I have a few songs that always get me pumped up and ready to slay dragons.  I’ll share them with you, but only because the dragons have recruited zombie cherubs as bodyguards and I need help on my quests.

In no particular order, here are my top ten “Girl, This Is My JAAAMMM” songs:

1) Don’t Hold Your Breath – Nicole Scherzinger

2) Helena Beat – Foster The People

3) Hit Me Up – Danny Fernandes ft. Josh Ramsay

4) That’s All – Genesis

5) N*ggas In Paris – Jay Z and Kanye West

6) Dedication To My Ex – Lloyd

7) Holler Back – The Lost Trailers

8) Never Again – The Midway State

9) Some Nights – fun.

and…

10) Space Jam.

Don’t even pretend that you don’t like that song.  I know your youth just came rushing back to you at the sight of the title.

For the last few weeks, my Monday morning yoga classes have had soundtracks courtesy of jackhammers and power washers being used downstairs.  Normally we can all ignore it and stay focused, but for some reason we were all struggling with it today.

We were in downward dog about halfway through the class and Jen (the instructor) was trying to cue us over the sound of the jackhammer without much luck.  After she got drowned out one too many times, she cleared her throat and said, “The great thing about yoga is that it allows us the opportunity to accept our external -” *jackhammer obnoxiousness* “-environments as they are.  No…judgements…”

The ridiculousness of the whole thing sent all of us, Jen included, into a fit of laughter.  The rest of the practice had a more playful tone after that, and it was a nice change of pace.  Then savasana came and I had another weird experience.  I started the pose by consciously opening myself up to whatever I needed to know, but it wasn’t long before I had to imagine closing the door and saying, “I changed my mind, I’m not ready for that!!”

My whole life started playing out in my mind, but it was only the things that I haven’t come to terms with that were making the highlight reel.  The day I realized my body was “broken” at 4 years old; the boy in preschool who made fun of me for running slower than everyone else after my surgery; the day I blacked out on the road without a reason; Maggie; Beauty.  I had to open my eyes and remind myself that I was okay, because I had started crying and I knew I wasn’t ready for what would come after Maggie and Beauty.  I don’t know why I needed to hash those things out today, but had I known ahead of time I probably wouldn’t have invited them in.  I prefer burying, even if it all surfaces at once.

Criminal Minds sets my imagination on overdrive and makes it impossible for me to sleep.

I want sangria.

Being a hippo would rock.

Smores.

Shemar Moore is the hottest man alive.

If Shemar Moore made smores and sangria for me, I would be the happiest hippo in all the land.

Patio season.

Any season is sangria season.

I could never be a murderer because I get squeamish just cutting raw chicken.

I want more cute dresses.

…and a loooonnnnnngggg jacket.

My first date was a few weeks after I turned 16.  I was so excited because I had been gettin’ my flirt on with this boy for a while and I had managed to trick him into thinking I was a cool, confident lady (which was fairly easy because he went to a different school and didn’t see my day-to-day lunacy).  Looking back on it now, I realize he had tricked me into thinking he was a cool, confident chap; we were likely both squealing and flapping our hands after every MSN conversation we had.

We were chatting about a week before our date and since he knew I hadn’t done so much as held hands with a boy yet, he asked if I was “one of those girls who thinks their First Kiss is supposed to be magical,” and I coolly responded with, “Nah, it’s more of a let’s-just-get-it-over-with type of thing,” while on the inside I was screaming, “YES!! If I don’t hear goddamn violins and singing birds it doesn’t count!”

Fast forward to the date…neither of us had our driver’s licence yet because we were both freshly 16, so we had to get our moms to drive us to the movie theatre.  We got our tickets to see Mr. Bean’s Holiday (yup) and found some seats.  Right before the movie started, Boy held out his hand and said, “Your hand, my lady?”.  I was totally unaware of the fact that some couples hold hands throughout a movie, so I put my hand in his with the expectation that he was going to give me candy or something.  Seeing that I just wasn’t getting it, he turned my hand over and intertwined our fingers before settling in to his seat.  I never told anyone, but for half a second I was a little disappointed that I wasn’t getting snacks before the butterflies kicked in and I remembered that I was on my very first date.

I honestly don’t remember anything about the movie because Boy was nervously rubbing my hand with his thumb throughout most of it and I was distracted.  My mind was racing – should I be rubbing his hand too? Am I supposed to lean my head on his shoulder? Is he bored or does he like the movie? Am I really not getting any candy? Eventually I settled on slouching in my seat to appear confidently bored while I returned the windshield-wiper thumb action.  It probably looked like we were playing a slow-motion version of a thumb war, but I was 16 and awkward and didn’t know how to be on a date.  Then, near the end of the movie, Boy leaned over and asked when it would be okay to kiss me.

My heart stopped.  Oh snap, we’re doing this.  Suddenly my hands are sweaty and I’m shaking; why am I having a seizure?? Somehow I pulled myself together enough to giggle coyly and say, “Now would be fine,” before I slipped back into internal Code Red meltdown.  It took him a couple of seconds to get his nerve up, but then he leaned over again and I got my first kiss.  All I remember is that I completely missed the ending of Mr. Bean’s Holiday and the only thing I was aware of was a big group dancing number and oh my god, why is this boy’s tongue in my face? My first kiss turned into my first makeout in about 2 seconds.  That’s not even enough time for the violins to string up, let alone play a beautiful symphony with doves flying overhead!

