Tick, Tick, BOOM!

86 days, 13 hours and give or take a handful of minutes. This is how much of my 20’s I have left. I have just over 3 months till my big 30th birthday. I had big plans for this one. I mean, I’ve been known to have big plans for all of my birthdays, but this one I figured had to be the biggest and best.

Tick, tick.

What my plan originally was, was to gather all my close friends (like all 5 or 6 of em) and organize a weekend trip to Vegas. That way I could do a few things at once: I could cross Vegas with my friends off my bucket list because I have never been there before and I would be guaranteed a good time for my birthday, because hello, it’s Vegas! A good time is supposed to be guaranteed! But, Kevin gently made the very valid point that if I have a hard time getting people to come to my birthday when it’s just going for a delicious and reasonably priced meal a few blocks from my house, well then it may be unrealistic to expect anyone to travel to Nevada for a weekend. If I did Vegas, there is a very good possibility that it would be an even bigger let down than last year. And it’s not like I could blame anyone for not being able to (which is just a polite way of saying not wanting to) come. I’m sure any of you in your mid to late 20’s and older can attest to the fact that finding time to set aside for friends and family is sometimes incredibly difficult. Work, dating/significant others and kids seem to be taking up everybody’s time. Most of the time it feels like there just aren’t enough hours in a day to be had. So it’s really no surprise that my birthday celebration wouldn’t be high on anyone’s priority list.

Tick, tick.

This birthday is looming for a few different reasons. I’ve been feeling old for awhile now (working with teenagers at a high school will do that to a person) but with every ache and pain I get, or anytime I play the nostalgia game and realize that I haven’t had a legit telephone land line in well over a decade, or that “Wannabe” by the Spice Girls was released 19 motherfucking years ago (and I vividly remember hearing it on the radio for the first time, and then later trying like nobody’s business to record that song on a mix tape with as little radio DJ talk) it makes me feel really, really old.

Tick, tick.

I’m also panicking because I am not in the place I was hoping to be by the time I turned 30. Sure I have a job I love, I finally have an amazing boyfriend by my side and all that, but there is still a lot I don’t have that I wanted to by the time I turned the big 30. By 30, I was expecting to be a full fledged writer, or a rock star. You know actually getting paid to write, not getting just 3 hits on my blog daily, or being a high profile rock goddess, not just reserving my singing to the shower or the car. I was expecting to be married long ago by now, (to either a regular guy, or one of the Backstreet Boys) not just having celebrated my very first anniversary with my first ever long-term boyfriend at 29. But mostly, I thought by now I would be a mom. Out of all the things I thought I’d have or be by the time I turned 30, this was the big one. And the closer I get to 30, the more disappointed and discouraged I feel, and the more the fears of never getting the chance to have kids scream their way around my brain.

Tick, tick.

It’s hard not to think about. Really hard. These days I literally cannot go 24 hours without seeing a pregnancy announcement or “bump” photos on Facebook (one of the many ways in which Facebook and a lot of people on Facebook fucking suck). Hell, some days, it seems as thought that’s all I see on my Facebook newsfeed. My family is no better; a lot of my cousins and step siblings have been procreating for years now. In fact, a cousin of mine and his wife just announced over the weekend that they are expecting in August, my 25 year old step-sister is due with her first child in 2 months and I am guessing that it won’t be long after my older brother and his fiancée tie the knot in May till they are knocked up too. Even my job is no help. But that’s my fault really, what do I expect when I started to work in a high school in a daycare set up for young moms getting their high school education? Don’t get me wrong, I do love my job, and I find working with teen moms and their babies really rewarding, but I can’t help it that I secretly find myself jealous that these immature, fresh faced 17 year olds get to have these beautiful babies, and I, ragged and old, do not. Granted I wouldn’t have wanted a baby at 17, that would have been a motherfucking nightmare, but still.

Tick, tick.

I want it to be my turn now. I want to have kids before all my eggs dry up and fall out, and I want to have kids before I’m way too old to keep up with them. I don’t know if you guys know this or not, but taking care of children requires an astounding amount of energy. Energy which I am already having trouble mustering some days, and I’m still relatively young. I would like to have kids of my own before I’m old enough to get the senior’s early bird specials. I want to have kids because my biological clock is ticking so goddamn loud that some days it is literally all I can fucking think about, and that makes me absolutely loathe being a woman. Why can’t Mother Nature just send a text once in awhile like, “Hey there. I don’t mean to interrupt what you are doing, I just wanted to let you know that I have this basket of eggs here for you. I’ll wait a while, so no rush, just something to think about. No pressure. K thanks, bye!” That approach, at least for me, would be much more welcome.

