A little background noise

The dirty pretty Ashley Riehl tagged my ass.

I don't mean with like...spray paint, just one of these quiz things. I'm not typically one to fill these puppies out; some things are better left unsaid. But hey, I'd might as well do it up right and blatantly self-indulge in some fan-fare. Right-o; straight to it!

1. Where is your phone? In the squatter purse.
2. Your hair? Coffee-laced ponytail.
3. Your Mom? Lawyer-type power-tripper.
4. Your Dad? Hilarious.
5. Your favorite meal? I don't eat.
6. Your last dream? I made nipple pasties out of play dough.
7. What do you like to drink? Vodka Sevens with lime.
8. Your dream? Big love in little Iceland.
9. In what room are you? The only room I've got - bachelor pad.
10. Your hobby? Nose picker.
11. What are you afraid of? Zombies.
12. Last travel? I went to Kelownafornia for Thanksgimme.
13. Where were you last night? Right here.
14. Something you are not? Super model.
15. Muffins? Blueberry buttermilk or (on the cheap side) fruit explosion!
16. Wishlist? A puppy.
17. Where did you grow up? Under a rock.
18. Last thing you did? Work.
19. What are you wearing? Super faggy turtle neck and no pants.
20. Your television? Unloved and unused.
21. Your pet(s)? See question 16.
22. Your friends? Scattered.
23. Your life? Kooky.
24. Your temper? Passive-aggressive.
25. Do you miss someone? Bump, Guppy and my super hottie man candy.
26. Your car? Mombalt Supreme!
27. Something you don't bring with you? Commonsense, apparently.
28. Your favorite shop? No pennies for candy, friends. I'm poor.
29. Your favorite color? Electric kool-aid purple.
30. Last time you laughed? 30 seconds ago.
31. Last time you cried? Sunday.
32. Your best friend? Peaced out a while back and I didn't even notice.
33. A place where you can go again and again? Starbucks, because I like...work there. Cha-ching!
34. Facebook? Only when I should be doing something else.
35. Favorite place to eat? Anywhere with yam fries.

Oh, peer now my friends, into the tiny mortal exist of yours truly and yawn - it's okay.

Tiny Dancer

Just stopping by quickly to say hi, I'm still alive despite exams in case you were wondering and also, happy December! On that note...

Today is Bump's two year escape from the wombaversary!

Can you believe it!?

Live and in Colour!

Ladies and Gents, it's a goddamn Pineapple Express! Someone get me a hammer - I'll be in the backyard building the ark.

I've been pouring over philosophy meditations and uni-illegal sparknotes trying to decipher what the hell it is the Descartes is exactly trying to tell me, and I've got to say: that man had quite a 'stache. Fitting for me to be researching him in Movember. I, too, was going to be participating in Movember this year, using other forms of body hair as my incentive. It then occurred to me two things:

1) I'm not going to raise any money by having the legs of a young Russian man.
2) It's socially unacceptable for me to cornrow that shit and treat it like a hot fashion accessory when halfway through the month I realize that I'm not raising any money and have to find an excuse as to why my legs are so disgustingly fur-lined.

So I went "eeehhh" and hauled out a new Bic for quick smooth-down in the stand-up stall shower. Plus I figure that J Jenks would make a frowny face when I disrobe, because even with the lights off, he could hear my thick leg locks swaying in the breeze of the portable heater. Daaaayuuuuum.

Have I mentioned lately that the baby upstairs has taught himself how to scream like the velociraptors in Jurassic Park? Have I mentioned lately that he likes to do this at the most inconvenient times, like when I'm trying to sleep or when I'm trying to do homework or whenever his spidey senses tingle and he knows that I'm home? Now, I'm not at all into smothering babies, but I think I might be into smothering babies*.

Kthxbye.

*obvious joke**
**don't tell my landlord

Weekend Update

From this weekend, a top ten things I have discovered/experienced:

10. Leave the Thai food creation to the Thai people; whiteys like me are only meant to enjoy.

9. If it looks like John Stamos, and walks like John Stamos, it's probably just because I've forgotten to put on my glasses.

8. It's not John Stamos.

7. Starbucks people are not friendly everywhere, despite my previous assumptions.

6. Chocolate is still delicious, especially when pricey. It's like eating money.

5. Boyfriends are adorable.

4. Credit cards make life too easy.

3. Victoria weather does now and always will suck.

2. Drinks that taste like lemonade but are really booze are both delicious and dangerous.

1. Pregnancy scare is to adult me as closet monster is to five-year-old me. Both are terrifying.

Did you know that the three McDonald's that existed in Iceland are now closed due to the overwhelming severity of the recession? Apparently Icelanders don't want to pay CAD$6.80 for a Big Mac. I refuse to live in a world where every man, woman and child cannot afford to buy the American dream*. Yes, we can, Iceland. YES, WE CAN!

*nightmare.

I use cold water detergent.

Doing the weekly laundromat run never ceases to inspire ennui, albeit of a mildly entertaining quality.

I go to this place called Squeaky's; a pretty gonzo name for a laundry place because clothing cannot squeak (squeaky clean...get it?) The soundtrack of this place varies depending on the staff of the moment and the volume of dud-scrubbers. Today was a powerful medley of the Eagles and the ever-pantless Lady Gaga. Decibels louder than it should be, going to do the wash is on par with going to a local nightclub, audio-wise.

There is a high level of hatred for the ritual of going out to do the laundry, and it starts right here at h-o-m-e. I find myself doing the smell check on certain items, sizing up their re-wearability in an effort to downsize the haul. More often than not, my clothes are clean enough, but forever have the stench of espresso woven into the fibers - the trademark moniker representative of meager earnings squeezed out at the Mecca of corporate coffee. Anyways, after sniff check disapproval, the truly rotten apples get thrown into a over-sized re-usable grocery tote and are whisked away to a romantic waterlily scented getaway.

Squeaky's likes to charge top dollar for the use of their machines, which is alright considering it's basically the high-class gentleman's club of laundromats in Vic (all others are total dive lounge types). I find myself constantly, obsessively collecting change in a self-assuring effort that clean clothes will be readily available whenever called upon. It's $2.75 to wash the dirties, which I have no problem with; it's the dryer that leaves me high and not exactly dry. I pump 10 quarters worth of the Starbucks hustle fund (that's 50 minutes worth) into those fuckers, and still end up with slightly dampened duds. Crap in a hat! Of course, the very worst part of the adventure is the walk of shame to and from the car, bag o' dirty panties in tow, passing the windows of a neighboring Starbucks (where I have worked but do not call home). People gawk like the girl with the bag is some strange bird of paradise who indulges in taking her filthy clothes out into the public eye. Hardly. I cringe with embarrassment every time my leopard-print undies somehow smuggle their way from my hands during the washer to dryer trek and onto the floor (which they seemingly always do), and there's always an air of anti-exhibitionism when I dive like Michael Phelps to snatch them up before people catch the fleeting glimpse of what covers my snatch.

It's not all bad, though, y'know. There are a few choice pros to this little establishment I make weekly visits to. I mean, bitchin' soundtrack could alone hold down the fort, but with an endless display of semen stained bridal gowns sent for cleaning, a tiny dog named Berkeley who chills with this bitch and the endearing smell of industrial cleaners, it's 2 hours of my day I don't really regret. Granted, though, when J Jenks once inquired as to what my desires were for our own place together, the only words that spilled out were "in-suite laundry".

I think that's fair.

Cranky. Profane.

It's been well over a month. I know. Shuddup.

School is heck-heck-hectic, and not very enjoyable. You know what you don't want to hear on the first day of your professional writing class?

"Look forward to a really lonely life."

Shozbot! Because living on an island is not enough, right? I'm really just going to remain confident that this is a sample of the "sage like" wisdom that every professor seems to think they have and completely dismiss it as utter hoopla. Cover your ears, my kiddies and let the adults hear: I don't like university. At all.

And now, not to sound like a radical or Oi! skinhead, but I'm beginning to think that university is for chumps. People are teaching me the things I already know, and then throw me a mark of their evaluation of how well they think I think I know it. Still following me? Kudos. Most of my classes are also value judgment and opinion based, which seems very ha-ha to me because my ass is handed back to me as a wad of cookie dough whenever I do try to form an opinion. Fuggedaboutit. Needless to say, I think I'm deserting the little island that could next year, and seeking higher ground. Bonjour, Quebec?

Doing what there, though? Go to school, sure, but for what? Writing? The more and more I hear of writing, the less and less it seems like a lucrative job opportunity. Not to sound like a hell-bound Monopoly man, but I'll be needin' me a job after I do my hard time (4 years, $40,000 - seems hard to me). Writing isn't where it's at. Really, nothing's where it's at anymore. Job security is the stuff of legend, put in the back of the filing cabinet with all those blurry photographs of UFOs. So, what can I do (with a drunken sailor)? There's always the sell-my-soul-to-capitalism-and-be-a-business-major option, but I just like my arts too dang much. The business-types, they aren't a dying breed like us true art fags. You know, the ones who don't try so hard.

F McG's Guide To Friendlationships.

So, you want to make some friends*, eh? Follow these simple steps, and you too can have plans on a Saturday night.

1. Pick Your Target
My prey? An England import in my film class who seems half hippie, half grunge but all woman. Cool people have friends with accents; pick wisely.

