day 10430: there’s a hole in my memory…

I took Triscuit to susur for his 37th birthday dinner. Initially, I had wanted to take him here but some idiot who is obviously a hell of a lot more financially secure than I am, booked out the WHOLE ENTIRE RESTAURANT… grrr… frustration. So I settled for second best.

Actually, I gave him a choice… susur, scaramouche, the fifth or george. I was secretly hoping for george, but the fact that I refused to give him the names of the restaurants and only described it as an “awesome, amazing, highly recommended restaurant that is part of an exclusive women-only club” scared him off. Women that don’t like men scare him. Just as men who don’t like women scare him.

Too bad… the food would have been fabulous there.

He picked the place I described simply as “asian fusion.” It’s safe… it’s familiar… it’s not the place with the “best view of the city” or the “funky elevator ride".

susur, though, was good. At the time it was amazing. But in hindsight, status was reduced to “good-to-very-good”. And all because I can’t remember the fourth course of the seven course tasting menu… IT HAS COMPLETELY SLIPPED MY MIND… horror of horrors… was my meal not memorable? Egad.

Don’t get me wrong… all of the dishes were incredibly well presented. The restaurant is white and barren, with artwork and visual appeal relegated to the food presentation. Visual appeal enhances the food experience… some of my dishes were too pretty to eat. I had to force myself to dig into the succulent Cornish hen with the currant jam glaze. Mmmm…

The dishes were tasty, but inconsistent. Some of mine were better than his. Some of his were better than mine. I think there was only one dish that neither of us cared much for… until we slathered on some of the sturgeon caviar they had garnished the dish with. But then, hey, I’m just a sucker for fish roe… I’ll love anything with caviar…

1

he: cucumber crab rice roll/ poached soya custard/ radish topped with guacamole
me: same except with salmon tartar topped with crème fraiche and salmon roe instead of the soya custard

favourite part: radish topped with guacamole… very refreshing… very tasty. There is actually an unexpected flavour burst in your mouth

2

he: rack of lamb/ 3 sauces: mint chutney, spicy peanut, and 1 I can’t remember/ white asparagus/ something else I can’t remember
me: Cornish hen/ red currant glaze/ roasted apple slices and beets/ asparagus/ topped with hazelnuts

favourite part: mine rocked… his was so-so… we couldn’t figure out what one part of the dish was (i.e. the part with the lamb bone stuck in it for presentation)… it could have been a lamb meatball.

3

he: beef carpaccio/ shaved foie gras/ arugula salad with a balsamic vinaigrette
me: foie gras four ways: seared foie gras/ foie gras in a sweet pastry with rosemary and red currant jelly/ slice of foie gras on melba toast/ foie gras reduction with Madeira jelly served in a shot glass

favourite part: seared foie gras and the beef carpaccio. The searing brought out the fatty taste and texture and made it melt-in-your-mouth delicious. Rich. Oh-so-yummy…

least favourite part: foie gras reduction… it tasted like CHOCOLATE… oh so wrong…

4

he: I really can’t remember
me: I really, really can’t remember

least favourite part: I can’t remember it!!!! WAHHHHH!!!

Oooohhhh… I remember now!!! Mmmmm… it was really good… lichee fruit/melon sorbet/ damn… forgot the last thing… may have been asparagus…

5

he: red mullet/ miso sauce/ calamanci lime
me: salmon carpaccio wrapped in a cream cheese nori rice roll/ 4 sauces: crème fraiche, wasabi, mustard, ??/ salmon roe/ crispy cookie thing that looked like a funky bracelet

favourite part: the red mullet was scrumptious, but a little salty. The calamanci lime would be amazing in a gin and tonic… has a faint hint of tangerine to it.

6

he: lobster/ dungeness crab wrapped in a cabbage roll/some weird sauce/ something else I can’t remember
me: poached lobster claw/ dungeness crab on top of a bed of heirloom tomatoes/ tomatoe concasse/ lobster roe sauce/ radish/ sturgeon caviar

favourite part: sturgeon caviar

least favourite part: the rest of the dishes… this course was a little bland with not much substance to it. I’m a huge fan of crab, but it was underwhelming and unimpressive. But then again, I really don’t like lobster claw either…

7

he: cold asparagus soup with tiny bits of white asparagus/ white asparagus and apple salad
me: the same

favourite part: the asparagus salad really rocked. The mustard seeds underneath the apples really gave it a zing and an oomph!