Tick, tick.

Instead, I’m over here in a panic, being pulled in a million directions every time Kevin and I get even the slightest bit close to one another. I want kids right now, but not right now. What? Well, Kevin and I aren’t ready for it. We have only been dating for 13 months. I don’t think our relationship is prepared to add a baby to the mix. I still feel like I don’t know if I’m girlfriending properly half the time. I want a baby, but not at the expense of my relationship with Kevin. This is what sucks about waiting so fucking long to find a great guy to date. It’s far too early in our relationship to be even discussing this, but it’s getting a bit too late in my life not to be. I’m caught between a rock and a hard place. The rock of course being my vagina, and the hard place being…well…nevermind.

Tick, tick.

So, for now I am just going to have to do my best to silence that annoying clock, and hope that when the time is right for Kevin and me that everything will work itself out. Now if you’ll excuse me I have to get back to my regular, run of the mill life, taking care of other people’s kids and whatnot. Oh, and probably bring Kevin to the hospital, as I am sure he probably had an aneurism while reading this.




As Long As I Got You

Hollywood has definitely given me unrealistic expectations of love and relationships. In almost every movie or tv show I have ever seen, relationships and love are portrayed in one of two ways; either they come off as perfect, with the couple never having an argument they can’t get through, or it’s incredibly complicated and messy. In those portrayals, the couples fight all the damn time, they treat each other poorly the entire relationship, and for some reason, they often stay together far too long, and end up causing both parties to leave the relationship with gigantic pieces of luggage. Or, they are meant to be with not a single bump in the road aside from one ridiculous, trivial fight that “threatens the relationship”, but ultimately makes them stronger, and every rides off into the sunset completely happy.

Don’t worry, I know that I am part of the problem with Hollywood. Because I eat that shit up. I sit there all gooney eyed, drooling over the Ryan Goslings and Channing Tatums of these movies and TV shows, wishing that I had a relationship and yes, to a certain extent, a boyfriend like that. Not because I don’t love my boyfriend, or our relationship, but because in the movies things just always work out. Always. I enjoy buying into the idea that there is a perfect relationship to be had out there, and that if you love someone enough, that happily ever after is only a couple of hours, and a few romantic montages away.

I’m starting to see how ridiculously out of touch both me and Hollywood are when it comes to relationships and love, and how ridiculous I am for actually wanting that to be my life.

This is something coupled people don’t tell you when you are single. They don’t tell you (or at least the couples in my life didn’t convey it strongly enough to me) that relationships have their perfect moments, and their messy moments, and to make things work there seems to be a need to always be balancing between smooth sailing, and getting through awful, bumpy times. Relationships aren’t like the pretend ones that big wigs get paid truck loads of money to make in order to sell tickets to a movie theatre. Real life is far more complicated than that.

Coupled people also don’t convey just how insecure and crazy town banana pants you might possibly become when you fall in love. And even if they did, you probably wouldn’t believe it’s as bad as they say. But let me assure you, it is. You will be batshit crazy, at least some of the time. And if you are like me, you will be batshit crazy almost all the time.

For me, I’m a crier. I don’t know why, I don’t know if I’ve always been so sensitive, or if it was a chain of events from a few years back that made me the blubbering basket case I am, but I find myself always within arms reach of the waterworks. Kevin (Boyfriend’s new fake name! And yes there is a reason for this name. The story behind it makes me giggle, and no, I’m not telling you about it, because frankly I don’t think anyone will find the story funny like I do) is starting to see that. There hasn’t been any argument or disagreement or feelings sharing that hasn’t ended with me in tears, and Kevin trying to make things better. Bless his heart for putting up with me. Seriously. I Kim Kardashian ugly cry at least once every couple of weeks. I’m starting to wonder what he sees in me…

Recently, what I have been crying about more than anything, is our living arrangements. Since July I have spent at most, 3 nights in my own bed, at the condo. The rest of the time I have been living out of a couple (or 4) duffel bags at Kevin’s. I go back to the condo once or twice every couple of weeks to grab something from my room, or check on the cat if Lucy is gone and her sister can’t check on Pancake, or to drop of the rent I still pay but rarely use. Then I go back to Kevin’s, and live rent free there, basically free loading off him, while paying for a place I can barely say I’m living in.