2. Make Contact
Tiptoe around conversations; doing the basic intro mumbo jumbo works very well if both you and your prey are in a new situation. We talked about school - progress achieved!

3. Plan A Follow-Up
If the intro checks out, hint at a follow-up. A simple "see you next class" can suffice as a non-closure statement, or you can take it the next level and do a preemptive (and potentially risky) light hang-out session. I offered to save my foreign exchange buddy a seat in our film lecture; phone numbers were exchanged for textability. Score.

4. Do Your Research
You'd never go to a job interview without snooping out a few deets about the company; the same goes for potential pals. Facebook works very well for macro-stalking, but if you want to get an even more intimate look, do a discreet follow-around. Creepy? Maybe. Informative? Highly! You might find something in common that could benefit you for step 6. Harrie Best has an unprotected profile, so I never had to deal with the latter. My findings? She's a bit of a drunk, but absolutely adorable.

5. Maintain Your Presence
If you like what you see, don't fade away. I make a point of always sitting near Harrie in our film class and creating conversation. I feel like only a couple more classes until...

6. Make Plans
These don't even have to be extensive weekend long affair types of plans, either. If you're in a school environment, offer to meet for coffee to go over notes. My girl Harrie? I'll probably fake having a shitty school week when she asks how I'm doing and then suggest we go for beer. If you find during your creeping that you've got something in common (like music), use it to your advantage. Extra cash? Buy two tickets to a local show and pretend like a friend ditched.
Ex. "I was supposed to go see the New Pornographers with my pal Johnny this weekend, but he's got the swine. I've got this extra ticket now; d'you like the New Pornographers?"

*When used on romantic opposites, this method can drum up some love action. Or at least a bathroom quickie.

Two posts in one day, like a true gangsta.

I completely forget to mention this, though it's relevancy to the previous post (or lack thereof) warrants it it's entirely own shout-out.

NOEL GALLAGER PTFO'D OASIS.

Can you believe that shit? When I heard that, my heart felt like Hiroshima in 1945.



That man right there? That man is a heart breaking sonuvabitch.

I can't talk about this. It hurts too badly still.

no teacozy without irony

I feel like a lobotomy patient, but with less drooling.

This is the slowest summer of my life. I chalk it up to the anticipation of school settling in combined with having no friends and working all the time. I ventured to find a hobby today, which proved to be more difficult than I could have imagined. I suggested to BF that maybe I should just practice being a raging alcoholic, but apparently that doesn't jive so well. Thus, the googling began.

Really, anything that's done continuously and with enjoyment could be considered a hobby. That's right, adolescent boys of the world! Shaking hands with Mr. Willy is a gay ol' hobby! Anyways, with that said, there's a really broad range of things that I could take up to keep me busy. Among the gems I found on the internet? Baking, scrap-booking and crime scene evidence collecting. Baking really counteracts the whole dieting schtick I've been on, so that one's trumped. Scrap-booking is for soccer moms who drive Mazda MPVs and wear festive sweaters; crime scene evidence collecting just seems illegal. I'm back to square one. This site is helpful, but more or less just makes me feel inadequate as a crafter.

(My mum used to do dried floral arrangements when I was a petite fille, hanging out in my dad's shop for what seemed like days; she'd emerge smelling of spray paint and hot glue only to have a cigarette or make dinner. When she was finished her creations, she took them to the Christmas craft sale. What fun!)

Making dried flower arrangements is not a hobby that appeals to me, but making stuff is something I dig f'sure. I handmade a postcard today before work, and it was satisfying enough. Good start; I patted myself on the back. One step closer to having a real hobby - I'm testing the waters. If handmade postcard making fails me, I'll just teach myself to knit. Problem? Solved!

P.S. I bought my textbooks for school, and it was like a $337 bitch slap.

Like Cats and Dogs

Okay, I have no idea what just happened.

See, I live in this shitty little basement suite and above me live the home's owners, an early 30's guy, his wife and their new baby. All I know about her is that her name is Tracey and she's got a really annoying voice. Anyways, I feel either a suicide or a divorce coming on. Why you ask? Well, I'm about to tell you; hold your horses.

They always fight. Like, this became overwhelmingly apparent on my first night of living here, when at about 2 in the morning I woke up to hyperventilating scream-crying over my head. Their bedroom is situated right over top of mine, same goes with the kitchen. Well, tonight was especially interesting. I usually only can hear the muffled and hushed half-yelling of a couple who clearly aren't in love anymore, but tonight, I could make out entire sentences. She was yelling about something that has apparently happened in the last two months and over the last 7 years, and how she feels she has to leave and take their baby with her to get him to "sort his shit out". I feel it's either a drinking/drug/gambling addiction, or he's cheating. Both are win. And then there was some sobbing. And then there was some stomping. And then he left.

:O

To be continued?

carrot top

I'm dying. My hair. Again.

Maybe.

I've been dying my naturally honey blonde hair various brown and auburn shades for the last year and a bit, and I'm finally sick of it. I've got a good inch of blonde roots, and while I'm considering just growing it out and being a blonde again, I'm kind of not down for having perpendicular Cruella DeVille hair for the next couple of years. Knowing me, I'll get six months into the grow-out process, say fuck it and throw a box of grocery store dye on it, and regret it a month later when my blonde roots creep back and I am once again reminded how beautiful my blonde hair is. So I'm considering going bright red, and while the carpet will certainly not match the drapes, there are perks to looking like Neko Case, who I (not entirely coincidentally) love. Bright red, while exciting and fabulous, is notoriously hard to maintain as red tends to fade very quickly. Aaand I kind of want to be blonde, actually.

So here are the options:

1. Go and have my hair colour-corrected to the tune of $500.
2. Go to the pharmacy and buy a box of bleach. Go to the liquor store and buy a box of Smirnies. Fly at 'er. I could potentially have all my hair fall out, but fuck if that's going to discourage me.
3. Go to the pharmacy and buy a box of temporary red hair dye. Slather it on and hope for the best/a quick fix.

I'm going to let this roll 'round the ol' noggin for a few days before I make any decisions. I think I could rock my blonde hair again now that I'm older and not so insecure about what people assume about blondes. And like, who knows? Maybe blonde hair would compliment this Karen O haircut I've got.

vroom!

I've seen commercials for Wendy's new boneless chicken wings and KFC's grilled chicken. They scare the fuck out of me. Almost as much as staying up until 3 watching a Reese Witherspoon movie marathon instead of going to sleep so's to get up early for work like a good little coffee slave - which I did on Tuesday night. Run on sentence!

I can't get over pre-teens these days. I got my first cell phone when I was sixteen years old. Lately, I've seen kids as young as probably 10 toting keybo cell phone blackberry 3g phones - Hannah Montana ringtones, Hello Kitty cellphone charms. And these same kidlets are already slaves to Planet Starbucks, slurping down grande strawberries and cream frappuccinos purchased with the money their parents threw at them to get rid of them for the day. The worst part? They think they are so cool. Bitches.

...Wow, am I really this petty over a bunch of dim-witted tweens who haven't even sprouted a pair of tits yet? Whatever; not important.

But you know what is important? The fact that the pumpkin spice latte is on it's way back to a 'bucks near you in 9 short days. I will be the first in line to receive a single grande pumpkin spice frappuccino blended coffee, and a slice of sweet, sweet pumpkin loaf. September and October are certifiably my favourite months.

Fuck yeah!

P.S. That skank boifwend o' mine went and saw Inglourious Basterds without me tonight. Tarantino is dirty genius. I want my belly to be ripe with his seed.

Too weird? I want Taco Bell.

rooms with views.

J Jenks has come and gone, and I once again feeling stranded on Gilligan's Island, less a Ginger to keep me company. And less a wedding folder to contribute to, 'cause I deleted it (explanation to follow: don't panic). Shit bricks!

I'm not a master of goodbyes. I spent the entire weekend reminding myself to not think about the fact that I'd have to put boyfriend back on a plane early Sunday morning. We got to the airport, I paid for the parking and held my breath for the moment I'd been dreading since Friday night, when I picked him up. I ignored the urge to pass the airport and make him miss his plane. I am now an unofficial fan of YYJ. But I held it together; I kept the tears in and swallowed the sick feeling that swelled up into my throat every 30 seconds like clockwork. I hid my shaking hands. A hug, a kiss and then off to go through security. I didn't want to look back because I knew I'd break down, but I did anyways. I didn't see him. My face felt hot as I walked towards the exit marked "arrivals" and stepped through puddles on my way to the car.

And then I just sat there, staring at my steering wheel. I sat there for a good 10 minutes, wondering why I've done this to myself. Knowing that every time I say goodbye, it'll be weeks before I say hello again. Worrying if we'll be the same people every time we step off the plane. And then I started the car and headed home, and I was good for a while. I made it about halfway before the tears had finally been built up beyond controlling anymore, and they came pouring out like an early morning rain. I cried until I got home, and then some, and so I lay in bed and just let myself cry until I fell asleep. I'm not a master of goodbyes. I won't ever be.