8

he: raspberry sorbet/almond cherry tart/ passion fruit mousse
me: molten chocolate banana cake/ sambuca caramel panacotta/ banana rum ice cream

favourite part: mmmmm… dessert… need I say more?

At the end of it all, we were so stuffed we could hardly move... still. so. full...

day 10429: nice pom poms

I’ve never written about the softball team I joined with Co-worker Chic. I’ve “played” with them for one season… actually, I played the first game, was out of town on business for the second, and two days later, “hurt” myself… *

What I can’t do on the field, I try to do off the field. I am a great cheerleader. Or at least I try to be. I watched Bring It On, learned some moves, bought some pom poms from the dollar store, wave them around and cheer with all my might. I’m awesome, if I do say so myself…

I’m exaggerating. My pom-poms remind me of nipple tassels. My hip gyration antics resemble that of some second-rate stripper trying (without success) to not look excruciatingly bored. And on top of that, since I’m the only person not on the field, I’m the official scorekeeper. Yay… official scorekeeper meaning that I have to walk around with a clipboard and a pen marking down every base, out and point… and also meaning that I CAN’T USE MY HANDS TO WAVE MY POM POMS!

Double yay…

So I improvise. I stick the pom-poms in my pockets. One on the right, one on the left… though try as I might to do the J. Lo/Shakira booty shake, I always end up looking like a giant marshmallow shaking her “thang” on some cheap-hotel room vibrating bed.

Triple yay…

But I still love my pom poms. So much, in fact, that an SOS call was placed to Triscuit reminding him to bring back the pom poms from the Ham where I had left them over the weekend. (His mother and I did a simultaneous pom pom stripper-esque dance while we brought out his birthday cake. Yeah, I wasn’t impressed either…I really need to take some pole dancing lessons).

Last night, I get to the baseball diamonds, plastic bag of pom poms in hand. It’s “playoffs.” I’m excited. I’m all ready to cheer my team on.

“Guys! Look, I brought my pom poms!” I’m super excited. If I haven’t mentioned before, I love my pom poms. I untie the knot, reach impatiently into the bag and yank out a fistful of shiny colourful plastic. All of a sudden…

… flying out of the bag… is my bra!!! Triscuit had neglected to tell me that he had packed my missing undergarment in with the pom poms.

… Up they fly through the air… and land with an earth shattering thud… on the bleachers… in front of half the softball team… the guy half.

For the rest of the night, Speedy Chicken Legs and Studmuffin (his nickname… not mine) would periodically come up to me and say:

“NICE POM POMS”


[ed. note: “hurt” in quotes, because there will never be any externally documented proofs of any so-called injuries… only my *ahem* doctor has any permanent records. My official comment is… “there is NO permanent damage…now stop asking”. Though, if you’re really curious, and really persuasive, I might tell you one day, but you’d have to swear up and down on all that you hold sacred that MY MOTHER will never find out. Because, yeah… sometimes I still fear her wrath.]

day 10427: hm

I had something to say today. I really did. But things got busy and now I forget what it was that I wanted to say. It was important and probably life shattering. That I know.

Oh well.

I spent most of the weekend chauffeuring people around and being really, really tired. I remember it being somewhat fun though… how about you?

Oh, and to that really, really, really drunk girl that Roomie picked up at the bar and invited to the bonfire... swimming in the middle of the lake when there’s a funky undertow and really large waves… that’s just not a good idea…

day 10424: i heart me some firemen

So, what did you do last night?

Me? Nothing much… June, July… that’s it…

It’s tough being me. Out of extreme boredom, Co-worker Chick (henceforth CC) and I resorted to going to this... where we ended up having a wickedly fun time.

It was all for charity, so no comments about how sexist and degrading it might be. Because obviously, if the firefighters thought it was sexist and degrading, they wouldn’t have had so much fun doing it.

And trust me… they had a ton of fun…

And yes, of course, there was lots of dancing on stage… with the firemen...

day 10423: techron (pronunciation: tĕk' rŏn) (n.)

Derived from the English techie and moron

Meaning:
1. a technological idiot;
2. a person of subnormal intelligence when it comes to technically related products or ideas;
3. a pseudo-technologically inclined person who thinks he/she knows what he/she is doing, but ends up screwing up the entire system because he/she is too stupid to ask for help;
4. a technologically inclined person who acts like an idiot.

Example: I am such a techron … it took me almost two years to figure out how to post pictures on my blog.

Example: He is such a techron. He freaking played freaking videogames the whole freaking night instead of coming over like he said he would. The freak.

day 10422: don't worry... i'm not dead...