I feel like pointing out that Kevin and I have talked about the whole money thing, and not once has Kevin ever complained about the fact that I don’t (well, can’t) help out financially. He understands completely that I can only afford one place, and has said flat-out that he loves having me there with him, and that he doesn’t want me to leave, nor is he concerned about me not contributing to his house or living expenses in any way. Just in case some of you thought that the whole “loving being together all the time” thing was all me. He loves me guys, so shut up.

So,you ask, why don’t you just move in to his house?

That is a good question, anonymous question asker. It’s a question I wish I had a clear answer to. We’ve been together for 8 months, we love each other, there is no sign in sight of a pending break-up, and we have been “living together” in peace for almost 3 months already. In the movies, the “happy couple” is only ever together for a week or so before they are living together. We’ve been together for so much longer than that! So why wouldn’t actual living together not work?

Well, first off, again, this is Hollywood. And second, it really is a big step. I’ve been thinking about this a lot in the last couple of weeks, and I can see why there was hesitation when the subject of living together came up. Yes, I was the one who was guns blazing, ready to move in like fricken a month ago for crying out loud, and he was the cautious one. But now the more that I think about it, the more I can see his point of view. It is a big step. And a big first, for the both of us.

Having my room at the condo is a safety net. A rather expensive safety net, but a nice one to have, just in case. It’s there if a clean break is needed in case of a big fight or a break-up, or If I bash my shin on his great big coffee table for the 500th God damned time, and I need space – from the coffee table. Not that I foresee any of these things besides the coffee table thing, happening in the future, and I hope to hell to never be in need of a “safe house”. But shit happens. Even though we have been doing well, and have been able to work shit out like adults for the most part (minus my continuous blubbering), you never know. Shit can go sour in one hell of a hurry when you least expect it to. And unlike the movies, there usually isn’t the foreshadowing that tips you off of the trouble to come.

Now on the flip side of that, if things go well, like I’d hope they would, then living together, in theory will be great. And if we continue on the way we have been, in all honesty, it wouldn’t change anything in our relationship. Plus, if we have the motto “we can’t do that, because we may break-up” we are just setting ourselves up for failure. Yes, it would suck if shit hit the fan, yes I would be scrambling for a place to live, yes it would be awkward. But if we always hold back in fear of the relationship ending, we’ll never get to that next step in our relationship, because that’s the perfect excuse for every big step in a relationship. Moving in is a big step. In fact, it’s the one right before one of the biggest relationship milestones, which of course is recording TV shows on a shared PVR. That’s a big deal, I tells ya. Kevin is already nervous about the amount of episodes of The Mindy Project and Long Island Medium are going to be on the PVR. But that my friends is a subject for another blog one day.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I think moving in together is a good next step for us, and I think we’ll kick ass at it. Which is a good attitude to have seeing as though in this last week since I started writing this entry, Kevin and I have indeed decided to live together, officially.

So in between my brief panic attacks, feeling overwhelmed by how much shit I need to do before the 26th of October (tentative moving day) and constantly asking Kevin if he’s absolutely sure he wants to live with me, I’ll be packing all my stuff up yet again, and leaving Lucy and Pancake, for a life with Kevin. Holy shit. I’m going to be living with a boy.

If you guys thought that watching me figure out how to have a boyfriend was entertaining, my moving in with said boyfriend is just going to be a hoot. Grab your popcorn guys, this is going to be a fun ride! Actually, grab a box. I need all hands on deck for this move!


I’m Glad You’re Mine

Longevity of anything in this life, especially when it comes to love, seems almost impossible to achieve. Look no further than the current divorce rates around the world and my point is very much proved. I actually googled that stat because I was curious. And now I’m a bit depressed. I’ll share the chart that I found, because I don’t think I should be depressed all by myself.

IMG_4434 (2)
Note to self: do not get married in Belgium, and maybe consider going to Mexico to get hitched.

