day 11329: if you're not preggers, it's a really bad idea to eat as if you were
Dear makers of Peptol-Bismol,
It's bad enough that my stomach decided to choose the night of the Keith Urban concert to try to digest my intestines. But after a night of excruciating discomfort, I woke up this morning, looked in the mirror and found that my tongue had turned black during the night.
Thank goodness my inner geek kicked in before I succumbed to the hypochondriac part of me. Before I googled my symptoms, I had a serious moment where I thought I was dying of internal bleeding and contemplated actually going to the walk-in clinic. I hate going to the doctor almost as much as I hate going to the dentist.
Fortunately, it turns out that Peptol-Bismol has the unfortunate side effect of turning your tongue and your um... crap black, but the box only says they might turn dark. A mistake on your part. Dark, I can deal with... black, not so much.
Wow. I'm going on record to say that it's amazingly difficult to have Canadian food products shipped to the US for the holidays. I thought I had a solution by ordering off Amazon.com, but because everything is made in Canada and the US has these wacky FDA laws, everything would be shipped out separately with individual shipping charges. Which means muchos dineros...
I'm stumped. Darn it Sista, your future-in-laws (and you) need to move to Canada!!
For the longest time, I was the world's biggest proponant of the more the merrier. Every party, every outing, the more people that showed up the happier everyone was and the more fun there was to be had.
Somewhere along the line people's lives started becoming busier (my life started becoming a lot busier) and more people stopped meaning more fun. It became more work and greater costs and a lot less reciprocation.
So, while I love a lot of people and know a whole lot more, somedays I wonder if it's worth the effort. Today, I'm thinking it's not.
day 11319: cross post because it's the day after my birthday and you have to humour me
I had a lot of fun making this cake and I'm pretty damn happy about the way it turned out. Next time, the body will get a little more shaping, but hey, I was hungover from monkeyco Christmas party and didn't even feel like baking.
day 11317: ringing in the holiday season with a big ass glass of cheer
Given the fiasco that was last year’s monkeyco holiday party, bringing a date to this year’s party was an absolute must. And because I am LIL MS CLUELESS and hence THE DATELESS WONDER, I figured I’d bring the CHAMPION OF BACKUP DATES, Mr. ICBBQ himself.
It begins again. Wednesday night and I'm filled with dread. It's climbing night, or rather, it's supposed to be climbing night. But I haven't felt like going to the gym for the past six months/ year or so. I'm not quite sure why.
I'm not sure I enjoy it anymore. There's too much of a constant pressure to be better. My body doesn't take the strain well. I'm always injured. I can't climb as well or as hard as I used to.
But I think I dread it because it's not a sanctuary for me anymore. Hasn't been since we switched from the old Monday, Thursday schedule. Fcukers.
I'd much rather go home and veg on the couch while eating salty goodies, but then I'll get even fatter and I'll be single forever.
I spent the better part of this morning with the left side of my face numb and a lot of latex fingers in my mouth.
Turns out, the hole in my tooth was a lot bigger than I thought and the whole side of my tooth had broken off. According to my new dentist, the cavity was pretty deep and pretty close to the nerve. She didn't say it outright, but suggested that the new cavity was right next an old filling that might have "shifted" to allow mouth dirt to filter in and gnaw away at my pearly whites. Gee thanks, old dentist who kept on telling me that my tooth's "defects" didn't need fixing.
Something else I found out today... despite my many painful prepubescent years spent in braces, my teeth have shifted and chances are that I might need to rebrace over the next couple years. I also grind my teeth a lot and have worn down a lot of the enamel on the teeth on the left side of my mouth, thus, I might need a nightbite retainer thingymajiggy to save me from further wear and tear. She's sending estimates to my insurance company.
I'd like to thank old dentist for telling me these things way back when so that I would have known to opt for the enhanced dental coverage with monkeyco, and not just accept basic coverage(note sarcasm). Oh, and it turns out, I'm not allergic to novocaine after all, so all those years of anesthetic-less drilling were for naught. Thanks for that.
PS. You're fired.
I'd also like to thank biatch receptionist for actually calling me back this afternoon with her surly attitude to inquire about whether my cavity was actually bothering me because if it wasn't bothering me, there was no way the old dentist was going to see me. Not any more, thank you very much.
Guess what, you're fired too.
Oh, and kiwi allergies are related to latex allergies and Brush-Ups are a good thing. I think I like my new dentist.
My dislike of my dentist runs deeper than I care to admit. For twenty years, he has been my family dentist and for the same length of time, Sista and I have had issues with his (and his staff's) condescending attitude and his inability to treat us with the same respect and common courtesy he uses with the parental units and the grandparental unit.
Today's encouter with his office staff had me shaking with rage. During lunch, a misbite onto a whole grain in my 12 grain wheat bread broke off a chunk of my upper left molar, leaving me with a sizable hole in my tooth. Turns out that the cavity I discovered last weekend decided that it couldn't wait for my new benefit plan to kick in Jan 1 and needed to be filled asap.
No problem. Call the dentist. Line was busy. I left a message.
Two hours later the tip of my tongue was raw from poking at the sharp edges of the hole, and I still had not heard from the dentist's office. I called back. They placed me on hold and hung up on me. I called back again.
biatch receptionist: Dr. Y's office. schmassion: Yes, hello, this is schmassion. I left a message earlier and haven't heard back from your office. Part of my tooth broke off today and I want to see if Dr. Y has time to see me today. biatch receptionist: No. Dr. Y is fully booked today and is behind. He will not be able to see you. schmassion: That's fine then. Can you tell me when his first availability is? I have a hole in my tooth that I would like to have filled. biatch receptionist: Let me check your file... it looks like you were due for a cleaning in May or July. schmassion: I've been busy. biatch receptionist: Well, the first space I have available for a cleaning is December 6. schmassion: Excuse me? December 6th? Don't you have anything earlier? biatch receptionist: I just told you that the first space I have available for a cleaning is December 6. You will have to make an appointment for December 6. schmassion: I didn't ask to make an appointment for a cleaning. I asked to make an appointment to have my tooth filled. If need be, I can make a cleaning appointment for another day. biatch receptionist: You have to wait until December. schmassion: You don't have any emergency appointments? biatch receptionist: Is this an emergency? schmassion: A piece of my tooth broke off today. Yes. I would say that this is an emergency. biatch receptionist: Then I will have to check with Dr. Y before I can make an appointment.
*5 seconds of silence*
schmassion: Hello? Are you asking Dr. Y? biatch receptionist: He is very busy, and he is with a patient. schmassion: That's fine. Please ask him and call me back. biatch receptionist: He is very busy. schmassion: I understand. Please ask him and call me back. When can I expect to hear back from you? biatch receptionist: He is very busy. I will call you next week sometime. schmassion: Next week sometime? Beginning of the week or end of the week? biatch receptionist: I don't know. schmassion: Are you for real?