Just trying something new starting today...

... letting go with reckless abandon...

Now 'scuse me while I go find myself some rain and some unspoiled green, green grass. I've always wanted to dance barefoot in the rain. Just for the heck of it.


"i never liked the rain until i walked in it with you..." 

day 10419: watching denis…

I don’t know Denis. I can’t tell you what happened to him after my story ends. I can’t tell you what happened to him before my story even begins.

I just know that one minute we were laughing and drinking on the balcony, and the next minute, we were leaning over the railing peering anxiously at the parking lot below where Denis sprawled motionless on the ground; arms and legs akimbo.

We watched as he tried in vain to get up, watched as he stretched his fingertips upwards towards the sky, reaching for what we didn’t know. We watched the groups of people standing not thirty feet away from him, just watching him. We yelled down to them to see if he was okay. The man carrying the child made drinking motions with his hand. Denis, as it appeared, had passed out drunk in the parking lot.

No one moved to offer him any assistance.

Fifteen floors up, we dialed 911.

We watched as people drove into the parking lot, swerved around him, and got out of their cars to go shopping. We watched as a couple came back from shopping, threw their bags into the back of their car, lowered the roof of their convertible and drove off. Another couple walked hand in hand through the parking lot. They looked at Denis, looked at the other people standing there watching Denis, and called for an ambulance again.

Still, no one moved to offer him any assistance. Everyone just stood there and watched Denis… watched as a piece of newspaper blew towards him and covered up his face… watched as he tried to reach up to brush it off, but only managed to raise his arm a few inches off the floor.

And then we had enough. Ed and Jen went down to see what they could do for Denis. Drunk as a skunk, or high as a kite, he did not deserve the uncaring morbid curiosity of his fellow mankind.

We watched for the ambulance. It took more than twenty minutes to come. Obviously, Denis was not a priority for them.

It turns out that Denis is epileptic. He was off his meds, and might have taken a little “something something.” He was reaching towards the sky because he couldn’t see. He was feeling around for the ground once he sat up because he couldn’t see that either.

It was probably a good thing. Otherwise, he would have seen all the people standing around watching him but not reaching out to help him.

day 10416: inexcusable

Saturday night, I lost it. I threw a major temper tantrum, and did something really, really, really, really, really bad.

I feel absolutely terrible about it, and had Triscuit even been slightly less drunk, I doubt he would ever want to talk to me again. Ever.

That’s how bad it was.

day 10414: a story that happened once upon a time that i’d forgotten until just now

Once upon a time, say maybe two years ago, I was driving along Finch Ave. with my cousin. My cell phone rang. I picked up.

“Hi, may I speak to Michelle?” Wrong number… no “Michelle” here… no worries, better luck next time.

Hang up.

Five minutes later… “Hi, may I speak to Michelle?” Still wrong number… no “Michelle” here… sorry… I think she gave you a fake number… better luck next time, buddy.

Hang up.

Five minutes later…

“Hi, who is this? You sound cute. Let’s get together sometime.”

He called for another two months after. Sometimes trying three or four times a night. The worse part was that he had blocked ID so I couldn’t even screen his calls.

The funny part… “No, sorry I have a boyfriend,” didn’t work. He was all “Well, if he ever treats you wrong, just let me know and I’ll find him and beat the shit out of him.” If only I still had his number…

The End

day 10412: one too many csi episodes and an overactive imagination

A couple of years ago, I spraypainted a few snowboards. A dragon for me, sun patterns for Sista, LOTR for Paul – they were awesome. But life happened and I got busy (plus, I lost all desire and urge to be creative when all of last summer’s crap went down), so as a result, another hobby fell to the wayside.

Last week, I finally took the airbrush course that I’ve been meaning to take since 2003. And now I’m obsessed. I have big plans for my new hobby. Three more snowboards – one for Paul and two for JB – and a motorcycle helmet… a motorcycle helmet that I got free through craigslist.org.

But it was funny. Not in a ha-ha funny kind of way, but more in a prophetic kind of way. Before I picked up the helmet (and a motorcycle tank, btw) I was filled with timid trepidation. I was concerned that I was driving to the middle of nowhere to find a stranger named Gio who promised me a helmet and a tank for free. So I told Triscuit to search my email should anything ever happen to me and I disappeared. Of course this was all pre-break…kind of…

He told me not to worry, and chances are the guy wouldn’t be a serial killer… and that I was just being the typical girl who was overthinking things. Yeah right.