I am left, however, with the memory of an amazing weekend together. My house dances with the spirit of two people in love, there's foreign drool on the pillow next to mine and I have a collection of empty pop cans under the sink that I didn't consume. There's a receipt on my desk with his name on it from a credit card transaction and I can drive by Ross Bay Cemetery and think "that's not his family in there - we looked" and when I turned on my TV after he had been gone two days the channel was still set to TSN. I am left with the promise of the future - our future - and the knowledge that in 5 short weeks, we'll have another weekend to make memories. And in 11 long months, we'll have a lifetime of weekends together, if we want.

And so is the reasoning behind casting away all of the little wedding snippets I'd gathered. I can't sit at my computer and obsess over wedding invitations for dates that I've crossed my fingers I'd be engaged for - it's too taxing on my emotions in a way that I can't find words to explain. I am unofficially engaged to the most amazing man who, in a year from now, I can only keep my fingers crossed will still want me in the same way. And then some day it'll be official, and I can get officially excited, and make all of my official little plans and officially tell everybody I know that "I am going to be a wife!" Because to unofficially throw things together takes the excitement out of something being real and current - who knows, it might even be bad luck. My heart can wait and will wait for as long as it has to for someone to play for keeps. I have learned the patience of glaciers in my old age.

P.S. The Ikea 2010 catalogue is here! The Ikea 2010 catalogue is here!

32 and climbing.

It's...August? Shocked!

I, uh...I just read my last post and realized that menstruation makes me an emotional wreck. Bi-polar, almost. Yeesh.

I'm folded onto my couch naked with my laptop right where the name implies, and I fully intend on staying here for the rest of the day. It's dirty hot out lately, but seeing as my bachelor pad is more A/C'd than a Reno casino, hiding from the sun is easier than ever. Plus wi-fi!

I was filling out a passport application form today and I suddenly feel like the Canadian government does not trust me. I am clearly not an illegal Mexican immigrant, so please fork over the official looking piece of nonsense $87 paper so I can go to the states and shop at Big Lots. kthxbye.

P.S. 6 DAYS!!! And, I was reunited with the mombalt yesterday. We made out passionately, as we missed each other immensely. Kind of like what I'll do with someone else in 6 DAYS!!! JKFHBKLF;ARBAKFANVCNDFAOSERIGHJB!!!!!

tiny dancer

Today, the strap of my tank top slipped off my shoulder. Naturally, I reached across myself to put it back into place, and the palm of my hand brushed my naked shoulder - it scared me. Well, it didn't so much as scare me, it just surprised me? Then I started counting on my fingers and trying to remember the last time someone touched me.

And then I remembered: it was after my accident, so a week and a bit. In fact, 3 people touched me that day! The ambulance attendant put his hand on my shoulder and told me things would be okay, an older woman who I still do not know put her arm around me while I tried not to cry, and then a girl I work with hugged me, because she didn't know what else she could do for me. That hug was the first and only hug I have received since the mini-trip home, and it will probably be the only hug for another 11 days. This occurred to me just now, and I felt really sad.

And so, I hugged myself, because no one else will.

It was really good, too! I sat in bed and I hugged myself for 5 whole minutes. And I cried on my own shoulder, too, for the loss of such precious human connection. I never really realized how important hugs are, among other things, to everyday life.

But being sad about things you can't really control doesn't make much sense, so I stopped crying. It's kind of like crying over a dead celebrity - even if you felt like you knew them, you never really did, so why cry? I can't cry over the death of hugs I have never received. Maybe this is why people seek each other out, like men and women, I mean. That way, they will always have someone to hug, even when their friends have gone away. And maybe this is why people divorce each other, and why people cheat on each other, because they have forgotten to take the time to just hold one another. Is love not stated to be a basic human need?

And so I say:

J.Jenks., I will always hug you.

P.S. Ikea 2010 catalogue is coming out soon! Ikea 2010 catalogue is coming out soon!

float on

H'okay, so:

Here are your hump day updates!

1. My hair looks like someone put a bowl on my head and cut around it with safety scissors. This is okay, because I am a good friend and let Kristi cut my hair for practice, even though I am horrified every time I look in the mirror. So, I guess the good thing I get out of this is that I made a friend and that hair grows. I may look like Stuart off a MAD TV sketch for a few months, but at least I can pin it back.

2. I won't be seeing the mombalt's sweet face until next Wednesday, so I'll be hoofin' it everywhere until then. This is slightly problematic for my work situation, but hey...at least I'm getting some good exercise. The only other thing that's got me down about not having wheels is that I can't do any sort of grocery shopping and believe me when I say that I have no food in my house. I found myself eating crackers with peanut butter and jam slathered on them last night in front of the tube. I realized where I was and I started sobbing - not out of sadness, but just out of boredom. I'll grab some basic groceries tomorrow after work and walk them home with me - fast, too, to prevent spoilage. I'm speed racer's cousin.

3. On another sad mombalt note, she's got $2600 worth of boo-boos. This makes me very sad, because my insurance deductible is $1000, which makes me go into a cold sweat. I've had to ask my pops for more cheddar, and it's lucky for me that he's got more G's in the bank than Scrooge McDuck. Now, on top of that, my insurance is going to reach the sky like Kanye and I've lost the sweet little discount I've accumulated over the years, thanks to my impeccable driving habits. Sweet, sweet sorrow. I'm getting over it, though, slowly but surely. Did I ever mention how clever penguins are? One told me that money can always be made more of, but I cannot. This has given me little smiles for every time I think about it. Isn't that nice?

4. I feel like Hurricane Blonde, with every little thing getting on my nerves and stressing me out. My mother explains to me that this is natural after having something traumatic occur. It's funny, it didn't even occur to me that my little incident was traumatic, but it really was. This is on top of the other shenanigans that have been making me feel a little less Doris and a little more Morticia lately, and I'm a big, overly sensitive train wreck. It's like, not only do I kind of wish I could just poof! and be back "home" and stop missing my luvah-luvah and my nieces and my fambly, but I'm also rethinking my decision to move here, and my major in school and every other little thing I could possibly doubt. I have been told, though, that doubt is about as useful as a fire escape when you're trying to dodge a tidal wave, so I'm just going to keep pressing on and get this year over with.

And then it's marital bliss, which keeps me ever optimistic and happy! Whee!

My mood is also not helped by the fact that I am counting down to the days when I see my special someone, my vagina is about to open the flood gates and I have an annoying habit of letting things that are out of my control get to me.

But other than that, I'd have to say I'm doing alright. These are all things that are just things that take time to sort out, and I've just got to be patient.

And it's okay to cry.

laughing out loud

So, it's been a week. And by "it's been a week", I mean "shitsruff".

-The mombalt was attacked by a cyclist, so I haven't got a car right now.
-Mr. Employer didn't lay down all the requested vacation de niro.
-The public library wants 15 bones outta me. Late charges? What!?
-I pulled the hand towel ring off the bathroom wall and can't for the life of me re-attach it. It's like a tedious game of Operation every time I attempt.

I'd speak more on issue #1, but at this point, I'm done talking. The day you have a 30-year-old man become a dashboard decoration, we'll see how much you like talking about it. Chrrrrrrrrist. The good thing about telling the grandiose tale en masse is that now it's become not my story, but just a story. It sort of has that "it happened to a friend of a friend of mine" sort of feel to it, and that's sort of helped with the whole shock minimization. However, financially, this couldn't come at a worse time for me, seeing as I have less money than MC Hammer in 1993. It's alright, though: I am to my parents as a laid-off factory worker is to food stamps. See: acquisition without reciprocation. What a drag.

So, in an effort to not be a complete and total downer, boyfriend will arrive in 18 short days! Not to get into all the mushy details, but kisses shall be abound. I'm looking forward to rubbing semi-shaved noggin and being told that slap chop is pro. Love-love-love-love. Also, this Tuesday, I'm gettin' my mop chopped for free. Try not to overflow with adoration/jealousy, but this bitch be a hair model. I know, right? So glam. Cristal? Yes, please. I'm attempting to turn my negatives into positives, which is the exact opposite of what I like to do with AIDS. Lolcats help. As do underwear shopping, buttermilk blueberry muffins and cleaning my bathroom.

Oh!

Victorian mission: I'm in the market for some red cowboy boots. If I'm going to end up in Alberta, I may as well look the part. Diggin' it, akshually. Maybe I can adventure for that tomorrow. While I'm at it, I could really go for some friggin' yam fries. Chipotle mayo and I are platonic soul mates. I wish I was joking.

P.S. When written, tacking on an extra question mark always makes things look more confusing/unbelievable. Tack on too many, however, and you become a cartoon character or a fourteen year old girl on msn. Sometimes those are one in the same.

Example:

You put it where?
-vs-
You put it where??
-vs-
You put it where??????

If I were an Oscar Meyer weiner..

Here is a blog that is not about work. Calm yourself down; I know this is a rarity. I'm sick about talking about survival. I'm surviving, if surviving means rolling outta bed at 10 and eating PB&J. Shitsruff. I seem to have lost my magic touch to blog about anything other than hustlin' coffee and groaning about growing pains. Onward...

I threw some clothes in a bag and hit the road in the MomBalt last week, homeward bound for boyfriend surprising and baby welcoming. What a swell ol' time. Guppy is no longer an unknown mound under a maternity shirt; her name is Scarlet and she's basically amazing.

NBD.

