I just typed about a page and a half of whining. And then I deleted it. You can thank me for it later.

My hips are killing me, and I can't decide if its from salsa lessons or from riding around town on the back of someone's bike. Either is great though.
I, um, kissed someone I shouldn't have....AND THEN I DEALT WITH IT RIGHT AWAY LIKE A GOOD GIRL, so everything's okay, but there was about a day of uncomfortable.

The problem with Leuven is that even on nights when you rpomise yourself you're not going to go out and you're going to bed early; things pick up. Case in point: Wednesday.

Wednesday I did schoolwork all day, but promised myself a quiet night. So, when Bex suggests an hour of salsa lessons I say sure, cause that'll get me home by 9. Plenty of time to read and work on logic before falling asleep.
I get home from salsa and go straight to the computer lab for a bit. Start freaking out about Christmas and go home to sit with Morna and get her to calm me down.
Enter Joe and Eric, going to a cocktail party at Davis', only for a few drinks. It's only ten, so I figure I'll be home by 11:30, won't do reading and will still be in bed before 12.
Cocktail party at Davis's runs til 1am. Then there's word of a Spanish party we're all invited too...off we go.
Spanish party's cool, but as I head out to go home to go to bed I'm stopped by Javier who aska me where I'm going. I say home to bed, and when he finds out my class tomorrow starts at 4 he forces another beer into my hand and I stay til 3:30

Finally leave and get lost on the way home with Joe, end up at home at quarter to five.
This is my life.


I've counted and I now know about 14 different ways to make pasta. Cheaply.
Even still, I live off of Paprika chips and grilled cheese sandwiches, though tomorrow I'm going to endeavour to make hummus.

........baby did a bad, bad thing.......

Morna has two friends down from Ottawa who've been touring about Europe for a little over two months now, and are going home in about a week or so. Paul, who's hilarious and really charming, and Kenny, with whom Morna has a past and to his credit is attractive. Blue eyes, brown hair...you get the picture.

So guess which one I woke up next to this morning...

Yeah. Wait for it.

I'm sick. I sound like an old woman with consumption. I'm spending the day reading in bed wearing one of those sweater-bathrobe deals. Morna just made me tea and brought in my mail and is going to buy me oranges later when she goes grocery shopping. If she keeps this up she's going to end up Mrs Desiree Connors.

Being doted on by someone other than my mom is a weird, wonderful feeling...kind of like being loved.

So, my hair is black. It's time I come to terms with this. The hat is coming off!
When I was in grade 9 I started tossing around the idea of getting bangs. Every girl contemplates this sooner or later, along with getting a perm (also done) and cutting it all off (coming soon!), though usually these flights of hair related fancy eventually fade away when you realize that your face is too long, or you're too lazy for anything that won't fit neatly under a ballcap.

Unfortunately I have very dynamic friends, so one evening when we were hanging out...watching....I don't know, Sliders or something embarassing like that (though my crush on Jerry O'Connell is WAY more embarassing) when Jen Hamilton turned to me and announced that she was bored. I shrugged it off and continued salivating at Quinn trying to survive in an alternate universe when Stacey has an epiphany that would forever change my...next few months.

"Let's give her bangs!" She exclaimed enthusiastically. Enthusiasm is easy to muster when its not your own image that you're thinking of mutilating. Immediately Jen started clapping her hands with glee and I figured I was screwed...but wait! There was still one glimmering chance of hope. My mom.

My mother would NEVER agree to something like this. She hated that I grew my hair out in the first place, and having two 13 year olds chop off the front of her only daughters hair was something that she'd veto at first mention.

"Um, sure guys, that sounds great...but I should really ask my mom first." I said, knowing full well I'd dodged a big scissor shaped bullet. "Oh, yeah...good idea" muttered the girls, also knowing they chances were blown.

Imagine my surprise when my mom gave them the scissors.

Her later defence was 'well, I figured you'd go and do it anyway, so why not just say yes'. Later that week she and I would establish a system of gesture similar to a third base coach in order for her to know when to say yes or no at certain requests.

The resulting 'bangs' if you could even call them that looked more like an overgrown cedar hedge. On my face. A face-hedge. Too thick, too uneven, unruly, with a wasps nest in it.

To memorialize the bangs, they were only two weeks old before picture day, and the picture that's on my grade nine student id is still being passed around today to make people laugh, as it was nicknamed 'Billy Ray Cyrus'.
The next year's id got the moniker of 'old french whore' but still...the thought of bangs makes me shudder...
Black hair ain't that bad.

I don't even remember why I was upstairs...yes I do, Luke was washing his hands in my sink when we got on the topic of money and since I've got some Canadian currency in my bag I showed it to him. A new five dollar bill. There's kids playing hockey on our money. We're such a joke country.

When we returned downstairs I noticed Morna wasn't in the kitchen. She and I had been splitting a bottle of Absolut, and she'd had one of those 'I'm drunk' epiphanies a few minutes before I went upstairs, so I figured maybe checking on her might be a good idea. I asked a few people and the general consensus was that she'd left the building to go to a nightshop and buy food. Since the kitchen had gotten nice and smokey I felt like going for a walk was a good idea, so I headed out and walked to the two nearest shops only to see that they were closed and had been for a while...