She was for real. I was livid.
Thus, to Dr. Y and to the biatch receptionist, it's been a wild ride these twenty years, but I'm not willing to accept this treatment from anyone, you especially. I've made an appointment with another dentist for 9:00am Monday morning.
About a year and a half ago, I did an experiment to see if I could eat on $20 a week or less (including coffees and snacks, but not dinner and definitely not drinks after work… egad). And while it was successful in terms of money, it failed in terms of healthfulness. My diet sucked that week. I lived on fast food dollar menus and months old crap I cleared out of my freezer. I survived, but it’s not something that I would care to repeat again.
Throughout my childhood, cheap eating was a recurring theme. There were years of simple dinners of chicken wings (before the advent of buffalo wings) and egg drop soup (made with canned crème of corn) accompanied by bowlfuls of rice. Grocery shopping trips to Chinatown would net scores of cheap finds of animal parts that major grocery stores would reject. I’m talking face, feet and innards. The budget was stretched, but we ate well. Everything was homemade, even the yogurt.
As we got older, all-you-can-eat buffets began to grow in popularity. It became a family tradition of sorts that every Christmas one adult would take 10 children (cousins too) to a buffet where for the low, low price of $6.95 per child under the age of 11 we could eat to our hearts content. We were always under the age of 11, if you get my drift.
And so we ate until we could eat no more. We had contests to see who could eat the most plates of food. There was a mussel eating contest in Boston once. A cousin, who probably had a promising future as a competitive eater, devoured an astounding 70-something mussels… on top of the other food that he ate. Another time at a hot pot restaurant, we were served 23 plates of beef before the restaurant decided they didn’t want to honour the AYCE.
On family trips, my parents would eschew the restaurants where other tour members would dine, and instead we’d walk alongside the river bank, country field, etc grasping a baguette and fresh roasted chicken in one hand and a refilled bottle of something in the other. This was years before bottled water became popular. Or maybe this was years before I could fathom that people would want to pay for water that came free out of a tap.
Later on, even on my own trips, we ate cheaply. Cousin Bo, Min and I survived for a week in San Diego on pepperettes and stolen airplane food, supplemented by free conference food and the occasional (very occasional) dinner out. Best meal (and worse meal) on the 2003 France trip was a round of brie, baguettes, roasted chicken and some bad andouille (yuck) while sitting on a stone wall in the middle of Bayeux.
These days, I go through phases. I’m constantly looking for something new to try and have spent a lot of money doing so over the past few years. For the most part, things have been good, but for a lot of it, things have been disappointing as well. Everything tastes the same these days. Half the time, I don’t even know what I’m paying for.
My next goal – to eat cheaply, but to eat well. So for the next little while, I’ll be rediscovering the city in hopes of reawakening my palate. Whether it be something I make myself, or not, something has got to give. Somewhere out there I’ll find something soul-shattering.
All you out there… if you’re out there… post up suggestions. Results to be posted on almost a foodie.
day 11297: decisions... decisions... how the heck can i make decisions at a time like this
I sit here weighing the pros and cons of something that will hugely impact my life for the next few years.
My brain tells me that this may be the closest yet of me finding what I've been looking for, but my gut tells me that it's not. Perhaps something better will come along, but I hope I won't regret my decision - whatever the heck it might be.
day 11295: ants in my pants, why i don’t love you like you love me and why i wonder why i’m not screwed up even more than i already am
I moved around a lot as a child. As the experimental older child, my parents would listen to other parents expound enthusiastically over the merits of certain school systems and switch me over on a whim. By the time I started high school, I had already switched schools 8 times. I went to two different high schools, and then attended a university with a co-op program where I packed up everything and moved every 4 months.
Needless to say, consistency wasn’t a big part of my childhood and I learned to adapt to change quickly. At school, I was smart, but not too smart. I was funny, but not too funny. I coasted because school was easy, but didn’t put in enough effort to become outstanding. I did what I could to be like everyone else and not be too different from my peers. Being the new kid on the block all the time meant being an easy target.
I grew up a stranger. I had many friends, but not many great friends. My best friends were family and Al from grade four who actually made a couple of the moves with me. It was easy for me to meet people, but not easy for me to make the emotional commitment necessary for a lasting friendship. After all, by this time next year, there was only a slim possibility of my being in the same school and chances were that the good byes that were said on the last day of the school year would be good-bye forever.
It’s easy to blame things on the past. I don’t like change, but I crave it. Every few months, I still feel the need to up and move. I absolutely hate commitment. I coast along, don’t like making long term plans, and my career and my relationships with people have suffered. It’s hard to look towards a future when you feel like you should always be on the move. I’ve spent thirty years living for the present.
day 11291: one step closer to being queen of the knobs
For the average Canadian citizen, the passport renewal process is not meant to be a hair pulling, caterwauling event. You fill in the forms, send them in or go to the government office in person, pay the fee, et voila! in a short 4-6 weeks, you get a nice little handy dandy package in the mail.
Done, and done… can’t be simpler than that…
Or can it…
No one said anything whatsoever about me being ordinary, thus, a simple process became increasingly difficult. First I filled in the wrong online form – the simplified renewal process form didn’t electronically submit my information – then, I filled in the correct form, but signed the grey box where no pen should touch, my pictures took a while to process, I forgot my birth certificate (multiple times), my guaranter didn’t know her passport number etc etc… So what started off as an easy peesy task ended up taking over a month of daily reminders by Posie and QWW before I was even remotely prepared to step into the passport office down the street.
And then there was today. I was ready, I had all my papers, documents, pictures etc etc. I felt confident and ready to make that next 5 year commitment to a horrendous black and white photograph of myself that would pop up on computer monitors around the world. I left the office just before noon in order to avoid the lunch crowd… got in line, stared hopelessly at the sea of people waiting in front of me and BOOM! realization hit. In my rush to get out, I had forgotten my old passport. So, I had to turn around, truck back to monkeyco and gather my papers together again.
The "ORIGINAL CC" (who will henceforth be known as the Swiss Miss)is heading to Geneva for three years... this be the girl who introduced me to "To-Go" cups, pre-drinking, and Yucka. Life (and partying AND THE BLACKOUTS) will never be the same.
But on a positive note, I now have a place to stay in Switzerland... I just have to win the lottery for airfare...
Over the past months, people from my past have been popping up in my inbox unexpectedly. "Reunion this, get together that, network now... haven't seen you 5, 10, 15 years, wouldn't it be great to get together and catch up?"