I drove up to find Gio standing in the driveway holding an electric saw. He looked at me with intense curiosity. I introduced myself and we chatted a bit about my “work” and about my “plans” for the helmet.

Apparently, he’s an artist too. And he might be looking for a “painter” to touch up some of his stuff.

Um-hm? What kind of stuff? I’m just being polite. I really don’t care.

Life casts. He pointed up to the garage rafters where there are about half a dozen body casts made out of plaster of paris. Like the kind you see in those afternoon horror shows… Freaky…

I thanked him profusely for the free stuff and backed up real slowly out of the garage. Never turned my back on him, got in my car and drove away… really quickly...

day 10412: nothing left to say

Officially we’re on a break. Unofficially, we’ve broken up. I’m not holding my breath that he will come to his senses and figure out that I’m the best thing that ever happened to him.

I had thought things were different and that progress was being made. But that’s not the case. Nothing has changed. There still is no end goal.

I don’t blame him. I don’t blame myself. I think I’ve hit stage 7 already. Acceptance.

I can get through this. I’ve done it once before. I can do it again.

day 10410: "blonde moment"

The largest AA convention in history is being held in Toronto. Right. Now. An estimated 50,000 to 75,000 is expected to converge upon the Weston Harbour Castle for their "meetings."

That's my hood. I'm going to be surrounded by thousands of teetotallers... me... scary...

But what scares me more was my first thought when I found out:

Crap... the clubs are going to be PACKED today... how are we going to get into Shmooze?

Then it clicked. AA. Alcoholics Anonymous. Whoops.

Oh, and this was just after I shoved my foot into the garbage can. I'm on a roll.

day 10409: i think i was in denial all these years, but i've finally figured it out

Am I artsy or am I crafty? My to-do-before-I-die list as it stands today:

~ learn how to do motorcycle/car detailing
~ get my registered massage therapy license
~ circus school
~ learn to play the guitar... awesomely...
~ write a song... that people will be singing all over the street...
~ take singing lessons
~ blow glass (!!!)
~ do things with stained glass
~ sculpt with some kind of stone

Where the heck was riding a motorcycle, or climbing Petrero? Obviously in my delusional state, I need to re-evaluate my priorities...

day 10408: note to self…

On the day that you show up at work over an hour late because you didn’t feel like driving back from Ham the night before (and waited until 8:30 to leave, because you didn’t want to get stuck in rush hour traffic…), make sure that you don’t wear a really, really short jean skirt to work.

Because Murphy ’s Law will dictate that you bump into the president of your monkeyco who just so happens to really hate it when employees wear denim and who is also a woman so she won’t be suitably impressed by your legs.

And yes, an emergency shopping trip at lunchtime is perfectly justifiable…

day 10406: niles

Niles was Scottish. Warm, and friendly, he was a bear of a man; the kind that makes you laugh so hard the beer comes out your nose.

Niles arrived toasted. It wasn’t obvious. He was jovial and polite, making conversation with the ladies, shaking hands and backslapping with the men. He took the offered drinks and gin-laced lemonpops with grace, thanked the hostess, and talked politics and social economics with anyone with two cents to contribute.

Ribs were barbequing and the shrimp and mango kabobs were almost ready when Niles commandeered one the hosts for a “chat.” Really, they went to smoke a little weed. Buzzed, Niles stumbled as they were coming back from their “chat” and stepped on the other man’s toe. He apologized passionately before sitting down to a dinner that he had lost his appetite for.

Apparently drugs do that on occasion to some people. Makes them lose their appetite… and their coordination…

He only hid it well for a while.

Niles spent the rest of the night stumbling around. He knocked glasses off the table, he knocked the table askew, tripped over the dog, and tripped over the chairs. He entered the house to use the washroom, stumbled around a bit and came out a good while later. Maybe he had to use the phone. He dropped his keys and cigarettes at one point, bent over to pick them up and grabbed nothing but air. The ladies giggled nervously, unsure of what to do. One of them picked up the keys. The other one picked up the dog.

Everyone was good at pretending that nothing was happening out of the ordinary. Hey, everyone likes a good party sometimes. When it was time to drive Niles home, he thanked his hosts and hostesses profusely, saying how grateful he was for the mere invitation to dinner. And thus, he departed.

Leaving a trail of destruction behind…

A broken toe…

A broken toilet…

But no hard feelings, eh? Niles meant no harm. Accidents happen. They are very forgiving people. Very.

Until three thirty in the morning when Niles’ girlfriend called looking for one of the hosts.