So, that happened.  As far as first kisses go, mine wasn’t traumatizing, but it wasn’t magical.  Not that I wanted it to be, though.  It was more of a get-it-over-with type of thing for me, anyways.  You know, whatever.

We already know that my musical taste leans heavily towards top 40 and country (with the occasional dip into rock), but I have a secret obsession…

I love Tech N9ne.

I can’t justify it in any way.  By all reasoning, I should hate his music because a lot of it sends my inner feminist into a raging fury.  I just…damn it, I just can’t quit him.  He puts on a fantastic live show and is a totally confusing person.  His onstage persona is a cocky, rude player (at the show I went to, he brought a girl up on stage and told her to flash the audience.  When she got shy and asked for a hug, he laughed and said “A hug? Girl, we gon’ fuck.”), but in reality, he’s a mix between that and a regular guy who loves his mom and just wants to find success.

Show Me A God is my favourite song, but Red Nose and Worldwide Choppers come in close second and third.  I can’t understand 99% of what he says in most of his songs (he’s a great speed rapper), but his style and sound makes my ears happy.

One of the best feelings in the world comes from seeing the fruits of your labour, and I have been riding on a high for about a week now!

My body wasn’t happy when I stopped dancing, but now that I’ve been going to yoga, pilates, and core classes for the last few months (along with walking to school now), I’ve noticed a huge change.  My posture is back to where it was when I was dancing, my legs are strong again, and my stomach is the flattest it’s ever been.  When I look in the mirror, I can’t find a single thing I don’t like.  I realize that may sound conceited (“God, I’m just soooo cute.”), but I see it more as a compliment to myself; acknowledgement of my hard work.

Forever in progress, baby!

Part of the reason I would rather see an unknown artist perform in a coffee shop than go to a big popstar’s blowout concert is that there is an actual vocal performance happening in the coffee shop.  So many major artists are resorting to lip-syncing throughout their entire show (Chris Brown, anyone?) so they can focus on dancing and strutting around the stage, and it wrecks the authenticity of the show for me.  If I wanted to hear the recorded version of a song, I wouldn’t have paid X dollars to go sit in an arena with thousands of other people to do it.

I understand that pop artists are constantly trying to set themselves apart and stand out, but the main reason I go to concerts is to actually hear the artists sing their songs, little mistakes and all.  P!nk and Beyonce are good examples of singers who can put on a fanastic show and sing live.  I would gladly pay to see either of them because they work their asses off to be able to bring something real to the stage.  On the flip side of that, we have disasters like Katy Perry who can’t hit a note to save their life, but they make up for it by distracting the audience with shiny things.

I guess that if you go to a show for the visual aspect it doesn’t really matter how the music is delivered, but I’ve grown tired of having singers all but abandon their live vocals in favour of nailing that extra 30 seconds of choreography.  Maybe that’s why I’m leaning more towards country and rock these days…it’s no coincidence that Maroon 5 or Paul Brandt take way longer to produce a new album than Chris Brown or Katy Perry do.

If I had my way, the world would not judge someone for breaking out in song or dancing between trees in public parks.  I would be allowed to laugh at my own jokes and have heated debates with my condiments.  Cafeterias would fall silent in anticipation of an old-fashioned rumble and my inner monologue would be the voice of a sassy black woman (okay, that last one is already my reality).

Part of why I love living alone is that as soon as I close that door, every piece of insane that I’ve bottled up during the day gets released in one massive dance party.  I may ask my toaster how its day went, or I might make up a song about whatever snack I’m about to eat.  Sometimes I’ll put my glasses on and just walk around like I own the place.  I’ve been told many times that I say or do things that surprise people (one friend’s words were, “I just thought you were socially retarded.”), but the weird thing is that most of the time I don’t understand why everyone doesn’t think the way I do.  Why is it so wrong to want to abandon the mundane and live life as a capybara?

Curse you, society.  You have forced everyone to forget their childhood imagination and adopt a boring thought process.

My first university test is tomorrow morning, so to amp myself up on the walk to school I will have Fever by Adam Lambert on repeat on my ipod.

I have never and will never do drugs.  The closest I ever came was a secondhand high at SunFest a few years ago, and I didn’t even realize what was happening until my friend and I were driving home and we couldn’t stop giggling.

Keeping that in mind…my friends and I had the worst case of the munchies over the last two days.  Rae-Lee and I were snacking on baby crackers after dinner last night before we broke out the chocolate ice cream with whipped cream, and by the end of the night she was triple-dipping strawberries in the whipped cream while we were all chatting in the living room (eventually we cut out the middle man and just ate the Cool Whip right out of the tub).  My favourite moment of the weekend was when Rae-Lee, Cool Whip-covered fork in hand, turned to her horrified fiance and said, “What? It’s low fat!” before shovelling down another two mouthfuls.

This morning welcomed three groggy adults (horrified fiance was still sleeping) with a breakfast wish list any stoner would be proud of.  Between the three of us, we came up with the perfect breakfast buffet:

Cereal
Omelettes
Hashbrowns
Devilled eggs
Fish
Chicken strips
Bacon
Oysters
Burgers
Poutine
Bananas

One day I will make this dream a reality.