I spent a portion of our nation's birthday curled into a lactose hating ball, listening to a Calgary Stampeder's game in an adjacent room. Advice to live by: not asking for double cheese on your sub when you're lactose intolerant will not only prevent explosive stomach pains, but will save you forty cents! Knowledge is power. The other portion of Canada day was spent making googly eyes at my swoon worthy better half under a night sky filled with fireworks. Romance is not dead: Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett and the uh-may-zing Billy Mays are.

Other highlights of the mini-vacation include being beat into submission at mini golf, bed linen intensive conversations, birthday cake, and getting laid - a lot.

I'm enjoying Neko Case and putting honey mustard on everything, lately. I'm going to actually cook myself a real dinner again one of these nights, and it's going to be the most explosive, orgasmic food experience ever felt by a human being. Eating caramel rice cakes in front of a re-run of CSI: does not constitute as a proper meal, I am told.

That makes no sense at all to me, because I am clearly a nutritionist.

Oh, and a happy United States day to you, my yankee friend.

The Times They Are A-Changin'

Okay, so, Michael Jackson died.

And what a sad thing it is that Farrah Fawcett died this morning and nobody cares.

All day long people have been raving about a dead M.J., and it pains me to see that
1) people care so much about a celebrity that was a weirdo as it was and
2) that Farrah Fawcett was the big story, but now it's "Farrah who?"

And this is what life is like. You're only great until someone greater does something to outdo you.

People, take note.

espresso

I've got this horrible tendency to creep craigslist and have a good lol over the desperate missing connections ads. Tonight, however, I prowled on one that is actually sort of impressive. It reads:

Coffee Hottie - m4w - 31

We approach things differently. I appear conventional, you do not. You have lots of interesting flair. I am WHITE to the extreme. My little government job makes me so.

I see you when I get my little coffee drinks. We have awkward interactions. But it's so on.

This is going to happen. It's just a question of when. And when it happens, I am going to rock your fucking world.

And for some reason, I am swoon-zilla over this.

Girls are silly.

Tonight, in South Central

Okay, can I start this off my saying in lieu of cooking tonight, I bought my dinner at a place called M&M Meat Shop. That shit was disgusting. Just thought I'd let you know.

I haven't watched television in a very long time, and by the looks of it, things have changed. It's been about 10 months since I have watched any real amount of television, and while tuned in to a movie on late-night TV last night, a newer looking Dr. Pepper commercial came on. The commercial's star? Dr. Dre.

Now, isn't this the same man who alleged beat the shit out of Dee Barnes? Reading an interview that Spin magazine conducted with the guys from N.W.A. back in September of 1991, Eazy E gives a fairly detailed description of the beating Dee received, with Dr. Dre laughing and making the attack valid by stating that he "was drunk". Violence against women is a joke to him, and yet we put him in a Dr. Pepper commercial because...?

It seems almost other-worldly to me to consider a man that once glorified gang violence is now trying to sell those same hated suburbanites a popular American soft drink. Am I the only person seeing an issue with this? It just doesn't make any sense.

It's the same as Ice Cube appearing in family-oriented films like "Are We There Yet?". Perhaps the gangsters of the early 90's have gone soft? Maybe the lack of album sales in the last 10 years have prompted them to find other means of income? Or, it's perhaps the idea that over 20 years have passed since the release of N.W.A.'s Straight Outta Compton, and in those 20 years, the surviving boys from hardcore gangster rap outfits have grown up to realize that rapping about killing and slapping bitches is both horrifying and immature. When you think about it, every adolescent goes through that period in life where they rebel against society and the criteria of idealistic existence. When you grow up in the projects, I guess you rebel a little differently.

But the real point of this is hello, Dr. Dre is in a fucking soda commercial.

It's pathetic to the point where you feel bad laughing about it.

toothy smile.

I'm having big issues with my derriere today.

I happened to catch a side view glimpse of it in the bathroom at mirror at work and I thought to myself, "hey, look at that cute rump." Okay, and then I did the saucy "check your ass out from over your shoulder in the mirror" schtick, and I was mildly horrified. My bum is a good size - I'm not complaining that it's too big. It's just that it's got this really awkward shape to it that kind of makes me a little bit sad. This is amongst a long list of physical discrepancies. Don't worry about it.

So, the new homestead has a lot of issues - it's true. What's great is that I'm a real trooper, so I can handle them in waves. What I can't handle? Single stall shower. My legs are longer than my torso, so it is a long way down for me when it comes time to hack at the manly leg stubble that I constantly regenerate. Tubs are convenient for this. Single stall showers create a bit of a challenge, and with the acrobatics I pull...let's just say that if the Starbucks thing doesn't work out, I hear the circus is hiring. Also, the strip club. No biggie.

But the real big fear with having the crown of my head pointed towards a soapy wet shower floor for unnecessary amounts of time is that I tend to get a bit head-rushy. The very last thing I want is to like, get a bit too much blood to the head, lose my balance, fall down and smack my melon so hard I die. This would suck more than just dying because I would only be found after:

1. Starbucks goes from pissed off to concerned when I fail to show for work for more than 5 shifts and don't answer my phone. I imagine they'd contact my "emergency contact" who would, in turn, contact the po', who'd come to my house and find me.

2. My landlord finally notices after 3 days that I'm somehow still in the shower, and in an Asian spitfire blaze of fury over me finagling all the hot water, storms into my humble home and finds me.

And how do they find me? Well, naked, dead and with only half of a leg shaved.

How embarrassing. ...speaking of which:

Did you hear David Carradine died? Did you hear how he died?

I used to have such a high image of him; it was lonely on his pedestal.

People Got A Lotta Nerve

I need to go no further than my patio to find top notch wildlife watching. About an hour ago, I watched two raccoons shit-kick each other out there. The other morning, I chased a deer away that was creepin' my house. I also have bunnies galore, and I wuv bunnies. Heart!

I don't know what's the matter with me lately. I've completely stopped writing and I haven't a clue why - it's not like I've got anything better to do.

Nope, the only thing I've been doing lately is thinking (and stalking wildlife from my windows). Thinking about what, you ask? About babies. It feels like my biological clock is tickin' waaaaay too soon for comfort. I can't really seem to go a day without thinking:

"Clothing at Baby Gap is adorable. Yellow is so nice, and gender neutral."

"What would make a unique but socially acceptable boy's name?"

"I really ought to find someone to father me a baby...now."

I'm really not okay with this at all. I am far too young to even consider taking on the responsibility of motherhood - I've barely started my life, and now I'm ready to ruin it with parenthood? Not likely. Christ, I can't even take care of Bump without getting antsy. Maybe it's just that I'm longing for something to take care of, because I just feel so lonely all the time. The worst part is that there was never a part of me at all that ever longed to be a mommy. It was just how I wanted things to be; I'd take care of myself and myself alone. I needed to focus on my future and my dreams and on all of my shit. So, what happened? This riot grrrl's gone soft. Perhaps it's got something to do with this funny feeling I keep having? It's kind of like a bird fluttering around in a cage, but the cage is really my heart. I'm inclined to say that this is a very scary feeling, however, it's a feeling I've yet to really make an opinion of. They say it's really great, but they talk a lot without knowing what they're talking about, don't they?

I downed a twenty-two ounce yellow slurpee tonight in about 3 minutes and had the worst brain freeze of my life, but it was awesome and perfectly childish and was exactly what I needed. I keep making myself grow up far faster than I should have, and I wish all the time that I could stop being that way.

Sad face!

32 degrees

The bitchmobile finally retired, my friends. She's happy to finally be able to rest.

The bitchmobile (real name: Susanna Avery) was born in Oshawa, Ontario in 1992 to GMC and Pontiac GM. She lived a simple life in her childhood, spending her early years in a small lot just north of Winnipeg with close friend, Chevrolet Cavalier. Few months passed before she was adopted by a small family from Red Deer, Alberta, and she spent the next few years of her life carrying them from grocery stores to schools to soccer practices and beyond. Her four doors and fuel efficiency were well utilized until the release of the 1999 Pontiac Sunfire, at which point she was sold in the classified ads to a young woman and her mechanic husband in Kamloops, British Columbia. The bitchmobile, now age 6, spent the next few years of life more simplistically, changing from the hectic schedule of a family of 4 sedan, to the casual vehicle of a childless wife. She lived comfortable parked in the driveway, occasionally traveling to and from the local women only fitness center, until one day, she was once again placed in the classified ads. Her lady had found a brand new Pontiac Grand Prix, and she no longer needed the tiny bitchmobile's steady service. She sat for many months wearing a for sale sign, until one day in May, 2 years ago, I stumbled upon her brilliance and beauty. We spent day and night together, going from one edge of B.C. to the other, and she was a steadfast and loyal companion for me. It wasn't until about 5 months ago that her reliability started to slip up, and after a long conversation together, she told me she was tired. We took one last trip together, and after a tear jerking goodbye, I watched her roll in neutral off into the sunset. And, you know, she's a lot happier now. Last email she sent me, she was in Maui with plans of visiting the East; I'm expecting a postcard any day now.

And I miss her very much.

What We Had

Things I Used To Do:

1. Take city transit.
2. Exercise.
3. Write poetry.
4. Make art.
5. Floss.
6. Care.

Explanations:

1. I got a car, and it was a dirty mistake because all I've done is spend foolish amounts of money on things like gasoline and insurance for the last 3 years.
2. I got lazy
3. I got boring.
4. I lost my creative sense.
5. I gave up.
6. See #5.