I came back and asked again, no sign of Morna. I headed upstairs to check her room. No Morna. I checked Joe, Eric and my room. No Morna. I went back downstairs, still no sign. I called her cell, no answer.

As my anxiety level raised several other people joined the search, and Dan, Luke, Joe and I took to the streets again. No Morna.

I came back and Jeff sat me down to get me to chill out and enjoy the party. For some reason he decided the best way to calm me down was to tell me a story of a friend of his who'd always run off when she'd been drinking. Then one day, she took off and when they heard from her the next day they found out she'd spent the night in the hospital, as she'd fallen asleep in the OudeMarkt and was picked up by an ambulance. So after that little anecdote I started MASSIVELY FREAKING OUT.

Joe and I walked Sandra home and then on the way back we took the long way so I could rant about all the garbage that had gone on today. That's all I needed, Leigh breaks his foot, I don't have a wallet, I lose my best friend. Good night.

We get home, go back to the party to see if she's there, but, of course, she's not...and then I run in to Jaya, who's got a friend who's sleeping on Morna's floor and needs my alarm clock, so I got get it and walk into Morna's room to leave it on her desk and see the distinct shape of someone under the covers of the bed. I wip off the sheets to find one very drowsy, very drunk Morna Boyle curled up around her blanky.

I pounce on her. Turns out she was in the freaking bathroom while I was checking rooms, and then in bed while we were roaming the streets. She'd never even left the building, just got a little too drunk and decided to lie down.

After that I proceeded to get pretty well wasted. And then we played Euchre til 6 in the morning.
And then I went to bed.

There's a party brewing in my basement, I can hear the noise.
People keep calling me to tell me they're on their way, or they'll be late and they all sound very excited.
I couldn't care less.
I was supposed to have showered a half hour ago so I'd be ready by now.
I haven't.
I partially feel like walking downstairs in another while and making what the pretentious might call 'an entrance' and then partially want to stay up here being bitter.

I had a crap day.

I don't feel like being party Desiree, although last night the idea of having all these people over and having a great time was the only thing I would think of. But today, telling my stupid story about my stupid day to Morna over swigs of wine straight from the bottle, I'd rather be anyplace but here.

My computer keeps making noise like it's going to lift off and I can't find my wallet.
Leave me alone.

Jon's page hasn't been up in a good while, and I know he has another version on another server so I decided to search for it, and since I'm in love with myself I used my name instead of his.

I found this as the second page listed. If someone who speaks fluent spanish is out there, please tell me what this is because I've never found another Desiree Connors anywhere and I'm excited to see if there are similarities.

I'm looking at you Maria.

Okay, I've got one.

A few weeks ago when Andy was out of town for the weekend he lent me his bike. I didn't buy a bike because I personally don't feel I need one. I don't need to pay to register it. I don't need to pay to make it road worthy. I don't need the hassle of getting it stolen and I definately don't need the bruised tailbone that results in riding it up and down all these cobblestone streets without shocks.

I'm very good at walking thank you very much. This town is too damn small to need to get anywhere quickly anyhow.

But for fun, when the sun was still shining and I thought I'd head out to Tienen, I borrowed Andy's bike. His bike is ghetto, but so are all the bikes. His gears jump and grind, the splashguardy thing makes cracking noises and when someone asks which bike is Andy's, we all say it's the red one, but if we were to be honest we'd say it's the shitty one.

I hopped on excited for a solo ride that would leave me with stories to regale the kids with when I returned. About forty-five minutes later I was back in my room, reddened and crestfallen.

I swear to you I had my pant leg rolled up. I'm not stupid. I know that gears eat pants. I swear to you I took this into consideration. Regardless, about 6 minutes into my journey my pants were inextricably mashed into the chain/gears. And there was nothing I could do to untangle myself. I just sort of stood there awkwardly, obstructing traffic and looking pathetic as I formulated my plan B in my head. All my formulating didn't really get me far, so I started laughing at how screwed I was. I would have cut my way out but...nothing to cut with. I could picture myself dragging this thing behind me back to my apartment, up the four flights of stairs and into my room before liberating myself and then throwing the bike out my window. That would be fun, I thought.

While I was laughing, a young Belgian man had come up behind me, and spotted the problem. He looked at me with sympathetic eyes. I shrugged and said 'I'm stuck.' The pulled my leg a bit for added affect. He nodded. 'You're stuck'.
For the next 5-7 minutes the two of us looked and pulled and turned and poked and laughed and thought. Somehow, this man managed to get me out. And we both laughed at the triumph and then shook greasy hands and he carried on his way and I returned home, vowing to never ride that damn bike again (I rode it this morning, we've made our peace)

Had i thought of it at the time, I should have given him my pants, as he freed them and therefore was better for them than I, who had selfishly gotten them caught in the mechanism of my bike. I don't think he would have understood the gesture. One of these days though, I'm gonna give someone the pants off my ass. As an intensly selfish act of selflessness. They'll talk about me for years.

Phew, I thought I didn't have anything.