“I’m sorry, he’s at work. Would you like to leave a message?” There was a tension in room. “Can you hold out for another half and hour? We’ll try to find him as soon as possible.”

Niles, as it turns out, is abusive when he’s drunk. He beat on the dog, hurled insults at his girlfriend and scared her enough that she phoned looking for help.

But instead of the police, she called us. Because apparently, she still cared enough about him to give him a chance.

There was nothing that we could do. It was a domestic dispute that we could not be involved in. Sleep was scarce that night as we lay in the dark wishing her all the luck in the world...

day 10403 1/2: sell, sell, selllll!!!

I've been playing real estate agent for the past week.

I'm doing such a good job garnering interest in the place, I've almost sold myself on it.

Everytime someone gushes about how much they love the place, I think, "Back off bitch... it's mine."

Then I try to remember why I didn't move there in the first place. It takes a while, but then it comes to me... THERE IS NO PARKING!!!!!!!!

How quickly one forgets.

day 10403: some days i really, really need a camera phone

... so that when I talk about the guy standing on Queen Street between City Hall and Osgoode, you'll know what I'm talking about. You know, that homeless guy with the pet ferrets, playing Frankie on an old tape deck, and petting the five rats he has draped over his arm?

Yeah, that guy.

day 10402: so freakishly antsy i think i’m going to drown myself tonight

The worse thing about being on the disabled list is enduring the constant inactivity. Day after day of absolute nothingness. I can feel my fat cells growing again. I know that the couch potatoe hidden deep within is just waiting for the perfect time to burst out and reclaim all of its former 178lb glory.

Last night, I was going to try to do a little spinning on the recumbent bicycle, but my fish taco craving got in the way. I overdid it when I went shopping for supplies and lugging back a couple litres of milk, a big ass jar of herring (craving) and more than a few pounds of tomatoes, avocados, and goat feta (for avocado sandwiches) did nothing for my already sore and tired back.

So I took it easy, did a few months worth of laundry (apparently I just buy new underwear when I run out of clean ones), and sat back to watch the remainder of Episode V that I had fallen asleep watching the night before. (Yes, I fall asleep constantly watching movies, and yes, I’ve watched almost all of them since Sunday…) Episode VI I’m saving to watch with Triscuit tonight after he finishes climbing for the night.

Still antsy from not being able to, um, move without pain, I popped in this; which had someone told me that it was almost identical to this (which I actually liked...), I wouldn’t have wasted the $5 buying it from PacMall.

I’m going absolutely freaking nuts…is this how everyone else lives? I'm trying my hardest to be my usual happy-go-lucky self, and look for a silver lining in all of this, but thus far... nada. nil. zilch. zero. nothing.

blah...

(ps... ever since the Katie Holmes/Tom Cruise thing, I just don't see her in the same light anymore...icky)

day 10401: nothing but a toothbrush and maybe a change of underwear

Have you ever wanted to hop on the first plane with nothing but your passport and a toothbrush?

Be spontaneous… do it…

I dare you.

And then tell me all about it so I can live vicariously through you. I’d love to do it, but in my case, it would have to be the bus station instead of the airport. And somehow, it doesn’t seem nearly as fun…

day 10400: ready to face the sharks

My absolute-all-consuming terror of sharks stems from childhood. That’s what happens when your parents take you to the theatre to see Jaws and hum the “duh-dum-duh-dum” theme song on the way home.

It doesn’t matter if it’s the ocean, lake, pool or bathtub. “Duh-dum-duh-dum” plays over and over in my mind while my overactive imagination visualizes a great white shark somehow swimming its way up to Lake Ontario, squeezing into the pipes and bursting through the walls to come after me.

I was a very fast swimmer as a child, seeing as how I never wanted to be caught in the middle of the pool when the sharks came for me.

Tonight, I will face the fear. Swimming is about all the exercise I can do for the next few weeks, so swimming it will have to be. Memories float through my mind… a tearful Cape Cod trip where I was forced to enter the waters of the Atlantica… a rafting trip on the Ottawa River where Kapoopie snuck up behind me and yelled “Shark!”…

“I guess it would be mean if someone painted little sharks all over your new goggles.”

“I wouldn’t be able to see then… but really, I almost splurged for the hologram ones of razor teeth fish… just in case a shark does come through the walls, I might be able to scare them off. But they only came in kids sizes. Boo…”

“Well. Try not to get eaten and try not to drown.”