That is all.

On Air

I went to my first hockey game last night.

It was so loud there, with everyone talking to each other or people cheering; collective sighs and boos. The men behind me were talking to the players, almost believing that they could really hear them. And everyone had towels to swing around, and seeing everyone do so all at once was almost surreal. Hockey, I have discovered, is more about showmanship than sportsmanship. Hockey seems to be a game in which fighting is encouraged - other than in boxing, of course. You don't usually see tennis players scrapping with their rackets in hand. More importantly, the fans have the same intensity as the players - one of which I'm sure fuels the other. Never have I seen such loyalty and idolatry as I have when it comes to fans and their respective teams and their game - which seems more painfully North American than it is.

I'm sitting in my kitchen right now, and when I look out my window, I can count six identical windows, all aligned and covered with the same white curtains, on my neighbour's house. They stretch from one side all the way to the other side of the house, and this is peculiar to me. It's so quiet today, both inside and out. My roommate is in his room, asleep. We're both killing time before work. I feel like how I remember feeling when I was a child. This feeling is reminiscent of our family vacations, when we would first arrive and would be sitting in our hotel room itching for something to happen; anticipating what we knew would be in store for us, and being anxious and excited. That is how I am feeling today, but with no excitement; just anxious as all hell and wishing for something to happen.

I'm going to teach myself German and run away to Berlin.

This waiting is killing me.

control.

It's 6:30pm. I've been awake for 14 hours now.

I want to know where people go when you see their vehicles abandoned on the sides of highways. Did they break down and have to leave their car for lack of funds to fix it? Did they become enlightened on environmental crisis and simply parked it to walk instead? Or did they desert their cars because they're dead, whether by their own hands or by someone else.

I was reading last night about mental illnesses on Wikipedia (a.k.a. the holiest of all knowledge on the internet). So far, I've decided that I have dysphoria, emotional isolation, social isolation, anhedonia, ideation and I'm possibly mildly bi-polar. I remind myself, however, that psychology students often get what's known as "psychology students disease" (such a fitting title), a malady that causes would-be shrinks to self-diagnose themselves (and others) based on the things they've been taught. The same happens with medical students - they all suddenly have symptoms of the illnesses that they're learning about. See what I'm saying?

I am supposed to go to a LGBT ball tonight, of which the dress code is strictly white. However, I'm simply not feeling it this evening for 3 reasons:

1. Because I don't look good and tend to stain white clothing, I don't own anything white (minus undergarments). I would have to go out and purchase items to avoid gay boy glares for my fashion faux pas.

2. Tickets are $15, and I'm a cheap bitch.

3. I'm not even gay.

So, in lieu of transvestites and underage drinking, I shall continue my quest for clean linens this evening, joined only by David Bowie, Ian Curtis and their saucy voices. What more could a girl ask for? Swoon!

Nobody knows the shape I'm in.

I'm doing laundry and listening to Joy Division. It's been quite a day.

I used to have a dog, but when I ventured out into the world, she got pawned off onto my sister. This was okay, though, because she's had a better life living with my sister and her family. She developed a tumour in her brain about a year ago, which caused painful seizures that required her to always be under heavy medication.

Today, my sister finally resorted to euthanasia.

And this is how I know that I am not grown up yet. My sister, as hard as a decision as this was to make, knew what she had to do for the betterment of our beloved pet. This is not a decision I could make; this is how I know that my sister is an adult now and that I am still just an adolescent.

Amongst things like dead dogs and impending homelessness, I am now also discovering that only animals like geese will stay with their mate for the entirety of their lifetime, and this is breaking my heart. On some sort of utopian, sun-licked beach in the back room of my Starbucks mind, penguins can stay together for much longer than just a season.

Shitty Implants

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: porn is boring.

Now, this might just be a female thing, but I honestly can't find the entertainment in pornography. It's all the same trash: horny "barely 18" teens getting their cute little brains fucked out by a hairy fat guy who's old enough to be their dad. Girls kissing girls, among other things, and seemingly always "for the first time". Big, silicone boobies wobbling around with collagen-pumped lips to match.

I don't make it a habit to troll porn sites looking for interesting new fodder, but every so often, porn piques my interest and I go huntin'. Every time, I wind up empty handed...literally.

Such is the case not only with the skin industry, but also with major Hollywood flicks, as well. Writers have become seemingly so low on ideas that they have to draw from real life events, dress them up a bit, and then it's "lights, camera, action". I'm not trying to say that Milk (for example) was a bad movie, because neither was Ali or Karla or one of the many other bio pics that have strolled on through your local cinema 10 or Blockbuster. It's like "hey big Hollywood writer, if I want to experience life, I'll go outside and live it."

And the same goes for pornography.

Case closed.

FML.

I feel 30 today.

I was driving home from work just now, and I saw some kids playing in a mud puddle. I want to play in a mud puddle, not work a lame-ass full-time coffee "career", where I get a 9 cent raise every six months. I make espresso based bevvys for ignorant rich people that can't tell the difference between a cappuccino and a latte, and add the word "cafe" to everything.

"I'll have a cafe mocha."

These are the same jerks who give me a toonie for their $1.98 bold roast coffee, and feel like they're doing me a favour by telling me to "keep the change". Thanks a heap, coyote ugly...your two cents is totally going to make the extra mile when it comes time for me to lay down the cash for tuition this fall. Bitchin'...you're the best.

I want to play in a mud puddle. I don't want to worry about being homeless. I don't want to throw more of my things out because keeping them means they won't fit in my car when I have to move again. I don't want to keep hearing that my low wage isn't that bad, considering I get benefits and stock options and free drinks and blah blah blah. Seriously, Starpukes...get off my dick. I could care less about my stock options, because, quite frankly, the stock is always down anyways.

I swear, when it comes to my job, I'm bi-polar. Some days, I love it; other days, I just want to poison everyone. Don't worry...I'm not a safety risk, Howard.

And to lay down the last brick of today's rant: I swear to Jeebus, the next person who whines about being single is getting a face full of fist.

Being single? Not that bad.

Fuckers.

I'm out.

Any Given Wednesday

You'd better sit down because....

I have HIV.

Woah! Wooooooah! April Fool's, man. I caught you again, just like I did last year.

In all seriousness, though...April Fool's day? Where does this even come from? Well, apparently, back in the day, the world followed a different kind of calendar called the Julian calendar. When the world switch over to the Gregorian calendar, anyone still livin' in the J-days was considered an "April Fool". Yet another theory says that the unofficially observed holiday originated in France, where the year started on April 1st, back in the day. When King Charles IX decided that he was God enough to change the start of the year to January 1st, anyone who didn't catch wind of the change was an April fool. Could you imagine that conversation?

"Hey, man! Happy New Year!"

"Uh...it's April 1st today, fool."

"...what?"

And yet another explanation states that in pre-Christian times, the first of May was considered the first day of summer, when signalled the start of the spring planting season. Okay, question...if it's the first of summer, why are you just starting the spring planting? Anyways, anyone who did it ahead of time on April 1st was considered foolish. Now, really, I can think of something much better that the first of May celebrates.

So, where do all these explanations connect to the now tradition of whoopie cushions and mass computer viruses to get a rise out of people?

People just like to be assholes, and look for any legitimate reason to be so.

Next year, I'm going to be less lazy and plan something huge. Exciting!

Communist Daughter

I came home tonight and sat down in front of the lappy, as I usually do.

The only difference is that this time, I successfully connected to the internet.

I've never felt such joy.

And it's like I was a thirsty prisoner that had been thrown an Aquafina or something; the second I connected, I was like "omfg, no wai!!" and then immediately immersed into everything that I've gone without, getting as much as possible for lack of for what feels like forever. No joke, homies, I'd forgotten what it is like to have an endless source of information at my fingertips.

But, you know, there are many things I do not remember, and when I compare those losses to something silly like the internet, it pales in comparison.

I do not remember my first breath or my first words. I can't remember what I ate for dinner on my birthday when I was 12 and I can't recall my best friend's name in the fourth grade. I don't remember my sister's graduation or the summer between grades 9 and 10 and I don't remember the first time I ever drove a car.

I know these were all really great things. These are the things that make me feel sad for not remembering.

But then there are things that I choose not to remember. Good things, like the shape of my lover's nose, so that whenever we meet, I can bask in the luminance that is his face as if it were the first time, every time. I have forgotten, purposefully, the sound of the ocean and Bump's laugh, so that I genuinely appreciate them every single time, and not forget how astounding it is that I have these things. When you forget how good something is, you love it all the more when you have it again.

This, however, does not apply to dairy products, which I miss. Peeps, f'serial, I'm so sick of soy that I want to vom every time somebody says Silk.

I do not remember what it is like to have enzymes; I did not do that on purpose.

Siiiigh.

Scissor Paper Rock

I'm blogging from a Starbucks - just so you know.

I've come to the conclusion that I'm going to retire soon.

My life is ridiculous lately. Just when things hit a high point, then hit a really low low, you know? So, I'm thinkin' that, if I retire, things will just stay level for ever.