Monday night, as the night before Armistice day, is a huge party night. HUGE.
I was out til 7 in the morning, dancing. And then stumbled home to witness a fight that almost resulted in the mutilation of the loud guy by the big guy, who was threatening him with a broken bottle.

This display brought my attention to something altogether unrelated.
I'm a horrible judge of character.
Or, atleast I am in Belgium.

I have been THRICE proved wrong in the span of a month, that my initial assesments of people have been way off. And what's worse is that I painted them in a negative light when it turns out they're fantastic! Not at all shallow, not at all sleazy and not at all unfriendly. What's going on? I used to be such a nice person.

There was a moment a few hours ago, the four of us were in Eric's room reading.
Morna, legs folded, back against the wall
Eric, legs up and crossed on his desk
Joe, half lying crosswise on the bed
Me, lying flat with my head on Joe's stomach.

Between the four of us we were reading Paulo Coelho, Umberto Echo, Italo Calvino and Plato.
It was peaceful, quiet and filled with the unheard sounds of our minds working away at what we were reading, interrupted only once by myself.

Yeah, I pointed out the 'O' thing.
And then we went back to living beautifully.

If you blink, you'll miss the magic that fills my days.

I could have spent the entire night in silence, sipping on my glass of red wine and watching you play the guitar.
I'm in love with your hands.

I don't think you can hold me like that if we're going to be just friends.

Friends Stick Together, by Harriet Ziefert
(because really, heartsickness is best when spread around)

Sometimes its okay if she takes more than half.
A bandage can make a big difference.
Remember her favorite colour is purple.
Save a place in line.
Be patient when she tells the same story for the fifth time.
If your friend loses a sneaker, help her look for it.
If you've already said you can't go, don't show up with someone else.
Share your umbrella.
Don't say 'last one there is a rotten egg!'
It's good to have something in your lunch bag to share.
Your backpack may be nicer, but you don't have to say so.
Stick up for your friend.
Don't call her dog ugly, or mean, or stupid.
Don't squeeze her guinea pig.
Don't be a copy cat.
You can't start over just because you're losing.
Share you nail polish.
Don't expect your friend to be excited when you get '100%'
Don't put sprinkles on her ice cream if she prefers pickles.
Exchange hats on the way to school.
Half the fun of pizza is sharing it.
Don't make fun of her new hairdo.
Collect things together.
Being Captain doesn't mean you're the best or the smartest.
Play, Don't just watch.
If she has to wear boots, don't laugh.
If the horse she's drawing looks more like a cow, don't laugh.
Sometimes you just clap.
Hold hands, then jump in together.
If she trips, help her get up.
Friends stick together.

Correspondance makes me misty

I recieved a few cards in the mail. One was from my mom. It was a simple nature picture of a baby polar bear nestled into the crook of a parent polar bear's arm. On the inside was four leaves taken off of the trees in my yard, all of whom had turned their corresponding fall colour. The note simply said 'the foliage is beautiful this time of year'. I cried a little.

Stacey sent me a package for my birthday and in it was the hardcover children's book 'Friends Stick Together' by Harriet Ziefert. Intermingled with adorable drawings of girls in play where little sayings like 'Sometimes its okay if she takes more than half', or 'Save a place in line' 'Your backpack may be nicer, but you don't half to say so' 'Don't squeeze her guinea pig' 'If she has to wear boots, don't laugh'...and so on... I cried a little more.

My dad sent me an email the day after Hallowe'en. It detailed how he had to carve the pumpkins all by himself for the first time in 21 years, since he and I were always carving partners. He'd be the architect and I'd be the engineer who built it. Since my mom and brother were out he was alone in a quiet house, carving two pumpkins. He ended the short message with.
"I missed you.
I cried a little.
Love, Me."

yup, cried.

I've been reading a lot of Calvin and Hobbes. It's good for my soul and my vocabulary.

Dearest future offspring of myself,
If at any point in your lives, I become some kind of matronly tyrant who thrives on stifling your creativity, energy or silliness in order to shape you into something else, remind me of what I did on my 21st birthday. Afterwhich I guarantee you not only will I cry, apologize and buy us all some icecream, but you may just take some years off of my age.

On my 21st Birthday I was/did all of these things:
Closed two bars in Dublin Ireland, one at 12, the other at 4.
Drank more Guinness, Bulmers Cider and Jager than is physically possible.
Was sang to in four languages.
Danced. DANCED.
Rekindled an old relationship (between a couple, neither of whom were me)
Was kissed, very sweetly, by Morna Boyle.
Skipped home. Arms linked and singing Sweet Caroline.
Woke up dry and sore after sleeping on a hardwood floor in my clothes.
Walked to a diner chatting about just how 'rockstar' last night was.
Walked, napped, ate. Read Homicidal Psycho Jungle Cat from cover to cover, outloud.
Went for ANOTHER walk in the crisp, fall Dublin air, breathing deeply and laughing at just how RIDICULOUS life can get.
Drank a glass of red wine, watched some news, fell asleep.

And if that doesn't get to me, ask me what I did on Hallowe'en 2003.
Delicious!