Ever since Shauna has moved in, she has hinted at my blogging potential. Recently she told me she couldn't wait to see my next blog. Since I am a little tired right now, I might have to use this as a starter blog that will reach its full potential later. With that exculpatory clause, I'd like to dedicate this blog to Shauna--my mentor in so many ways.

You know, not many things bring me more happiness than driving around with my roommate Shauna. Not only is she the most organized, dedicated, self-motivated, carpe-dieming person I know, but she's also--a car-dancer. That is right.

It takes more skill than you probably think it would. Car dancing requires dancing from only your waist up. Now I must confess that prior to my car rides with Shauna, I believe I did have some budding, raw, undeveloped dancing skills. As I've referenced these skills in prior blogs, I'm sure you have no doubt that I am quite an impressive dancer (please see Chantal's testimonial in the blog post prior to this one; since she is impeccably honest, you can trust that she is 100 percent accurate in her assessment of my dancing skills). With Shauna's help, however, I've expanded my performance to new frontiers, allowing me to become the polished car-dancer that I am today.

I've learned through this mentoring process that, as you car dance, you (1) don't make eye contact with the people next to you at the stoplight or passing you on the highway. If you do, you might make them feel less than adequate about their lack of dancing skills; they might feel challenged by the eye-to-eye contact. That's why they glance uncomfortably around when you look them square in the eye--they know they can't live up to the standards set by the dancing aficionado in the car next to them (that's you); (2) however, if you don't make eye contact with your envious, green light-awaiting, or highway-speeding, neighbors, and you use your best dance moves, they can't help but laugh in uncontrollable fits as your dancing example thrills them. They realize that they too can become car dancers--you have instilled hope in them; (3) in order to reach your highest potential as a car-dancer and achieve your best moves, you must sing at the top of your lungs to Eternal Flame by the Bangles, Dancing in the Moonlight by Van Morrison, or She's a Man Eater by Nellie Furtado (please only dance to this one in honor of Colette Rozelle); and finally (4) practice makes perfect. Even when you aren't feeling like car dancing, you've had a bad day, or your lower back hurts from prior car dancing experiences, you must persist in your newfound skill--that is the quintessence of becoming a successful car-dancer.

Like Van Morrison says, "You can't dance and stay up tight."

Thank you.

Chantal doesn't want to be the center of attention on my blog anymore, so it's time to talk about another one of my favorite people--Diny. Diny and I were reading last night and talking about what we were reading, and we had the most inspiring conversation. I started to think how awesome it is to have such a great friend.

Diny really is one of the coolest people I know. She is so awesome. Why? There are a ton of reasons:

1. She laughs with me over the most random things: it makes me so happy that we can laugh over ridiculous things together that no one else would find funny.

2. She'll totally feign that she needs to go to the grocery store just because she knows I need too. Then I notice that as we're picking up food, she only has two items. Did she really need to go to the store? Nope.

3. She doesn't get embarrassed when I decide to dance in the grocery store. That's impressive. Granted it was two in the morning, so maybe it'd be easier not to be embarrassed, but, then again . . . I've done it on other occasions as well-- and she still claims me as her roommate.

4. She has a contagious laugh.

5. She never talks poorly about other people. Even if she goes on a first date with a guy who asks her how much she weighs, she still finds every single positive point about him to accentuating while enjoying a good laugh.

6. She handles stress well. She can have four hours of sleep and still be the happiest person alive.

7. She can laugh at herself.

8. Diny deals with difficult situations in her life with a maturity well beyond most people's natural ability. Isn't it impressive to see someone deal with situations in a way you wish you could?

9. Whenever I'm worried, upset, or stressed, she always--ever so subtly--offers the most logical, succinct advice that puts things back into perspective.

10. She never places herself above others.

11. We can talk and talk for hours about the most interesting subjects and never get bored.

12. She inspires me to be a better person on a daily basis.

So, she doesn't know I'm writing this blog entry about her, so don't tell her. She'd probably make me take it down.

But I definitely feel that the Lord placed her in my life for a reason. Isn't it great to know that He knows everything about us and what we need in our lives?

I was talking to Chantal on the phone the other day, and she told me I hadn’t updated my blog. I admitted to this accusation and thought to myself, “I can’t let my older sister down. What SHOULD I write about?” Who was I inspired to write about other than the person from whom I once received a letter with the return address containing the name “Chantal the Magnificent.”

Yup, Chantal is the subject I would like to address. I feel like I have an insider’s knowledge of this woman. Probably because I do. Since she is one of my best friends, I think I have some license to discuss her at length. Our relationship started when she told God that she would give up her blanket if she could just have a little sister.

While basking in the knowledge that my sister wanted me enough to give up her favorite blanket, all of a sudden, my mind raced back to a time when I was sitting in a chair. Chantal was in front of me, and we were playing “test tasters.” The game goes something like this. You sit in the chair while your sister gives you food to eat, and you have to guess what she is feeding you. At first she started out with brown sugar and apples and flour, but slowly the samples developed into butter and lemon juice and somehow evolved into—cat food. Yes. She fed me cat food.

To add to this animalistic treatment, rumor has it that initially she was obsessed with my fingers. Quite odd really; but who am I to judge what other people find interesting? Well, apparently, my fingers could bend all the way backward when I was a baby. She bent my fingers backward so much that I can still bend my pinkies back to my wrists to this very day. So I can also blame a deformity, malleable fingers, on Chantal as well.

The flood gates of memory were opening, and another flashback came to me after the first two thoughts raced through my mind: one day Chantal told me that she had a gift for me. I was thrilled! How nice of her. It was in a tin box and looked SO cool. What could it be? Since when did I ever receive gifts from my older sister? It must mean that she loves me. I sat on the edge of my bed and pried it open. Little did I know that Chantal had made little paper springs out of ripped-off edges of our computer paper, so when I opened the box, I saw little pieces of popping out at me. Chantal laughed a sardonic, mischievous laugh.

The memory of Chantal’s laughter somehow connected me to another memory. I would like to title it “jail time”. Chantal and Alyssa, a girl from the neighborhood, were so cool. Man, I wanted to be like them, so I would follow them around; unfortunately, my little legs couldn’t keep up with them at times. On this particular day in question, I saw them run into my house and slam the door. I came in a minute later, panting. The phone rang and Chantal answered it. Let’s hear what happened in her words:

“This is the police? For Ginette? Because she is the only one in our family with blues eyes? Yes, Officer, we’ll hold her until you get here.”

With that, she slammed down the receiver and came after me to “hold me down until the officer got there”. As I shrieked my mother came up the stairs and asked me what was wrong. When I told her she laughed, which of course threw me into convulsive crying fits because that meant she wanted me to go serve jail time too! Cruel and unusual punishment—need I say more?

Now I want you to know, reader, that I could continue on with plenty of other stories, but you’ll have to take my word on this one. It is my contention that Chantal Methot was not in fact praying for a little sister for companionship or even friendship; it was for the simple reason of sharpening her mischievous skills on an unsuspecting victim—me.