I could sleep in every day, jog on beaches in white capri pants, play golf with my fellow retirees and never work again.

Now, in reality, there's no way I can retire at this point in my life. For one thing, I'm not nearly wealthy enough. And for another thing, I think I would get bored.

I like to complain about working - in fact, I love it. But then I have a day off or two, and I remember that I haven't got anything to do ever, except for work.

In an effort to make things feel lighter, I'm wearing sandals. My toes appreciate freedom.

It's a small start.

Stranger Than Fiction.

I live for stories like this.

A very lovely young woman at work told me this story today, and I'm not really sure if I should vomit or laugh. You can read it and make your own decision on it. Get comfy...

So, there's this girl, Lindsay, a close friend of the girl I work with. Lindsay is in law school; her family's got a fairly prominent last name in the Edmonton business scene. Lindsay has been going to the same night club for a few months now, and every time she goes, the same guy is there. He's a fairly healthy specimen, and she'd like to get to know him a little better, if you catch my drift. Finally, on one fiery Friday night, Lindsay and this guy are finally both fueled with enough alcohol to lose their inhibitions and go for the sexual gold. However, at the last minute, Lindsay decides she'd rather not do the do with this relative stranger. However, she's more than willing to put his pee-pee where drinks had just been. She sucks him off in the car, and they part ways. Two weeks post-blowjob, Lindsay's top lip begins to swell in a peculiar way. When she touches it, it feels stringy and gelatinous. Alarmed, she books a hasty appointment with her M.D. to get this shit checked out. After a quick look, the doctor concludes that Lindsay's top lip is the newest home for a batch of (now get ready) worms. There's at least a hundred worms and larvae holed up in her kisser. She hits the floor (obviously), and wakes up to the doctor prepping a needle with extra strength bug killer (not literally). He injects her lip to kill the squirmies, and scribbles up a 2 week prescription of antibiotics to flush the little fuckers out of her system. Now, this seems just like any other STD horror story until now. On her way out of the clinic, the doctor asks her if she has engaged in any oral sexual activities recently. Ashamed, she tells him that she has. The doctor inquires if she had any open sores in her mouth during the time in which this incident occurred, to which she also replies yes. The doctor tells Lindsay that this is how she contracted the worms. The gross thing about this is that these worms come from engaging in sexual intercourse with animals or (worse yet) deceased human beings. Did I mention that this story takes place in Alberta yet? Figuring that this guy is like any other bored farm boy, and pissed as all hell, Lindsay hits the bar scene that very next Friday night, searching for the sheep-fucker who gave her worms. Nobody's seen him lately, but they do tell her that he lives just outside of town, with his aunt and uncle. They give her a last name and turns detective, searching them up in the white pages. Much to Lindsay's horror, when she finally finds them, it's not in the white pages, rather the yellow. This man's aunt and uncle own a crematorium and funeral home - family owned and operated. Their home? Situated above their business. And the guy she sucked off? Employed there, with unlimited access to the deceased bodies. So, no, his taste is less for cattle and more for...well, I think you get it by now. Anyways, this poor girl is now completely fucked up. She has nightmares about the incident and has been in counseling for months. She's also suing this random stranger for fucking her lip up, for stress and trauma, and for the cost of all her medications and counseling appointments. The RCMP is also now investigating the funeral home and all of it's employees because, apparently, this young man is not the only dude rocking these tell-tale worms.

Now, stories like these I usually file under the "weird and impossible" heading, and completely write off as a urban legend. But this one? There's evidence of it being 100% true, which makes it all the more disgusting. I guess the moral of the story? Be mindful of what you put in your mouth, I guess. You never really know where things have been. And I guess it's more like, don't take things for surface value. He probably looked like an average guy, but really....I don't know. There's a lot that can be taken away from this.

In other news, my internet pulled a Houdini on me. I'm currently sitting in the cafe Squid works out, tapping into their free wi-fi. I'm becoming accustomed to this sort of thing. I haven't lost the blogging passion, rather, I've lost the passion to pester my landlord to, quite literally, hook a sister up. Oh well.

I strongly feel like summer is slowly making it's way to my neck of the woods. Today, the sun was shining brightly and I was genuinely sweating in my work appropriate black turtleneck. This new burst of sun makes me feel hopeful that things will get better. Things haven't been so peachy as of late; not for anyone, it would seem.

It's my ex-lover's birthday today - a painful reminder of what was lost.

I will bury you in time.

hi, I'm heading west.

And oh my, oh my, has it been so long.

Also, hi, how are you? Let's have a story time, shall we? I can explain...

I moved. Again. Moving has certainly lost any charm it had, because this round more or less just made me want to paint my new walls with my brain, you know what I'm saying? Fortunately my constant habits in downsizing have made this big relocation adventure a little less mind-numbing, but still. I think the next round, I'm just going to have to pay someone to do it all for me, while I sit on my couch sippin' the gin and juice. Laaaaaid back.

But hey, moving is not a good excuse to stray away from jotting down the daily brew. I guess the real reason is that I've been lacking a solid internet connection for like....2 weeks? A very clever penguin figured it out for me though, and I am now currently "borrowing" my neighbour's wireless. That's what you get for bein' unprotected, muthafucka! I steal yo' shit. And I have to say....I'm really a pathetic mess with my daily fix o' interwebz.

It's not just so I can facebook creep or blog, I've discovered. It's also for really important things, like getting crucial information or phone numbers for things. There's maps and dictionaries and English-Spanish translators and currency converters and my bank account and so much more than just....hotmail. I guess I never really realized this all until I was stuck staring at the tiny screen of my cellphone, trying to navigate google. Did I mention I tried blogging from my cellular device? I did. It obvvy didn't work. Shiiiiiiit.

So, to rap this bitch up for now, I'm headed to the big city today for some fun and excitement. I'll be back tonight, so it's a short trip, but I think it'll be mad worth it. E-dubz V-dub, rockin' out.

Laaaaatez.

expect less.

I suddenly remembered a conversation I had with my mother when I was 9 years old tonight.

We were driving to the grocery store one afternoon in late April when, from the backseat, I softly asked her why people have to die. She didn't know. She proceeded to tell me that she feared death and often had vivid dreams of her own demise - she refused to share with me what happened in them, though.

For many years after that conversation, I had a paralyzing fear of death. So bad, in fact, that the anxiety I'd feel would keep me home from school and send me into crying fits, that became so numerous that it was odd for a day to pass without one. I eventually forced myself to get over it, instead turning the fear into a morbid fascination.

I think about dying more than I'd like to admit to. I think about how I will die, and when I will die. I think a lot of why I ultimately have to die. I don't think I ever really feared death. More so, I think I feared time, and simply not having enough of it. In a certain light, I'm still hanging on to that fear because (direct SK quote here) in the countdown to death, the question of why? melts into when?. How much time do we really ever have? I refuse to make plans for the future because I have such little foresight as to how long I'm going to be around for; how long I will have to keep the promises I've made. I suppose that, in holding back, I'm really not living life to the fullest - I'm not making the most of my time. It seems easier this way, though. It feels like less people get hurt this way.

So, what would I do with my last day, anyways? Don't pretend like you haven't thought about it.

I think I'd take the ferry home - to the island. My dog would be alive again, and we'd walk through the daffodil fields one more time at the farm behind my old house. We'd go down to the bay together, and I'd through sticks for her across the beach. We'd get tired after a while, so we'd nap together on the shore. We'd die peacefully there, while we slept, and the ocean's waves would take our bodies away. We drift off to sea, and nobody would even see that we were gone - nobody would be have to be sad or even miss us.

It might be depressing to think about things like this, but I also think it's therapeutic. There's no sense in ignoring the fact that one day you will die. They say ignorance is bliss, but quite frankly, I think that's more absurd that anticipating what is eventually coming for us all in the end.

What do you think?

the day after that day.

You know....Valentine's Day.

Valentine's Day has always been, to me, a meaningless holiday constructed from the combined efforts of greeting card companies and chocolate manufacturers to boost sales between Christmas and Easter. I usually spend Valentine's Day in perfect solitude, ignoring it's existance altogether. Minus, of course, giving my niece a little treat, but that's because she's my special lady. It's nice to do things like that for her, because I firmly believe that just because I'm not a fan, doesn't mean that I can't encourage her to have fun with it. It's not like she's at "that age" yet, anyway.

And now, here's the greatest thing that bothers me about Valentine's Day, and at the same time, doesn't. For me, I ask the question: "why do we need to set aside a particular day to make us all take the time to let the people we love know how much we care? Shouldn't we be doing that every day? Is that not something important to do?" Really, the world lacks love in it's day-to-day life, and that's very discouraging. Now, the thing that I do like about it is that it's one day out of the year that reminds us how much we really do love the people in our lives, and gives everyone a solid chance to let it shine. And that's good times all around, y'know?

How did I celebrate the day of love, you ask, now that I'm attached? Good question. Well, the ol' ball-and-chain was outta town, so I spent V-Day celebrating S.A.D. (Single's Awareness Day) with the lovely and charming Emily (whom, of which, I am strangely surprised is still single...wow, check out that alliteration). We made a bitchin' dinner and an even snazzier dessert, followed by hot tubbin' and a few flicks. Everything Is Illuminated I highly suggest for you to check out; Color Me Kubrick, on the other hand...I'm sorry John-boy, but sometimes you fail to impress.