I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but there's a reason you don't know anything about me anymore. And quite frankly, just because you found someone from Junior Kindergarten on Facebook does not mean that the rest of the Kindergarten graduating class is interested in knowing what you've been up to... even if you do have six kids from seven different dads cuz you can't figure out who fathered #4..
No offense, but if I was really interested in keeping in touch, I would have texted, called or emailed sometime in the past year or two. And if you haven't heard from me, well, I have a wierd thing where I'm emotionally distant and completely uninterested in people from my past (no matter how much you meant to me at that brief moment in time).
Blame pms, blame age, blame my new-found sobriety and hence bitterness (just joking, duh), but what's done is done. I've moved on and so should you. So please, while I think it's great that you're trying to keep a grasp onto our quickly fading youth, know this... I'M TOO COOL FOR YOU.
Just joking. Truth is, I don't really care.
ps. Facebook stalking and trying to find me through friends of friends of friends and then getting "common" friends to email me for my contact info... yo, that just ain't cool.
Getting ready to go to Medieval Times tonight, I dumped out all the contents of my wallet looking for the $10 off coupon clipped from the newspaper a couple of weeks ago and made a mental note to put the wallet back in my purse, lest I lose it amongst the week of newspapers I flipped through trying to find a replacement coupon.
Well, mental notes don't work. I forgot my wallet, discovered my lack of credit cards and ID while we were standing in line, and had to ask the birthday girl if it was okay if I charged the night to her.
Lucky for us, our ticket teller was a young impressionable boy, and wasn't one of those bitchy girls who play by the rules. A wink and a flirt later, we were cheering for our knight in shining armor.
QWW: Liberator Sex Ramp??? Do I want to know what this is? Schmassion: "Alcohol helps a lot with women, it smoothes things over" QWW: Alcohol helps with a lot more... Schmassion: There's images of the liberator sex ramp... do I want to click on that? QWW: I didn't dare after Spandexman. I've had my fill for one day I'll have a look at home, safer
day 11269: i interrupt this program with something a little more serious and a whole lot more scary
Late Saturday night, ICBBQ and I were driving through the Sketchnex on the way home from the country bar when we encountered a couple of teenage punk kids running in and out of traffic, weaving amongst the oncoming cars. They were shouting at each other and other pedestrians were yelling at them.
I drove slowly, knowing that sooner or later, they would stagger intoxicated into my path. One kid ran in front of my car. I braked hard to avoid the one running after him and thumped a long angry blast of my horn.
As our car crept by the kid I almost hit, I looked at him, and saw out of the corner of my eye that he was holding a knife... I did a double take. Sure enough, the guy was holding a knife and running after someone. Scary.
ICBBQ called 911, told them what we saw, and I drove away.
Occasionally I’ll go a phase of watching a lot of one show. At the moment, it’s Gene Simmon’s Family Jewels. It’s hilarious and quirky, and damned if I haven’t learned a lot from watching this family’s version of reality:
Take the risk. Commitment isn’t everything. Capital is everything. Laughter and humour is more important than capital, but capital still is everything.
day 11258: feet stomping fun times with food poisoning
bug, bug, bug, bug ... right-two, left-two, right, left, right, left ... skip forward on right, skip forward on left, sway, sway ... skip backward on right, skip backward on left, sway, sway ... step and rock to right, step and rock back, step forward on right and half turn to left, stomp right, stomp left ... vine to the right, hop back-front-back-front ... vine to the left, hop back-front-back-front ... tap right foot twice, tap left foot twice, stomp right, stomp left, hip thrust x2 ...
Hi, you've reached Schmassion's voicemail. I'm either at the beach or trying out this whole surfing thing. If you're nosy and want to check out the camp's webcam, I be the one with the SHARKBAIT sign on her back...
day 11236: do you want a side of fries with that pity platter?
For the past few months, I’ve been going through some things. I found my world turned on its side; not knowing who to trust, not knowing who to believe in, and not having a lot of people to turn to.
Whether world imposed or self imposed, I was surrounded by a lot of negativity. I wasn’t being treated fairly, and in return there was no way in hell I was treating anyone fairly. I became easily irritated, withdrawn, jaded and embittered and started taking things and people for granted, just as I was being taken for granted. I hid away from the world and lost myself in “work” and in “running errands.”
Really I just wanted to be alone to sort things out and wanted no part of the world I believed had deceived me. I started doubting myself and became someone that I didn’t know and didn’t like.
But no more - enough is enough. I’ve spent enough time wallowing in the regret and insecurity of others and the world will not wait for me. I’ve fooled myself long enough and have to start living for me again. I’ve learned my lessons from my past and I’m ready to move on.
Once upon a time, I liked who I was. I had heart, strength and character. But most importantly, I had faith and trust in people.
I want ME back…only this time I’m going to have to do it a little smarter.
day 11227: i interrupt this program with a special message from your sponsors
I thought you and me, we were friends. I thought I could be honest with you and tell you my deepest, darkest secrets. Obviously, I was wrong.
Perhaps one day I'll be honest with you again, but I think not, seeing as how I'm still experiencing the repercussions of the last time I was honest with you. So instead, back to your regular scheduled programming of "Schmassion Brand Self-Deprecating Humour".
Because if I can't laugh at myself, what else can I laugh at? Everything else has been taken away.
day 11221: if I was to ever post a w4m posting in craigslist, this'd be it
Make my sister’s dreams come true! - w4m - 30
The other night my sister had a dream about “my boyfriend.” Seeing as how my sister has never showed any previous psychic tendencies, I’m willing to explore the possibility that she might indeed have ESP.
To qualify for consideration, you must be all of the following:
- a surfer - Canadian - a super nice guy - blond - smart - adventurous - really hot - going to Costa Rica in September (to go surfing... of course)
Help me make my sister’s dreams come true… or explain to her fiancé why she’s dreaming about strange super hot, blond surfers.
day 11207: fourscore and what feels like seven years ago
A hundred and six days ago, I woke up not knowing that by the end of the day, I would sign my life away as an impending homeowner. Let me rephrase that... three and half months ago, I had no idea that I would impulsively put an offer on a condo that I found off Craigslist.
"Craigslist?" you ask. "You've never once mentioned anything about Craigslist."
You're right, of course. I haven't. I've never once talked about how my life revolves around Craigslist, how I've done almost everything through Craigslist; everything from renting out other people's properties and buying my bike, everything falling just short of finding a date on Craigslist. (Not that there's anything wrong with that... ahem... It's just not my style.)
I've digressed. Back to my story.
The condo was listed as a 2 bedroom, waterfront unit, facing north onto the downtown core (forgive me if this is not verbatim). A corner unit with a bright airy living space, one would simply fall in love with it upon entering (ok, I'm exaggerating).