“Thanks, babe, for caring.”

day 10399: lost, found and lost again…

There are days when you just want to tell the world to “Fuck off.” There are days when you can be surrounded by people but still you feel helpless, lost and alone. It doesn’t matter what people try to say or what they try to do… because it doesn’t help. It doesn’t even matter.

There are days when you question everything said to you. Wonder to yourself if things are said because that is what they think you want to hear. You probe, you pick, but there are no answers, and anything said just makes things worse.

What makes us who we are? The people we love? The things we do, or the things we care about? What makes us unique and special in the eyes of someone?

What happens when life throws you a curveball and you end up losing half the adjectives that you once used to define yourself? Who do you become?

I’m a climber. I play softball on Tuesdays. I rollerblade, mountain bike on the odd occasion and play hockey better than a lot of boys… I was happy when I got to a point where I could run for four minutes without wanting to quit.

But do these things define the real me? Once upon a time, I thought they did…

…now who am I?

Someone tell me please, because I really don’t know anymore.

day 10396: more randomania from the land of jamania

'levator going down

J: Oh my god, this skirt is short!!
T: You only just realized?
J: Oh my god, yeah.
T: Relax, it looks good.
J: But is it appropriate for work?
T: Probably not. It's really short.

queen & yonge

Stranger: "'Scuse me ma'am! I just want to give you a compliment! You are very beautiful!"
J: {thinking} hm, he looks like Stephen Baldwin... did he just call me MA'AM?
S: "You probably have a husband. No? You probably have a boyfriend..."
J: {thinking} tee-hee... ok, stop following me... this is kind of creepy...did he just run out from McDonald's?

hurts to sneeze

Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.

how do the people without siblings talk about the really important things

... like bathroom related things you can't talk about with anyone else, because they'll think you're stranger than a pie on the moon. Not that I am, of course. Strange, I mean.

day 10395: can you keep a secret?

I'm finding it more and more difficult to keep my secret. Too many people are indirectly involved. Not that I'm THAT important, but I've made plans, and now I'm going to have to cancel my summer.

And really, the only person that can't know is the maternal one.

Oy. I really don't like thinking about the consequences of that one...

day 10394: karma... scharma...

With all the shitty-ass who’s-its and what-nots going on right now, you’d think that there’s some kind of balancing force up there that will help me out by letting me win the lottery. Or something equally good…

Cuz right now, life just about sucks ass.

day 10389: at last… the epitome of girlie-girl…

The quest for girlie-girl-ness is over. While it has been fun, and it has been quite a success, I believe I’ve taken one step too far into the abyss of pink. It’s time to take a break and reassess the situation.

Mishap last night rendered this girlie-girl into a mass of blubbery, red eyed tears. Tears coursed uncontrollably down my face. Scores of concerned faces looked at me while I tried smiling unsuccessfully through the salty leak.

And when finally the crying slowed enough to fist away the wetness with my grubby-chalky hands, I turned to a worried looking Triscuit…

… and said…

“How’s my makeup?”

… and the tears started right up again… crybaby-girlie-girl that I am… ;)

day 10387: and some words still sting

When I was six, the sun and moon rose with Michelle. She was a kind-of older sister. I wore her hand-me-downs, had sleepovers at her place and watched Captain Kangaroo while eating Cornpops with chocolate milk. She gave me a Snoopy doll holding a Walkman. We talked about the Jackson Five and how much she liked Jermaine. I’d nod and pretend that I understood. Obviously, I had no clue what she was talking about... I barely do now.

Things got busy. My parents packed me off to piano lessons, art lessons, and Chinese school. We lost touch and grew apart. No more sleepovers. No more hand-me-downs. The hero-worship thing subsided.

Then, when I was eight (maybe nine), she came to one of my uncle’s Christmas parties – a big family affair. The kind where family from all different sides get together and bring other friends, food, etc. etc… other kids etc. etc…

Needless to say, hero-worship resurfaced. The sun and moon still rose with the now teenage and therefore, grown up, Michelle, so I dogged her not knowing that “grown up” Michelle would want to hang out with the other “grown up” kids. I guess I just figured that we could hang out, watch cartoons on tape, and eat sugar sweet cereal together.

It was not to be. Instead, our former association embarrassed her, and she tried to hide from me. But hero-worship that I did, I kept looking for her. The more I wanted to hang out with her, the less she wanted to do with me. I got the hint… eventually

As my family left for the night, she and friend-du-jour perched oh-so-innocently on the second floor landing and together they yelled out, “Good R-I-D-D-A-N-C-E.” I, of course, had no idea what they were spelling.