I wish the red didn't fade from my hair so fast. Ben Kweller and I hung out tonight while I slathered my melon in dark-purpley Clairol goo. My hair now smells like a vanilla dream. Swoon!

Jesus loves Bowie. He told me himself.

Okay.

So, I used to be obsessed with my hair. Not so much the style, but how dirty long it was. It was mermaid hair - it was gorgeous. It was longer than a pornstar's penis, golden, wavy, and perfect! Mind you, it was shapeless and I did spend like, a small fortune on shampoos and conditioners for it. Whatever.

I had an identity crisis in August (as I'm sure you'll recall), and chopped my mop considerably. And dyed it. Whatever. It was good, for a time, but then it grew (imagine that) and I needed a change again.

And so Friday afternoon kicks in, along with where this tale is going:

I cut off all my hair. Insert heaving noises here.

It looks decent, I guess; it's more petite than it's ever been. In fact, I'm almost pretty sure that I was born with longer hair*. I had a mild breakdown last night at work and asked Scooty (in tears) "what have I done?".

"Hair grows, dear."

True.

* = indicates complete lies

P.S. It's Post Secret Sunday! It's Post Secret Sunday!

it is now February.

I was sitting on a bench downtown on Saturday morning.

I had convinced Emily to go back into the bookstore we had just come out of, and give her number to the strikingly handsome clerk who rang her issue of Interview through, and gave her a free Globe and Mail. Well, it wasn't right after we'd come out; we went for sushi first.

We had talked about the fact that, in her short 19 years, she'd never done something so bold as asking out a random stranger. I rationalized with Emily that there wasn't anything really bad that could happen in her instance - either he'd call her, or he wouldn't. She tried the old "but what if he has a girlfriend?" schtick. So what if he has a girlfriend? If he does, he won't call you. Again, it can really only go one of two ways. If anything, she flattered the young man, and possibly made his day that much better. Funny thing is that she may never even know. And so became my thought of the day: why don't we all take more risks? Why don't people chase the things that they really want? What holds people back? Can it really only be the fear of uncertainty that makes people so chicken shit to do what they want?

And so here's my new February's resolution, because my new year's resolutions didn't hold up so well: take and encourage more risks. It took me a good half hour to convince Emily to do what she did, but it was worth it, even if she doesn't get a phone call from the guy.

Life is too short to live afraid and left wondering.

trouble.

Sitting alone in a crowded room tonight, I realized:

I haven't written any poetry in 6 months.

...something is wrong.

miðvikudagur nótt

Just what the title says, yo. There's not much else to it. I'm bored.

It seems like to big moving process of August has just happened, when suddenly, I'm reliving it with exquisite similarity. Things? In boxes, slowly this time. Stuff? Garbaged, recycled, or donated. I am amazed at the amount of stuff I can manage to accumulate mindlessly. I'm a wannabe minimalist. I'm also awesome at parallel parking. Totally unrelated.

So, stuff in boxes. My abode is littered with empty Starbucks cup boxes I snagged from work (legitly) and I've been sitting, legs crossed, sifting through paperwork and knick-knacks deciding what gets to continue living it's tiny life with me, and what gets the axe. A lot stuff I feel like I need, genuinely! I already turfed 90% of my lovely little knick-knack swamped life back in August (which was a heartbreaker), and I'm sort of apprehensive to further rape myself of my identity. Because, really, that's what it is - it's like getting rid of myself. Even if it is for the best to purge myself of clutter, I feel like I'm losing myself more and more, and voiding my past from memory. I have a box of photographs under my bed that I can look at, but that hardly matters when I was so accustomed to being surrounded by life - my life.

I had this big memory board hanging on my wall for the entire duration of my high school life. It was just an ordinary cork board that was probably purchased at Sprawl-Mart for me for my 12th birthday, but it was so much more than that when I looked at it for the last time. It seemed like almost every day I'd add a bit of colour to it. I had napkins from my sister's graduation banquet, Valentines and postcards, dried flowers from opening nights of all the shows I managed, and pictures of the people I loved in photobooths all across the continent all affixed with coloured push pins. Things like that, that reminded me (should I ever forget) of the kinds of things I'd experienced and loved. It eventually became so full of memories that it took over the wall space around it, and was a feature that became a constant source of entertainment and conversation for every visitor to my little nest. My beloved memory board said bye-bye in August, though, when I knew that I had to downsize considerably for my big move. I picked all the best ones off the board and boxed them up, letting the rest of them sail off to the great big landfill in the sky, empty cork board broken and in hot pursuit. And I had never felt so empty - neither had my room.

I guess this is why I'm so unwilling to move again, because I know it just means I have to pick and choose what's worth keeping, which, we've now established, is no easy task. And let's not get misled here: I'm no pack-rat; I just find it très facile to rationalize keeping souvenirs of the past. It helps to envision the future.

And lately, that's all I'm about.

big city, blinking

I took a quick detour off the normal weekend scheddy to venture off to the greatest city in the world I've been to (so far). Shall I give ye the play-by-play? (You: Yes!)

'Kay.

I of course woke up, like, negative three minutes before I had to leave. Shameless, I know. It was a nice drive, and I ended up hitting the downtown core 'round 1-ish. I have to say, though, the Pattullo bridge being out really has traffic fucked up the ass. Sheesh. Anywho, I got my swagger on at 3 storey HMV and BMO debit had a guest starring role as I per-chazzed the Pavement cd I've been eyeing 4evaz. $28.99 well spent. Deluxe Edition reigns supreme! I also saw the prettiest drag queen of my life and broke my favourite sunglasses, which in turn broke my little heart. I snagged a quickie bite o' ethnic de-lite and vamped it up in Kitsilano (by accident), before finding my way back to where I wanted to be (downtown). Did I mention it cost me $5 to park for 2 hours? They don't make band-aids large enough to cover wounds like that. I got mad elevated near Gastown in the Observation Tower, post-Starbucks, and am in buckets of love with skylines. There really isn't much more that I find breath-taking than twinkling city lights that span for miles. I like places that never sleep. Continuing on...

I hit up Japanese for dinner (which would make that 2 nights in a row, now), and tested my gag jealousy reflex via Facebook mobile. Turns out that I see in green, but hey, let's not talk about it, shall we? I found a 24-hour Shopper's Drug Mart and I said: "Hey, a 24-hour drug store. Now, why on earth would you need one of those? What on earth could you possibly need at 3 in the morning from a drug store?" But then it hit me as hard as it probably just hit you, right? Right. After tiny adventures in the big city, I curled up in bed with Fjola and was hangin' with the Sandman pre-11 pm. Wowee!

This morning I woke up around 8:30 and promptly headed out towards the ocean. I wandered around Crescent Beach for a bit, but I eventually decided that my nipples could probably cut diamonds, so I headed to the mall for some hasty bargain hunting and to get fed. I wandered Old Navy, had breakfast at 'bucks. It was beauty. I bought some biz-caj work clothes and another Radiohead cd for less than $40. Now that is what I call some budget vacation-ing. I was homeward bound by 1, pulled into the driveway around 6. I would have been a little more timely if I had not stopped in a little town called Hope for some dirty, hopeless food....That was a bad joke. Get over it.

And here are the two most interesting things that I experienced on my mini-travels:

1) Did you know that there is Indian Style Chinese Food? Did you know that there is Chinese Style Indian Food? Did you know that both are available in vegetarian and non-vegetarian? But only one of those two are "excotic"? I love Vancouver. Vroom Vroom!
2) There's a rag-time version of Lou Reed's "Walk on the Wild Side". I would know, I heard it on the French radio channel while flippin' for tuneage. It was an amazing experience.

Someone once told me that you should take something from everywhere you go - not necessarily physically take something, but emotionally or spiritually...even just mentally. You know what I took from this? I took a wealth of new knowledge. I took away comfort and a sliver of happiness to add to my growing collection. I took away hope for the future -- my future, and my God, is it as bright as a hundred thousand blinking city lights.

Postcards from the future are better than those from the past.

long weekend.

I have 5 days off. This amazes me. I cannot recall the last time I had 5 days away from work.

And here I was hoping they would be relaxing and stress-free.

The imcompetencies of people never cease to entertain me. They also never cease to piss me off to the point of rabid fury. A woman at the post-office couldn't comprehend there being tax on a stamp, and refused to pay it, thus resulting in me having to wait 25 minutes to send a single letter.

The gal in charge of admissions and transcripts at Thompson Rivers Fuckuversity has no clue what a letter of complete withdrawal is, and thus cannot send one to UBSeein' Ya Soon. They can't accept me until they get this letter. They also are refusing to help me out by phoning TRUF-U to help them help me get them the letter. University ruined my life. It ruined it. I am not the first student to do this - this should not be this hard. HATEHATEHATEHATEHATE.

My back hurts, I'm agitated, and my mother won't stop calling me. I'm also bleeding from the unholiest of holies, which makes my emotions sprint from one extreme to the next. I also slept for 19 hours last night. I am still tired.

Did I mention I'm getting a promotion? Did I mention that promotion has an hour long interview attached to it?