The price was good. The view not too bad - if I look just the right way out the bedroom windows, I can catch a glimpse of the lake. Waterview. Awesome.
The only catch... no agents. This was going to be a private deal. No problem, or so I thought.
Only, it was a case of the blind leading the blind.
Neither the seller, nor the purchaser had a clue of what they were doing. We drafted up an offer that night, drafted up another the next morning, and drafted up another (and maybe one more after that) a couple days later. And when everything was all said and done, there still was no closing date to be had. Everything was pending on the completion of the building, and the builder registering with the city, upon which my deal would close.
And so I waited. And waited. And waited some more, all the while delving deep into my finances to see how I could afford my little impulse, fielding well-meant inquiries of when my condo was closing and a lot of ribbing about how my situation was a textbook case on why one should do all real estate transactions through a bona fide real estate agent and how I should have consulted a professional. I shrugged it off, internalized my stress (have I mentioned that I'm commitment phobic) and waited some more.
Finally, one day in July I got a call from the owner. A notice was posted in the hallway, she informed me. The condo was closing soon. Oh, but by the way, she tenanted out the condo to a couple of students and it was possible that they'd still be there when I assumed possession of my condo.
And then the stress piled on with renewed vengence. No way, no how would I assume responsibility for tenants. Students? What the hell? There were many mutterings of potential lawsuits and more back and forth between us and them over the closing dates and tenant evictions. And then they stopped returning my calls. Let me tell you, I was not a happy camper.
Today is another story completely. I'm crazy happy, but completely terrified. My BRAND NEW CONDO is vacant, and I have the keys and full possession of everything I'm supposed to be possessing. I've signed away my life, written the biggest cheque I've ever written and adopted a mortgage that will possibly force me into a lifetime of pb&j sandwiches.
But, who cares? I've got property, man. And that's just the beginning to MY empire.
There's a small soda in Punta Banco where the turtlers would sup. Lunch was a casual affair, people coming and going on their own whimsy.
Late one afternoon after a busy morning of beachcombing and tide pool poking, I wandered back to the soda for a bite and some freshly squeezed naranjo juice. The proprietor was in the kitchen cleaning up after the others, and began babbling to me in Spanish.
"Um, no hablo Espanol." I managed to eek out with my extremely limited Spanish.
She babbled at me again.
I don't speak Spanish, I said again.
She gazed at me with a look of utmost patience, raised her voice slightly and said very, very slowly,
I know you like to talk things out, and I fully understand that some people need to vocalize their thoughts in order to solve their problems. However, I'd like to point out the fact that I am not a professional hand holder. I do not get paid to hold your hand. I do not get paid to sit in your office for hours upon end, listening to you trying to figure out what you did wrong.
Come to think of it. We did this a lot last year, and I partially blame you and your need for hand holding as the reason why I barely saw sunlight all last summer. But you were new then, and had the guts to go on vacation at the busiest time of year, so it had to be done.
This year... not so much. Adios amigo.
Dear Driver of the #11 Bayview bus,
I know it probably frustrates you that you're always travelling, but never actually get anywhere. But you've got a busload of innocent people relying on you and your keen-eyed attention on the road.
So do you really think you should be yabbering away on your cell phone?
All the best,
I love you.
I love that you love to clean.
I love that you love to clean my room in particular.
But I'd love more if I could come home one day and find things exactly where I left them... because you know, I keep thinking I'm losing my mind, and I keep buying things twice.
You and your snarky attitude are pissing me off.
Stomp stomp stomp stomp stomp stomp stomp stomp stomp. Right back at you.
ps... I'm sorry I jumped to conclusions this afternoon and thought you made a mistake. But honestly, you can't really fault me for it. Everything else you did for me was wrong.
day 11199: and so it is... just as you said it would be
Miscellaneous things I learned (or relearned) over the weekend:
~ driving by yourself for hours upon hours upon hours can actually be fun ~ I can sing really, really loudly ~ listening to musicals makes the drive go by much, much faster ~ I do not like pretzels unless it's covered with seasoning ~ sometimes most times, I will just lick off all the seasoning and throw away the pretzel ~ men can talk big, but it takes a strong woman to show them how it's done ~ when someone says the cottage has a spring shower, it doesn't necessarily mean one like in the Irish Springs commercials. It might just be a hose at the back of the cottage ~ I can shower at almost the speed of light ~ one person's "refreshing" is another's "brrrrrr.... freezing..." ~ cottage trips where you do nothing but eat and play boardgames are fun ~ cottaging on your own private island is really fun ~ being stuck on the island because it's thunderstorming is not so fun ~ the dog really is a city dog ~ I need to simplify my life and maybe go hide out on an island some more
day 11186: it kicked my ass, so i kicked its ass, and then my ass got kicked again
Nothing is as easy as it seems anymore. The climbs are sandbagged, super reachy and require a whole lot of strength, but very little finesse. A 5.10a is a no-feet, jump start smear to a two handed left sidepull, right reach, right highstep that is insanely crazy for a height-challenged pseudo-climber like me.
I’ve lead 5.11b’s, so a piddly little 5.10a on toprope should be a walk in the park. No such luck. Two weeks ago, the no-feet, jump start smear to the two handed left sidepull kicked my ass. I fell like Spiderman out of webbing fluid, and thunked repeatedly onto the padded mats below. Needless to say, my ego took a heck of a beating and I knew that I’d have to take my revenge on the wall another day.
Which brings us to last night…
The no-feet, jump start smear to a two handed left sidepull, right reach, right highstep was no problem. I muscled my way through it, and finessed the itty bitty left hand two finger crimp, solid left, super-reach to bottom inch of the underside of the jug that gave me just enough grip to match feet, high step… crap…
My right hip gave two pops, I felt something tear in my gluteus maximus (aka bum muscle) and today anything that requires the use of my butt is pure agony. Simple things like sleeping on my side, sitting at my desk, sitting on the toilet, getting up from a seated position, walking in a straight line, and taking my foot off the gas pedal is embarrassingly difficult. Who the heck has ever heard of someone pulling a bum muscle?!
So now I’ve booked a massage, or rump rub, if you will, and hopefully things will be peachy keen on the morrow. Otherwise, I’ll be all bummed out… :(
Oh yeah... and ps... THANK GOD for well padded office chairs that can lean wayyyy back, cuz I'll be working like Superman flying... all morning.
Two movies about 8 little words and I spend the ENTIRE WEEKEND vegetating in front of the tv and reading a hilarious, stereotypical, pro/anti-French novel while gorging myself on leftovers (seriously... ugh) and bon-bons (not seriously... ) instead of heading out rollerblading or doing something remotely physically active or at least something social.