I went home, looked it up in a dictionary, and have hated the phrase ever since. Every time I hear it, I cringe a little inside thinking that somehow, someone's inner child is feeling what I felt way back when.

day 10385: that’s when i said… “there’s no point to being crazy jealous bitch”

The day of the bonfire, Triscuit’s roommate (for who I still haven’t found a suitable nickname, btw) awoke with news that the bar he tends on Saturday nights was hiring another part-time tender. My first thought, of course, was “Whooo hooo!!! Yes, yes… me! me! me!” were completely knocked to the ground. Roomie wanted to relive the best-of-buds glory days from way-back-when (i.e. 18 years and a lifetime ago) and bartend with Triscuit by his side.

Fun and games, he claimed. An AWESOME time… can you remember the good ‘ole days?

Of course Triscuit whole-heartedly agreed. After all, he’s been instrumental in telling me how fun bartending would be and how everyone should do it at least one time in their lives. If not for the tips that I could make with my smile and my um… assets… then for the life experience.

So when he told me today that he had asked Roomie to speak with Bar-Boss for him and tried to justify it by saying that it was an opportunity to get back into the restaurant business should the whole programming thing fall through, I surprised myself by being strangely mature about it.

I expressed my concerns, talked about his scheduled sailing lessons Friday nights, and the bartending gig Saturday nights and how with my softball games on Tuesdays, we’d never really see each other any more except on climbing days (which really isn’t enough bonding time seeing as how climbing day is one big rush-around day). We talked about girls at the bar, flirting with said-girls at the bar and how it was okay to flirt with said-girls at the bar so he can get bigger tips, but how unhappy I would be if he actually went beyond the flirting and how OVER it would be if he actually brought someone home.

That’s when I said… “There’s no point to being crazy jealous bitch.”

(Being jealous is overrated. It really is. It sucks the energy and life out of you and makes you end up feeling and acting like the bitch you don’t want to be. I know from experience. Besides, it’s completely pointless. Being jealous isn’t going to stop anything from happening. You just kill yourself with the whosits and whatnots.)

And then we started talking about how cool I was and how I was going to use all my monkeyco connections to try to get a bartending gig myself… in a club… downtown… where the drinks flow faster and the tips are a lot fatter…

day 10382: hang-ups

A couple days a month, I really hate being a girl. I hate dealing with the crampy-bloating-discomfort, hate the up-and-down-mood swings, hate the teary eyed bitch that I become. The only thing that even comes even close to appeasing me is the thought of crawling into bed with a hot water bottle, drugging myself with a handful of Advils and curling up in the fetal position, all the while praying for God to give me a quick and painless death.

Needless to say, when faced with such adversity, I lash out. I want, no, DEMAND attention. I need hugs, and kisses. I need someone to tell me how beautiful and wonderful I am, and how the world really does revolve around me. And I need this ALL THE TIME.

So when I became increasingly stumped and frustrated on a bouldering problem at the gym yesterday, I told Triscuit I needed a hug.

“What? Now? Here?”

“Yes. Now. Here.” Pout.

“Ok. Fine.” Half-hearted wimpy one armed hug… what the heck was that? Pout. “Ok, so I have a hangup about hugging in the gym. On the street, in a club, fine. But in the gym… it just feels weird.”

Whatever. I go back to bouldering, trying to figure out the green overhang problem that feels so extremely reachy to me. Being shorter and being a lot weaker doesn’t help my sloppy footwork and messy technique. Being weaker just makes me scared to try anything that will throw me off balance.

Five tries. Ten tries. I persisted. There was no way in hell that he would be able to finish that route and I would not. Take a break, he kept saying. But no. Every slip, every fall ended up with me huddled over in near tears, but again, there was no way in hell that he would see those tears fall.

And then I got it. I matched and toehooked and fought my way to the top.

Arms surrounded me. A shout of jubilant joy from him! “You got it, now that deserves a hug! See… I’m getting over my hang-ups. That was really good! Now do it again, cuz I couldn’t see what you did.”

I did it again. And then again, to prove that it wasn’t a fluke…

day 10380: the importance of having wood

I overreacted. I know I have a tendency to do that. But you don’t understand. Let me preface this by telling you about the bet that JB and I have that he cannot burn all the wood that I gathered for Triscuit’s bonfire this Saturday.

Curry crab at Indochine is riding on this. And if you’ve ever been to Indochine, you know this is a BIG deal.

“Ok, are you sitting down?”

“Yes… why????????????”