Now, what I didn’t post here is the rest of the information I found on that website, and the one statistic that scares me the most. It’s the one that says that children with divorced parents (like me) are more likely to never marry, and are more likely to divorce if they do. We are also twice as likely to have anxiety, depression and self esteem issues than those whose parents are still together. So, thanks for that mom and dad.

My parents have been divorced for almost 20 years. They have been divorced longer than they had been married. And they have both been remarried just about as long as they were married to each other. So in theory, we all should have moved on by now. And for the most part, we all have. I rarely think about it. My family is doing great, and my step families are both awesome. But every once in awhile when I think of my own relationships, and especially my current relationship, I can’t help but think about those divorce stats, and how that may affect me without me ever really knowing about it.

I am always worried that the rug will be pulled out from under me when I least expect it, and when I am the most happy. I play it safe, I keep people and relationships at a distance so that if something ends, or people leave, it won’t hurt as much. I’m far too pessimistic for my own good. And like I said, it’s hard for me not to be pessimistic when it comes to love. I’m sure my parents loved each other at some point. And then one day in the 17 years they were together, they started drifting apart. They slowly stopped loving each other. I saw it happen before my eyes. It was slow, and painful. I’ve already felt that pain once in my life, I’m terrified of it happening again. So sue me.

Today, as I write this (on the 21st, and partially on the 22nd), it is the official 6 month mark of boyfriend’s and my first date. Now, to most, a mere 6 months is nothing to really write home about. I used to scoff at people who used to celebrate monthaversaries. I used to think that it was childish, and immature and ridiculous to celebrate or even just being excited about staying with someone for only a handful of weeks. “Pfft, 6 months? Whoopdy friggen doo, you stayed together the average span of a Canadian winter. Congrats, but any maroon could do that.”

However, in my dating life, 6 months is a long fucking time to be in a relationship with the same guy. I’ve never lasted 6 months with anyone. Hell, making it to 6 dates with someone has been difficult for me. Even Dave #4 and I only made it to about 5 and a half months before all hell broke loose. And it’s not just about staying with someone for that long, it’s also being happy with someone for that long of a time.

So 6 months for me is an accomplishment. I’m happy to be at this point in our relationship. I’m thrilled we made it here, and that I’m as happy in my relationship as I am. I’m trying my best to remain optimistic that this one, this relationship, will be the one that sticks.

So far it seems promising. Honestly, we are one romantic montage of scenes from our time together away from being a romantic comedy starring Jason Segel and Rachel McAdams. I pick him because he is probably the actor who boyfriend is the closest to resembling, and her because I love her, and she’s far more beautiful than I am.

Getting back to the point, things have been going well. I definitely see a future with him. And I am looking forward to the next 6 months with him, and the 6 months after that, and so on. I just have to keep reminding myself that. Like I said, I have a tendency to expect the worst. And if you’ve been reading my blog for the last couple of weeks, I have some serious walls up.

I just need to focus on the good. The fact that we still get along after 6 months. The fact that all our arguments have been very small and have resolved themselves very quickly. (For the record, it’s not a god damn goose, it’s a motherfucking DINOSAUR!) The fact that he still makes me laugh my ass off, and how he still gives me the feels in my lady parts on a regular basis. Actually, the fact that everything is working quite well in the bedroom department is a very good sign. Usually that has been the first thing to go in my previous relationships. It’s also to the point that when I spend a few nights sleeping in my own bed instead of his, I don’t sleep as well, and I start to miss him. All these things are good signs. Although our lack of selfies together is cause for concern. I guess it can’t all be smooth sailing, right?

Guys, if this is the love that I’ve been looking for for so long, you can understand why I wouldn’t want to lose it! It’s pretty great!

So congrats to me for being with someone for so long, and congrats to him for being able to put up with me for so long. It’s been a great 6 months, and I can’t wait to see what the next 6 will be like.

And yes, I just spent a full entry gushing over a monthaversary. I’m lame and immature and incredibly awful.

Like you didn’t already know those things!


The Only Thing to Fear is Fear Itself

And clowns. Fuck clowns. Seriously what is the purpose of clowns? Who was the first person to dress up like that, and made someone laugh and applaud like it was actually entertaining to watch, as opposed to absolutely terrifying? Put the balloon animals away, Creepy the Clown, I don’t want you and your weird, unnatural squeak nose, and gigantic freaky squeak feet anywhere near me. Get out of my face, and go back to the circus where you no doubt spend all your time eating the souls of delicious babies or something. Seriously.