I had wanted to get away this weekend to the big city to relax and not think about work or the future or anything. Yes, I'm going to the big city, but I already know it will be neither fun nor relaxing. It's going to be a pointless waste of time and money that will only stress me out further than I already am and make me want to shoot every single person I see in their fucking stupid ugly face. Bang bang.

I'm a little bit bitchy today. Can you tell?

What a way to start off the long weekend that I've been waiting for since mid-December. I think I'm going to go curl up into a little ball and cry for a few hours. That should make me feel at least a little bit better.

dance around your folk and soul

I spent an amazing twenty-four hours with an even more amazing someone. You fuckin' fox, you.

You know what's weird? Babies. Lately, that's all I think about. They're like people, except for not. They have no teeth or hair, and they're completely dependant on you. That's what scares me the most about babies - dependancy. It's like, here's this little person who needs you more than anything - what if you can't deliver? I'd want to give my baby the moon and the stars and everything beautiful. There are creatures whose children float away at birth, and those who throat-feed their young for weeks and never see them again...I'm so hormonal. deep sigh

You know what else is weird? Alcoholism as a disease. I'm not saying that it's not bad, I'm just saying that it's not correct to call it a disease. Does anyone choose to have cancer? No. However, people do choose to start drinking. And it's not like you can call in to work and be like "Hey, guys, I'm not going to be able to make it in again today - my alcoholism is acting up. Peace." If that were the case, I'd be shitfaced 3/7 nights a week. Or not. We've all heard the stories.

I felt really weird today, so I went for a highly therapeutic drive to the outskirts of nowhere and back. I also downed a 24oz. blue slushie. That's more sugar than I'm going to need for an entire year. You know, I regret that more than the half tank of gasoline I used/abused. It's cool, though - the bitchmobile's got the soul of a highly fuel-efficient Asian sports car. She's good.

Let me tell you what's really good, though: early '90s station wagons. I'm looking at you, Emily. And on that note, ciao.

wednesday morning.

I woke up this morning at 10:37.

There was a brightness behind my curtains that actually made me want to get out of bed. And I could hear birds outside. I still can. I left my window open all night in hopes that the fresh air would help remove everything that's been on my mind lately. I think maybe we've hit the de-thawing process that happens each year. It'd be awfully premature, but I'm game.

In my efforts to constantly downsize, I found some old diaries from my youth while I was clearing out drawers the other day. I read them. There were things like:

"Today mom says that we're going to take the dog to the park, but I don't want to because the last time we went, I fell off the swings and I didn't like that."

"Janelle farted in our clubhouse and now I call her Poo-Poo. Isn't that funny?"

These written in less than perfect and legible English, of course. The thing that strikes me about these weren't the brief time travel back to 1996, but more or less the kid-logic that I left there. You know, when you don't have to rationalize things except for "because".
Example: I fell of swings, it sucked, I didn't want to re-live it. End of story. That was all the reason I needed. Now, it's more or less: I fell off the swings and don't really want to re-live it, but my mother really wants to spend time with me, and walking is part of an active lifestyle, and I don't want to have a heartattack so maybe I should just do it because I have to. I'm not saying it's bad how things change, I'm just marvelling at how things actually did change. Another thing that's great when you're a kid? Everything is funny. You could say something completely ridiculous that makes no sense to anyone but you, but suddenly you're a comedic genius - especially because adults like to play along.

So, I guess I'm going to go get ready for work now, and as much as it sucks, I keep telling myself that it's not the worst thing that could happen to me today.

And I think that's a pretty solid way to look at things.

maps.

I wrote this last night in my notebook.

"Right now I'm sitting in the b-machine, and we're looking out over a snowy lake together. I vaguely know where I am; it seemed like a good idea to find something I've never seen before. I've only decided to pull over because the roads are getting fairly ugly, and I'm getting fairly heavy in my thoughts. I may be talented, but I'm not talented enough to write and drive.

It's so quiet out here. I think I may have finally found that one park that burnt four summers ago, because all the trees out here are just skeletons of themselves; black and white paintings in the snow.

I've passed two world-class wineries and a place for those with an affinity for artisan goat cheeses. It's beautiful here; it really is. It's just not my kind of beautiful.

This is what I do when I feel like this. I get in the car, and I go. I've wasted countless hours and gallons of gasoline, just driving around, listening to the same CDs loop endlessly. I'm trying to find myself, I suppose. It's like, maybe if I drive far enough or for long enough, all the answers will find me. Or, at least that's the hope.

The real truth is that I don't think I'll ever know that I'm looking for. I'm like that one shitty U2 song. Actually, that statement can be applied to all U2 songs, so let's just disregard it permanently. I'm losing my touch.

I'm going to turn the car back on now, and when I do, I know exactly what song will start playing. I know exactly where I'm turning the car on to go to. And after I go there, I know exactly what I'm doing for the rest of the night, the rest of the week, and for the rest of the month. Probably the rest of my life.

Isn't that horrible?"

Save me from mediocrity.

reeeeeeeeckonerrrrrrrrrr

"And here is the holy shrine of Fern McGee....

...patron saint of constant reassurance."

I don't know what it is about me. You could build me a home in your heart, surround me with lilacs and babies and all the stars in the sky and breathe for the both of us, but I'd still doubt how you truly feel.

This is the thing about human beings; nobody is ever truly emotionally stable. I think it comes down to a confidence thing - if you have enough confidence in yourself, then you simply don't care if anyone gives two shits about you. I'm not hesitant to say that I'm a ghetto confident lady (obvvy), so I find it particularly interesting that I constantly doubt the stability of my relationships with people, whether they're romantic or otherwise.

There's so many contributing factors to the heart of a relationship, friendship...whatever. It starts with how much you know about a person, and then how much trust you place in them. The more you trust a person, the more comfortable you will become with them, to the point where you know longer doubt anything about them. I used to place a lot of trust in people, but I'm finding it harder and harder to believe in people when I am constantly betrayed. Yo, it sucks for sure, because I really hate not being able to just...be. So now I've got this "I don't need you" 'tude, and won't believe what anyone ever says to me, whether it be "I love you" or whatever else.

"Friend": "There's gum in your hair."
Moi: "Liar!"

Blah blah blah, I give up. I'm having one of those extreme moments where I can't find the words I need to find the words to make things make sense. I guess what I'm saying is that I need to always know how everyone feels. I need to be constantly reassured that I matter and that I'm important and that I'm needed. Otherwise, I simply don't want to bother, because I give up at even the slightest sign of weakness in someone. I just don't have the energy to fight for anything anymore.

You're gonna need to be patient with me.

The Future Is Now.

Holy moley, it's 2009.

Funny how that happens, hey? Like, you're just minding your own business, feedin' the kids, payin' the bills, when suddenly you have to go out and buy a new calendar because the numbers won't match up anymore. Damn, right?

It feels like I've merely skimmed over the months of 2008, like it's all just a distant memory or a crazy-ass acid dream of some sort. It went by hella fast, for sure. I was going to do a year in review sort of deal, but then I realized that my entire year is documented all proper and shit right here on ye ol' blog (minus January-beginning of March...but those weren't exciting times anyways). Plus, not every moment of this past year I'd like to recall, so I'll just leave it in the past where it belongs.

My new year's eve was mediocre, at best. I went over to Scoot-o's place for some alcohol infused fun, which turned out to be the very opposite because I barely drank anything due to having to work at noon the next day. There was also gay boy antics, in which Scott was absolutely certain that Ross was trying to steal Dylan. And this is when I was all "wtf, mate?" and passed out on the sofa. Easy fix. And something else charming? My boss (Kelly Muthafuckin' Mcpherson) made an impromptu celebrity appearance at the soiree, drank her cute little face off and had a good snuggle with the porcelain, if you get what I'm saying. Adorable! Btdubz, my new year's smoochie was Mr. Dylan, all homo and sippin' the vodka sauce. So good.

I made some resolutions, of course, as I do every year. The only difference about this year's is that I actually intend on sticking to them...which I say every year. So, here they are, in no particular order:

1) Be zen It's so much easier to just move on than to dwell on things and be a grumpy bitch. It's funner to be a grumpy bitch, but I find that people have a tendency to like you a whole lot less. I just want to be pretty, bright and bubbly constantly.
2) No more Starbucks That's a lie. It's more like...Starbucks in moderation. And no pastries, because I flipped through the nutritional guide the other day, and trust me: that shit is sick.
3) Be sooo good at yoga Self-explanatory. In the words of a close friend, I just want to fold.
4) Invest Like, the economy is all fucked and whatever, so I figure now's a good time to make significant contributions to my RRSP. I'd like to retire when I'm 40. Is that too ambitious?
5) Go green! Because I love the earth, and I want it to be preserved for Summer and her babies one day. Everyone's babies!

I read my horoscope briefly today, and this is what my year is going to look like. I like the one I read in the Province newspaper a lot better, though. You go, Georgia Nicols!

And to wrap things up, let me tell you about my last year's new year's festivities. I watched Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire movies with two of my favourite people. It was lovely, and it seems like just yesterday that it happened. I was told once that life is like a roll of toilet paper; the closer you get to the end, the faster it goes.

Am I going to die soon?

PTFO, life.

P.S. My hurr is teint de rouge. Merci, Clairol!
P.P.S. I'm off the market, officially. I am no longer selling shares of FMCG at the TSX. Muah! <3