Why? Because I can. And because somewhere out there is a guy who will like me just the way I am... even though at the moment, I'm a thirty-something crabby, jiggly, lazy-ass, anti-social idiot who really would rather spend the better part of the weekend hiding from the world than going out and potentially meeting the man of her dreams.
day 11176: "piyo's water just broke... there is no baby shower today!"
Like Piyo, it seems that baby Kaitlynne will be one step ahead of her peers. Forget making an entrance, she's making her statement... three weeks early! How can there possibly be any more drama than that! Not yet born, and a drama princess already!
Good timing, little one. You saved your Mama an afternoon of sampling baby food and identifying dirty diapers. But you also made her miss the cake that I was planning on surprising her with.
That just means I promise you something more spectacular on your first birthday. And because I love you already, I'll endure all of Monday's ribbing and teasing about my ticking biological clock when I bring the leftover cake to work.
(ps... check out more pics of kaitlynne's ark, cuz I worked damned hard on it, and someone has to see it!)
The DOG is afraid of weather. It started off with thunderstorms and her shaking and quivering while trying to hide behind the toilet. She was so cute in all her trembling fluffiness, we laughed it off and never really tried to overly placate her… just in case she’d start believing that it was a good thing to hide behind the toilet.
Last night, her phobia got much worse. Perhaps the air smelt of rain and thunderstorms. Perhaps it was the cats yowling and screeching behind the house that spooked her. I was asleep, and had NO FRICKIN CLUE what was going on. My blissful slumber was suddenly (and rudely) interrupted by a sudden weight on my neck, accompanied with the type of heavy breathing that I can only describe as ”sicko sex fiend” (or perhaps ”not tonight honey, do it yourself”).
Needless to say, I freaked and woke up flailing.
Me freaking + DOG freaking =BAD NEWS
DOG, probably sensing my jumpy nerves as well, decided that she really, really, really, really, REALLY needed to be comforted and wanted to get as close to me as possible. TO THE POINT OF TRYING TO GET INTO MY SKIN (slight exaggeration). She wanted to cuddle on the right, then she wanted to be on the left, and finally decided to spend the next hour walking all over my right boob (why always the right??? OUCH!!!!) before settling on my chest with her ass in my face. Did I mention that she was doing the sex fiend pant the entire time?
She didn’t want water, she didn’t want to go for a walk. She didn’t like the breeze from the fan, but got hot when she was out of it. Talk, DOGDAMMIT, talk to me and stop behaving like a freak in the middle of the night!!!!!!! (is that enough exclamation points for you?)
Of course, this morning, when I do wake up from my fitful slumber, she’s as happy as can be, and runs off with the maternal one who feeds her toast crusts for breakfast, pretending, as she is wont to do, that all is happy with the world and that I’m not one big mess of crankypantness.
I should be climbing tonight. But my spirit says to listen to the body if not the mind. The body is tired still from the weekend, and my left hip socket/ass feels out of whack from our amazing Blackouts playoff victory yesterday night. The mind wants to be on a patio somewhere sipping on something that will send the body on a caloric death spiral.
I think I'm going to listen to the spirit. I'm heading home for a run.
day 11151: a journey always seems longer when you're in the middle of it, but it's over in a blink of an eye
It was a beautiful Sunday, the weather was gorgeous, and after dim sum on the waterfront, what more could a girl possibly ask for?
It's dragonboat weekend, but you would never have known it unless you paid attentional to the nonsensical wording on some poor asian kid's fake Mickey Mouse t-shirt. By the time ICBBQ and I finish brunch there's only 9 more hours of sunlight left. I wonder how far I would get. We start at the base of Yonge Street and walk north, ICBBQ humouring me every other step as I stop and take picture after picture on my fancy schmancy camera I still don't really know how to use properly. Thank goodness for the Auto function.
Funny how I lived here for years, and never took a single picture. I always meant to bring my camera with me on my early morning dog walks. Cold wintery mornings were breathtakingly calm as the deep orange of the rising sun filtered it's way through the icy winter mist. But then again, cold wintery mornings on the waterfront were breathtaking for a different reason... damn wind coming off the lake...
But it's not too late, and if all goes well, one day I will be back downtown on the waterfront again. My condo still hasn't closed and I think every day that I'm getting screwed somehow. Actually, I secretly hope the deal will fall through, and I won't be stuck with a monster mortgage. I'm terrified of ties and commitment, and owning my own place seems so terrifying and permanent. We pass by my future "2 bedroom corner unit with a view of downtown," stop dead and burst out laughing. The Immigrant Family stands in front, rendering something formerly reasonably classy into a cartoon joke.
We go our separate ways, and I keep heading north. The thought first and foremost on my mind is "Where the heck can I pee?" Endless cups of tea at dim sum reduces one to a blabbering idiot constantly in search of a clean washroom. Luckily, it's pretty damn hot out there in the asphalt jungle... maybe I won't have to go that badly. The stretch between Dundas and Bloor is a lot of the same... dollar stores, XXX neon signs, and semi-mediocre (maybe a gem or two) restaurants somewhere in the middle. Ok, there's more than that, and I'm generalizing, but it's early on in the day, and I was paying more attention to the cute gay couples wandering up and down the street.
Life goes on, and on I plod. Just north of Bloor, I see the BEST THING I'VE EVER SEEN and damnit, if I couldn't get a picture. A woman is riding a classic honda, hubby and doggie in the sidecar... all wearing matching white helmets. What an awesome picture that would have been, but by the time I dig through my knapsack for the camera, they've roared off into the distance. I want to run after them and beg for a photoshoot... too bad I'm on foot. Argh. There's a little winding side road that I want to explore a little further, but I'm going to save that for next time, when I'm on my bike and can cover more territory.
The part I had been looking forward to during this journey is dismally disappointing. Summerhill seems deserted. A lot of cars driving around, but the furniture stores are dark and closed. I tour the largest liquor store in the country for the first time, and keep heading north. Somehow, brown paper bagging it on such a hot day seems like a bad idea. Besides, I've got patio plans up at Eglinton anyway.
I detour into Mount Pleasant and walk the blue line of the Discovery trail. Mount Pleasant is one of the oldest cemeteries in the city, and as morbid as it seems, the intermingling of the tombstones and graves of the fathers of the city versus the simplicity of the modern styles is fascinating. The history of the city (and the country) literally lies at my feet.
The blue line eventually leads to my grandfather's plot. It's Father's Day so I stop by and spend a few moments clearing away weeds from the flowers. I can't tell if anyone else has been by today. The chrysanthemums still look fresh, but they've been planted into the ground, so they could have been from weeks ago. I remember when there was no one else buried on this hillside. As children, we used to skip up and down, playing while the adults cleaned up the mess the winter left behind. Now I have to pick my way through all the markers. I'm a wee bit superstitious about stepping on anyone.