Spiders too. I get their purpose, I understand that the more spiders we have the fewer other annoying bugs exist, as they feast on those. But still. Why do they have to be so disgusting? Couldn’t butterflies feast on other bugs? Black Widow Butterfly? That sounds beautiful and tragic all at the same time. And butterflies have a great story. Transforming from a disgusting caterpillar to crime fighting butterfly all while struggling with its inner/outer beauty? Come on. Admit it, you’d watch that show. Or talk about a top selling movie franchise! “Hello, Hollywood? It’s me, Olivia, and boy do I have an idea for you!”

Don’t worry, this is not going to be 1300 words of the Cinderella story that is butterflies (although rest assured, I’m completely capable of doing it) nor am I going to sit here and pitch terrible movie ideas to the world via the blog. Mind you, I’m fairly certain that’s how Twilight and Fifty Shades probably got their start, so it might not all be bad news.

We all have things in our lives that we fear. It seems as if depending on what area of our lives we are talking about, the fears are a bit different. For me, the things I’m scared of on Earth, is spiders (the big ones, the little ones my shoe can manage are gross, but not so scary) and clowns (all of em), and the fear of a natural disaster wiping us all out. In my family life, I fear that if my parents don’t start taking better care of themselves, they won’t live long enough to see all the things they want to. With my own health, I fear that I won’t ever be able to fully get my shit together and that I won’t be able to live long enough to see all that I want to see. I fear that my best friends and I will grow apart and I’ll lose them. I fear that this is the only thing I’ll ever actually write and that I’ll be working in daycares until retirement. And one of my biggest fears in my life overall is that I won’t ever have kids of my own.

But right now the fear that weighs heaviest on me is the fear of losing boyfriend.

It may seem stupid and very immature, and in a lot of ways it is. But in even more ways, I am completely justified to be scared of this. After all, it took me soooo long to find someone who I actually click with, and even longer to find someone who is so good to me, and likes me just as much as I like him. So of course I don’t want to lose that. Losing that would suck.

When I re-read old entries, I am so grateful that I haven’t had a crazy dating story to write about in so long. Sure, I’ve been struggling to find shit to write about these days, and it’s getting harder and harder to find things to write about when it comes to dating. Not because my relationship is perfect (it’s pretty damn close though) but because I don’t want to make all of the details of my relationship public and international domain. But I’m so god damned happy that the days of the FWB, and the Steves and the Daves of my life are long behind me. At least for now.

Which is only one reason why I am scared to lose boyfriend. I don’t want to be back on the dating scene. It’s awful. Sure, I make light of it, finding funny ways to make jokes about all the crazy idiots out there that I’ve met over the years, and sure, some of those dating stories were fun at the time, but make no mistake: being single when all you want is to be in a relationship, and continually meeting the wrong guys sucks. A lot.  There really aren’t that many decent fish in the sea, at least not in any seas I’ve ever lived next to.  I don’t want to be back on the market.

What I want, is to be happy like this forever.  I love being boyfriend’s girlfriend.  I love having someone to talk to all the time, and someone to hang out with, even if it’s just to sit and watch TV like I would do alone anyways.  Life is just so much better when you get to share it with someone else.  And when that someone else is someone you happen to love, well yeah, the thought of suddenly, or even not-so-suddenly is a terrifying thought.  It took me 28 years to find boyfriend.  28 years to find someone who seems to just get me.  After years and years of dating dickbags who only used me for sex, or only dated me till someone else came around, or who strung me along for months, even years, with me thinking that the cared about me, when all I was, was a back-up in case nobody better ever came along, I finally found someone who is the opposite of all that.  I found someone great.  So yeah, I’m scared to lose that, terrified even.  If I wasn’t scared to lose him, I think it would mean I didn’t really care if he were around either, so I think what I’m feeling is good.

They say the only thing to fear is fear itself.  But I think fear can also mean that you are doing something new and exciting and something you truly care about.  Some of the best things I’ve experienced in my life have been scary experiences.  With the exception of clowns.

Fuck clowns.