingly fun, despite my exhaustion and lack of alcohol), one of the guests disappeared for 5 minutes. When he reappeared, he was distinctly more animated and talkative than before. I concluded that he had done cocaine. I had many thoughts:

As I got up to leave, Superwoman’s interventionist friend shook his head despondently at me, pointing at Cute DJ, “Vanilla, you disappoint me. I was sure you would close the deal.” Yeah, no, did I mention I don’t like being gossiped about?


So there you have it. If I was worried about becoming less Vanilla, last weekend put everything in perspective. No drugs, no hookups, no drunken fails, just staying up past my bedtime and some cobwebs. #badassVanilla

 

5 types of cereal

I love my boxing crew. And yes, they are still my crew even if I no longer box; I do the weightlifting and conditioning class 2x a week with Coach (re: Dr. Booté and Dr. Booté strikes again) and realistically, it is only a matter of time until I put the gloves back on. My home away from home. My happy place.  Anyhow, my boxing crew likes alcohol. And to party. And to be loud. And to occasionally throw chairs and start fights with scary bikers (I can’t elaborate, I wasn’t there. It remains something of a myth at the gym). Basically, I’ve never been to a party with my boxing peeps that didn’t involve piss-in-your-pants laughter and good times. Last Saturday was one such party.

At the party was a former boxer, who I will call Cereal due to his habit that night of walking up to people and randomly asking them to name 5 types of cereal in 10 seconds – go! (Surprisingly entertaining, as far as gambits go.) Cereal is as Québecois as they come. Think a rougher version of Patrick Huard, from my favorite movie, Bon Cop Bad Cop:

Cereal and I have bumped into each other at the gym for close to 5 years, he even acted as my coach in my corner for one fight, but this was the first time we actually partied together. Cereal is renown for becoming slightly colorful when he drinks, making him a perfect fit with my crew because #chairthrowing y’all. I was prepared to be entertained.

It was after midnight, when well-“hydrated” Cereal explained to the room at large (in loud, beautifully vulgar and vivid Québecois that I will never be able to adequately replicate),

For the longest time, I really didn’t like eating pussy. Wait, no, that’s not true. I was young, tsé, and I thought sex was just about cumming, I didn’t particularly care about the girl, but then I got wiser, and I learned that girls LIKE having their pussy eaten! Yeah, they really like that shit! No, its true! So, I started training for it. No, really. I trained for it. I’m ok with being honest, I’ve got nothing to hide: I wasn’t very good at it. I had to practice and practice. Like boxing! Repetition makes perfect. And I practiced a lot! I’m fucking good at eating pussy, like you wouldn’t believe. And now I tell all the young guys at the gym: eat pussy.

Cereal decided it was only right that he show one of the younger guys in the room some of his tongue techniques, despite Young Dude protesting that really, no, he was quite good with his own skill set. Cereal would not be deterred from his altruistic purpose. He approached Young Dude with intent, and right as he was about to brandish his tongue in Young Dude’s face with impressive bravado, Young Dude yelled at him, “5 types of cereal – go!” Cereal started naming all the cereals he could think of. Young Dude’s face of relief, tho. LOL.

[Now we get to the part of the story that I am less comfortable with my father reading. Hi Pa! Stop reading! Aunts and Uncles, y’all can stop too!]

Cereal approached me, as I was talking to Nene. Man on the prowl. “Vanilla, can I ask you a question?” Of course. “It’s a bit of a confidential question.” That’s cool. Me and Nene, we tight. Anything you want to say to me, you can say in front of Nene. “Yeah, that’s true. Nene is a gentleman, esti! Ok, so here goes. Vanilla, do you like getting your ass eaten? Yeah? You do? On a scale of 1 to 10, Vanilla, how much do you like it? 7.5?! Wow, you like it a LOT.” Nene’s face of comical dismay, as he turned to stare at me, his impression of Vanilla completely shattered, is LOL#2 of the party. [Disclaimer: I did say this part shouldn’t be read by my father. Ok. So Pa, if you are feeling nauseous right now reading this, it’s NOT MY FAULT.]

And now for the coup-de-grâce. “Ok, Vanilla. Here’s my offer. Any time you feel like it, between now and the end of the night, you just ask me, and I will eat your ass so good, you won’t just like it 7.5, no. You’ll like it at least 8. Maybe even 8.5. Oh yeah! You’ll like it THAT much. 8.5! That’s a pretty good number. So any time you like, just let me know. That’s what I am prepared to do for you. And you don’t need to worry, I’ve been single for 3 years, and I’ve been tested for all the STDs, I’m squeaky clean, calisse. So yeah. Let me know if you want me to eat your ass. Offer expires at the end of the night. (sotto voice:) Actually, it expires in 2-3 months, because I am generous like that. Yeah. That will be our little secret. (normal voice:) So, you just think on that, Vanilla.  It’s not every day you get that kind of offer. Think on that real good. I don’t want you making any snap decisions.” Turning to Nene, who listened to this entire exchange with a look of rapt incomprehension, Cereal fist-pumped him, “So tell me, Nene, have you ever heard an approach so sincere, so honest, and so nasty?” Cue LOL #3. Cereal stayed true to his word, and gave me time to think about it. He walked tipsily away, leaving me and Nene in helpless giggles.

I did say piss-in-your-pants laughter, yeah?

P.S. No ass was eaten that night. [Ok Pa! You can start reading again! It’s safe now!]

P.P.S. I am not being a Mean Girl by writing this post. By Monday night, this story had spread all over the gym. I am not sure who got teased more, myself or Cereal. But the general consensus is that, no, no one has ever heard an “approche aussi sincère, honnête et cochonne.”

This is what accounting humour looks like (spoiler: WAY funnier than engineering humour!)

So I had my first call with our auditors this afternoon to prep for the audit happening in November. Of course, Auditor asked me if there were any known or alleged instances of fraud thus far (mandatory audit question). Of course, I answered ‘No’ because we are good people here. I say “of course” because that is what every client has ever said to me, back in my audit life, and that is what every auditor hopes to hear – bc otherwise, their life goes from bad to hellish. That is why this is funny not an exaggeration:

I can hear you all giggling. Really, I can. “That is funny stuff!” you say. Never fear, there is a lot more where that came from.

And for possibly the most accurate gif ever, for any accountant worldwide, regardless of role or company…

Best for last… Excel is bae.

Told y’all we were hi-la-ri-ous!!!

#accountantwayoflife

#ratchetenoughforya?