I backtrack the Discovery trail and keep heading north. Two furniture shops - one a little pretentious with overpriced imitation crap they're selling to people with too much money, and the other a little hokey in the custom furniture they're trying to pass off as a modern solution to the old space problem. Neither of them work for me. I get trapped talking to a salesman trying to sell me a "raft." Note to self, must learn not to be so chatty, no wonder 60 year old men are trying to pick me up in bars.
I pass my favourite Italian restaurant in the city, and keep wandering up looking for the perfect patio. Strange how little patios there are between Roehampton and Sporting Life. I have to walk back three blocks because I forgot to check out the Cupcake Shoppe. No way am I going to post pictures of that place or their cupcakes. Not bad, but I can do better.
Is it bad of me to say that my favourite parts of the day are the times when I'm sitting down and eating? I love a good patio. And it's the perfect day to sit outside and not do a single thing. It's past lunch, and I'm more thirsty than hungry. My Strongbow craving directed the patio, and it was a while before I found Mad Monty's and some good conversation. Smartie is always a riot. We flirt like crazy with each other, and have done so since the day we met. Luckily, neither of us take the other seriously.
5:00 and it's time to move on. I only have three hours of walking time left, and one last stop to make before I have to be at my cousin's place to work on the wedding video. North of Lawrence to Sheppard is brutal. Nothing to see, not much to do. The hill north of York Mills is a killer... note to anyone else walking north of Yonge - stay on the EAST side... sidewalk ends on the west, and it's a little dodgy jaywalking the 401 offramp on my shakey-Elvis legs. I'm bored adn almost ready to call it quits, but in reality, I'm halfway between subway stations, so there's not much I can do. I must walk on.
Is it me, or do the people on the patio seem that much slimier north of Sheppard? Two guys walk ahead of me. One is dressed all in white with a white knapsack, the other all in black with a black knapsack. I notice that he's wearing LuluLemon pants and puma sneakers. I really hope he's a dancer... otherwise... wellllll... when did I ever become a fashion critic?
One last stop. A few years before he died, my dad, my sister and I biked through York. We stopped at the fountain they were in the process of building, and stopped on a hillside he said was where his plot was going to be. I think I was thirteen at the time, so I was more interested in the fountain than the plot. Did I ever mention that I come from a family of planners? It's funny what you remember. North York used to be mostly farm land. I used to feed horses at Leslie and Finch, and people used to rent tiny plots of land in the cemetary to grow vegetables. There was a school nearby at one point, I remember hearing the school bell ring on the day of the funeral. Happy Fathers day, Da.
I'm tired, and it's getting late. Off to the cousin's place for 8:00. (Oooh, that rhymes.) I'm thirsty, tired, and cranky as hell, but damn happy that I've managed to walk this far. One last discovery... the Korean butcher just north of Byng sells marinated LA Kalbi... $19.47 for 3.92lbs. PAT on Bloor is better, but this is closer to home. I can't wait until my next BBQ... mmm... kalbi...
(total distance travelled... including detours... 20km...)
day 11146: i know this is going to sound a little nutty
Sunday is supposed to be bright and sunny with a high of 26C!! It'll be much too nice of day to stay inside, and I know that if I don't plan something for myself to do, I'll end up staying home and watching Season 4 of 24 or some other hermitess thing where I'll waste another glorious summer day.
So this is what I'm planning on doing...
Sunday morning, 10:30, I start from the base of Yonge Street (right by the waterfront) and I start walking north. I'll mosy along, poke my head into shops, stop for coffee or a cocktail (or two), and by about 6:30 or so, I'll see where I end up. There is no goal or purpose except to really get to know Yonge Street a bit better...
Anyone interested in joining me? You don't have to walk the whole day with me. Meet up with me along the way... grab lunch or a snack or sit on a patio with me, etc etc...
I'll have my camera, and I'll be taking pictures along the way...
I wrote a letter tonight, then took it outside and set match to paper. I held it until the flames licked my fingertips, and the darkness around me grew light. It was a long letter filled with ramblings and words bathed in hate.
I held onto my hatred until I could stand it no longer. And then watched as the words fell to the ground and smouldered in the grass.
I stamped out the embers and the ashes blew away in the wind.
It's Sunday. It's not yet ten in the morning. I should be spending the day chilling on my balcony in my new hammock instead of working.
Outside the monkeyco office, there are hordes of grown men playing street hockey and high fiving each other. I'm six stories up, I can hear the sticks on the pavement and the boisterousness of men who clearly don't have anything better to do with their lives except to play early morning street hockey...
Guys, it's bad enough I have to work today, but did you have to rub it in as well?
Life isn't fair.
[ed note: Hm...maybe I should take a break later and bring the boys a beer...]
My lack of fluency in any language other than English is notorious within monkeyco which does not bode well for me considering that we are predominantly owned and occupied by people who barely speak English. My fluency in Chinglish and Biblical Hebrew do me no wonders either, hence I’ve been trying to teach myself Spanish and French.
Perhaps I should have focused on one language at a time. My reading comprehension of French is passable. My written abilities definitely sub par, and my spoken abilities even worse. My Spanish, believe me, is worse than that.
Somewhere along the line, I learned a few phrases…
Buenos dias. Good morning.
Mucho gusto. I’m pleased to meet you.
Donde esta el bano. Where is the washroom?
Estoy muy caliente. I’m very horny. (I have NO idea where I got this.)
I purchased a Lonely Planet Spanish phrasebook for the turtle saving trip to Costa Rica, thinking ambitiously that perhaps I could learn a couple of key phrases so that I could say something meaningful to the locals. (By meaningful, I mean, other than ordering a cerveza and saying something other than please and thank you and I’m very horny which I'm sure could land me in a world of trouble.)
I flipped through the book, and landed in the “Relationship” chapter…
Lo siento, no puedu levantarla. I can’t get it up, sorry.
No te preocupes, lo hago yo. Don’t worry, I’ll do it myself.
WTF?? What kind of people are writing this thing? As if I would have the phrasebook in one hand, and God knows what else in the other…
Of course, when I started teaching myself French for “increased communicative abilities” with fellow coworkers at monkeyco, I HAD to purchase the Lonely Planet French phrasebook.
I flipped through the book, and landed in the “Romance” chapter…
plus fort Harder.
plus vite Faster
Chouette alors! Oh yeah!
C’est sensationnel. That’s great.
Vas-y mollo. Easy tiger.
I’m thinking wow, French really is the langue d’amour and then I flipped through a couple more pages, and read a few more phrases.
He was tall, asian (whoa, where did THAT come from?) and a little bit funny looking. He was wearing scrubs, and his ID badge read St. Michael's Hospital (i.e. just around the corner from Monkeyco). His name started with an R... Robert... Rene... Renforth... R... R... argh...
Gosh darn it, did he ever make my heart flutter.
So, man-of-my-dreams, if you really do exist and you're not just a figment of my short-circuiting REM cycles, meet me between 9:00 - 9:15 at the Tim Hortons around the corner. I'm there practically every morning. You know where it is.
[ed note: You know what this REALLY means though... no more late night House marathons.]
In university, I had a dust-coloured hamster named Harley that I bought from Petsmart and named after the bike that roared past us on the way back to my shitty basement apartment. I probably should have named him Ralph, but Harley was the first thing that popped into my head, so Harley he became, and Harley he remained.
Harley and I were alike in very many ways. We slept like logs during the day, and both liked cheese and cheese flavoured snacks. We hated when people poked us and tormented us (sorry Ro!) and we both woke up extremely grumpy.
We bonded at night; he running in his little wheel as fast as his scrawny little legs could carry him, me “studying” late into the night and watched fuzzy football on my 20 year old rabbit-eared television. Sometimes I’d put him into his hamsterball, and he’d run around leaving a trail of hamster poo behind him. He liked his freedom and escaped as often as possible, once crawling into bed with me and scaring the crap right out of me.
Occasionally, I’d let Harley run around on my desk while I did my studio projects (brilliant plan to avoid exams by taking art studio 101 turned out extremely time consuming and not so brilliant). He’d run around my desk sniffing at my ink, and nibbling on whatever crumbles I had on my desk. And then he’d poop.
[Aside: I don’t know if you’ve seen hamsters poo. Very interesting… very gross. Harley had a habit of reclining on his back, sticking his huge bum in the air, pooing a little poo-stub, and then using his MOUTH to grab the little poo-stub to pull out the rest of the poo, and then FLINGING it as hard as he could.]
One night before the deadline of a huge drawing assignment, I lost track of time. I was drawing and smudging and erasing as fast as I possible could, and quite simply forgot that Harley was roaming around my desk getting into his usual mischief. Deep in concentration, I put my B2 pencil into my mouth, chewing on it as I reached for another pencil.
Something eventually clicked in my mind…
Hm… something isn’t quite right? Why is there an old raisin stuck on my pencil? I wasn’t snacking on rais… OMG… IT’S HAMSTER POO!!!
Freak of a little rat (RIP) had fling his little thing onto my pencil where it had dried so that I could chew on it.
It was like having Stacy and Clinton (of What Not to Wear fame) following my every move.
“No more boots. Your running shoes are for RUNNING only. Just because they have a little pink does not make them cute.”
“No more black. You need COLOURS!!”
“No more no-name jeans. You need jeans that LIFT AND SEPARATE.”
This weekend’s “Shop. Eat. Shop. Eat.” trip to Montreal was a blast. We hit Simons, Cour de Mont Royal, Saint Laurent; shopped until my credit card smoked and my bank account emptied. Major deals were scored, and we walked away knowing that better prices would not be possible at any outlet mall below the border.
We shopped until exhaustion.
And then we ate. Oh, how we ate. Justin bistro a vin for foie gras, Kaizen’s for sushi, Schwartz for smoked meat sandwiches… and Bubba’s in Kingston for Italian poutine. Sure, it was partially an eating trip, but the sheer amount of food consumed… incredible. I’m stunned that I don’t need to shop again to accommodate the consequences of our gluttony.
Three things I learned during the family trip to Hawaii:
1) I am no longer terrified to death of sharks. Surfing in shark infested waters is fun!
2) Never tell the Maternal One that you don't know where you're going... even if you really have no idea where you're going, and she's the only one who's ever been there before.
3) The polite thing to answer when someone (i.e. a boy) asks you what you’re doing that night is not “meh.” Instead, you should answer, “We want to go to a club, but we don’t know where. Do you have any suggestions?”
While staying in the Montreal Sofitel, QWW and I came up with the most brilliant of brilliant plans to meet single eligible businessmen.
Over breakfast in swanky hotel restaurants…
While these single eligible businessmen chill over their eggs bene and coffee in the early hours of morning, not only are they impeccably dressed (thus weeding out the gainfully employed from the not-so-gainfully employed), but they’re usually alone (and far away from home) thereby making them more susceptible to conversation openers such as “Are you done with that newspaper?” or “Do you know of a good place in [insert city here] that has a good bar and great music?”
Chances are they’ll jump at the opportunity to get to know sexy single women because 1) we all know that what happens out of town stays out of town, 2) meeting new people helps the evenings pass by faster (instead of watching Friends reruns in the hotel gym), and 3) as QWW so eloquently argued… “morning wood.”
day 11071: two weeks ago on a rainy wednesday night
If it had actually been a date, it would have been the best date I’ve ever been on. We had dinner in a cozy candlelit bistro, walked along quiet misty side streets near Rue Saint-Denis, and had coffee until almost the wee hours of the morning.
Alas, he’s even more clueless than I am. Thus, it was not a date. Darn.
I’m asian. I’m shy. I’m not good at the French cheek to cheek kiss-kiss thing. I’m horrible at it and so obviously uncomfortable that many, many people make fun of me… including the boy who wrote, “I’ll remember kissing your ear.”
All hail QWW… I must learn to flirt from her, so that I, too, can make a boy walk across a crowded restaurant just to say “Bonjour…”
I hate public transit just as much as you do. Probably a whole lot more. I hate it so much that in the summer, I'll probably walk the 20 km home than to take the freaking subway home. That's how much I hate it.
But more importantly, I hate the way that some of you bitch and complain every time someone accidentally loses a footing and steps on you. It's a freaking subway. Some nut job newbie conductor is bound to jerk the freaking train around at one time or another. Some unstable passenger is bound to lose their footing (not all people can be as nimble footed as I, btw), and someone is more than likely going to step on someone else.
GET THE FCUK OVER IT. Everyone else on the train has...
So long as they apologize, you don't have to spend the next 10 minutes going "ow, ow, ow..." and making grimaces of pain. They didn't mean to... they've already freaking apologized... and they're already off the train. You in pain, doesn't mean diddly squat to the people next to you, except that you've just revealed that you're a freaking wimp, and that you like a whole lot more attention than anyone is willing to give you during rush hour. Save it for you SO, but he probably doesn't care anyway.
I don't want to see it, and I don't have the freaking patience for your subpar acting skills. Did I mention that I hate taking the subway.
Get over yourself.
ps... to that wide ass biotch a couple months ago that was fcuking spreading her fat ass legs out into the aisle... I'm really sorry I tripped over your cankles. Some dude getting onto the car shoved me. But seriously, did you have to "retaliate" by stepping on me? Get over yourself, bitch. Fcuk... I hate public transit
Damn it, wait… why do all my stories start out innocently?
It started out almost innocently. We talked a lot about work. We talked a bit about ourselves. We talked about parties, and invited each other to our respective cities, knowing full well that neither one of us would actually accept the other’s invitation. He tried to talk me into hopping onto a plane just for a concert, I tried to talk him into coming to Toronto for a whole lot more than just a concert… dinner and a movie… turducken... Christmas... New Years... the list goes on.
We joked, we laughed, but we never made it beyond a mere flirtation… that is the thing about crushes. Crushes remain unrequited. Chains of pain someone calls it. Someone has a crush on you, but you have a crush on someone else who has a crush on somebody else… hence the chain of pain.
I wrote him off. Once. Twice. Thrice. A million times and more. He's not that into me. I’ve indulged in other flirtations, had other interests; ogled a hundred other men almost as worthy as he. Damn it, he always pulled me back, and all it took was a quick “Hi.”
So goes my chain of pain. Karma is a bitch.
In just over two weeks, I’ll be in his city. For work. He has no idea, and if he does, he hasn’t yet let on. I’m trying to keep my visit under wraps. I don’t like playing games, but part of me is thinking not playing at all is a whole lot better than losing.
“I need to ask you some questions about your latest charges.”
“ February 24th… Bier Market $24.50, February 24th… Phoenix $16.50, February 24th again… HoSu $46.75, February 22nd …This is London $23, February 21st… Irish Embassy $16.50, February 21st… Irish Embassy again $43.50, February 20th… Fran’s $21.50, February 20th again… Fran’s again $5.75, February 17th… Irish Embassy again…”
Hm… no wonder they recognize me at the Irish Embassy…
My Visa card was rejected yesterday when I tried to make reservations for the Schmassion family vacation. According to “Dan, Customer Service Representative”, it was out of character with my usual spending habits, and the Big Bank was a little concerned about identity fraud.
Unfortunately, from what I gather, my latest spending habit involves a lot of food and a lot of alcohol, most of which I don’t remember purchasing. I’ve been trying to put together some semblance of a life over the past few weeks. I think I might have gone and overdone things.
Just a bit.
On a brighter note though, I’ve also made it to the climbing gym more times over the past two and a half weeks than I have over the past five months. Now, all I have to do is find a balance.
day 11027: randomness from the past month of madness
“Honey, when we come up to talk to you in the bar, we’re not looking to be your friend.”
“It’s like breaking up with your girlfriend and keeping her around to screw her on the side.”
“It’s not fair that married people with children get preferential treatment. Why am I working the overtime for ten, when everyone takes off at 4:30?... Monday morning, I’m walking into the office and announcing that I got married on the weekend. And while I’m at it, I inherited a dozen kids as well. And a cat. I hate cats.”
“I have NO idea where I want to be in two years. I’m thirty, and I live at home with my mother. The only place I know I don’t want to be is there… and here…”
“I don’t eat my cupcakes. I know what I put them. That stuff will kill you.”
“I’m a dragon, you could ride me… oh wait, that doesn’t sound too good.”
“I got married on Sunday. I met the guy on Saturday. His wife died on Tuesday.”
“You know that book, He’s Just Not Into You?? Well, I’m just not into him.”
"Everything tastes better when it's smothered in cheese and drowned in gravy."
Is it human nature that when you're trying to tell someone how much your life sucks, they tell you how much worse their's is? Because now, not only am I trying to figure out what would happen if I quit the monkeyco without finding another job first, I'm also worrying about the day that the maternal one stops receiving a full pension... in about 5 years.
Yesterday, the coworkers were ribbing me about the lunch the Maternal One had packed for me. I took the hilarity with much grace and chuckled along. Afterall, if you can't laugh at yourself, who can you laugh at?
This morning, as the Maternal One and I were leaving the house (she to jury duty and me to monkeyco), she casually remarked, "How was lunch yesterday? That was mine. You were supposed to take a banana."
day 11010: the art of being clueless... lesson one... aka welcome to the friendzone
When you're trying to persuade your crush to come party in a city he doesn't like, it's ok to suggest that he bring a friend. However, when he asks the question of who he should bring, the answer IS NOT "someone cute."
No matter how smart the guy might be, he can't read your mind that you actually wanted him to set up your coworker, and not that you wanted him to bring you a date.
The seamonkeys have gone and grown up. They’ve had babies of their own who then probably had babies of their own. Except that I no longer care because the adults are just too darn gross looking (like cockroaches of the sea, but much smaller). Call me lookcist, but I’ve decided that if a pet is not cute and cuddly, it’s not really a pet at all. Pets are interactive. Seamonkeys are just burdens of ocean society.
If anyone is looking for a 3 time a week responsibility (i.e. feeding the slimy things Monday, Wednesday, Friday), shoot me an email. The office pets are free to a good home. No one in the office wants them, and if I run out of food, and don’t want to invest another $3 + $10 shipping/handling for more, Coworker Chick will call the SPCA on me.
If I don’t hear from anyone within a week, maybe I’ll sell them on ebay and call them Elvis reincarnations. They are a little loopy after all.
2. Foresight… aka Rent-a-Date:
Some days, I’d like to have a posse of tall-dark-and-handsomes at my beck and call. Not so much because I’m single, but more so that sometimes it really sucks ass to be single. Especially the times when, say hypothetically, you have a dinner two Fridays from now with a group of old friends where you know that your ex, his wife, and their freshborn lovechild will also be there. Times like these, it’s important for a girl to have a completely swoon-overable date - not to make the ex jealous (because you are soooo wayyyy over him as he is so obviously over you), but because a girl needs to have someone to make out with in the corner while everyone else is ooohing and ahhhing over the little crackerjack. Because sure as hell, you can’t be going over there saying how cute the baby is, and you’d look like a freak sitting in the corner by yourself while everyone else giggles over what the baby burped up. (Forgive me. My clock hasn’t started ticking yet… no maternal instincts over here).
Novel idea…if you’re free Friday, February 2, 2007 and want to play the part of my tall-dark-and-handsome boyfriend, shoot me an email. Only people with awesome personalities need apply. Bonus points for you if you really are tall-dark-and-handsome AND completely swoon-overable. I’ll buy you dinner and make out with you in the corner.
[Disclaimer… I’m only going to PRETEND to be your girlfriend. I will not go home to meet your mother.]
That’s it for now. I’m driving to Pittsburgh tomorrow to watch Sidney Crosby kill the Leafs. I love my team, but darn it, Sidney’s just so gosh-darn cute. Hm… I wonder if he’d be my tall-dark-and-handsome… oooohhhh…