“Terry just called. The woodchipper is making its way down the beach and grinding up all the wood in its path…”

“AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! What about MY wood?”

“Don’t know. The chipper hasn’t gotten there yet. It’s still a little ways up the beach. Terry’s going to put a sign on it. I’ll update you when I get home.”

“AHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! The HORROR!!!!!!!!!!”

But there’s more to the story. I spent two days gathering the wood and lugging tree sized logs from one end of the beach to the other. Let’s not even talk about telephone poles and who’s-its or what’s-nots. I heaved, I hoed, I raked, I cleaned up the beach until it was very nearly spotless… the logs I didn’t have the strength to lug and pile up, I stood up, replanted and created my own version of beach art. Really, it looked more like a dead forest.

Like the anal accountant that I am, I even organized by size… for “easy burning.” Six wheelbarrows full of kindling to start the bonfire, smaller branches to get the fire going stronger, logs cut and logs uncut (i.e. trees).

(Yes, I know I am anal. I have come to terms with it. So should you.)

But there’s more. There was a temper tantrum on day two. It was a gloomy day. I had not planned on beach cleanup day… especially by myself while Triscuit worked on replanting grass in the front yard. I was feeling like slave labour, and friends of Triscuit’s last-summer-after-me-before-me-again-fling came rollerblading by. Needless to say, it was not a pretty sight.

I did the whole girlie-jealousy thing, but held it all in until everyone was out of sight or long departed before I let loose. I teared. I huffed. I flung stones with all my might into the murky grey waters of Lake Ontario.

I was not a happy camper. Neither I, nor my new pink work gloves were having fun anymore. I flung my rake down, turned over the wheelbarrow, planted my sand covered hiny on the beach and refused to do anymore.

Then, it happened.

Two kids… not more than sixteen… came riding by on their bikes. One stopped, lowered his sunglasses, whistled and rode off again…

I must be cute when I'm mad.

It cheered me up enough to go to the batting cages to work off the rest of my "grumpiness."

"Don't worry, your wood is fine. JB will have to burn it all this Saturday though, since Terry promised that it'll be gone by the end of the weekend. So you're going to lose your bet..."

Crap.

day 10378: randomania…

softball is the sport of the devil

It’s been almost ten years since I played last, but because of softball, I lost all desire to be #1. I no longer needed to be better than anyone else at everything and learned to settle for mediocre.

I once almost blinded someone. It was my fault for holding up my glove while covering first base so that when she tried to beat the ball, she ran into my glove. Maybe she should have looked up while she was running.

I once almost knocked out someone’s teeth. But that was her fault. She should have told me that she couldn’t catch. I wouldn’t have lobbed the ball up high. I didn’t know she’d just stand there staring at it… she could have ducked.

Spring season starts in 8 days. Whoopie! I wonder what harm I can inflict on my fellow humans this time…

friendly stranger

JB and I took a walk down Queen St yesterday and made a stop here. I felt like such a tard since my experience with the um… you know… is severely limited. But at least it wasn’t me sounding like a tard asking for help and trying to figure out how to roll a joint. It didn’t help either that I was wearing my Billabong hoodie drinking taro bubbletea with multi-coloured coconut jellies either. I just looked like a preppie-druggie-wannabe.

I swear I “never” inhaled… ever...

Blood test is tomorrow. This weekend should be…um… “fun”…

I don’t know what you’re talking about. You never heard anything about that here…

i miss my sista

I miss someone telling me not to do things on impulse and that sometimes it’s not a good idea to stalk my boyfriend… especially when I’m on an ultra-emotional-super-pms’g weekend.

That way, when he says “I had a feeling you’d drop by today and surprise me,” I won’t find myself replying with, “I went out for Swiffer clothes and found myself in Hamilton because I couldn’t find any other Canadian Tires in the city.”

Yeah right. Sure I believe you. Sure… delusional-wierdo-chickie-freak…

Did I mention that Friday night was fight-picking-night. Fun for the whole family!!! Whoo hoo…

”i was all over her like a fat kid on a smartie”

Kudos to Bullpen Larry for almost making me spew water all over my monitor. Almost…

bartending classes...update

I know A LOT about alcohol. A little too much... and not all of it is work related. That's a little scary... doncha think?

Admittedly, it's pretty cool being able to recommend drinks left, right and centre. Ask me for something limey and I'll give you a list as long as your arm! ;)

day 10375: fcuk that...

The bad thing about eating a really good smoked salmon ciccio from Mercatto On Bay with insalata tossed with balsamic vinaigrette is that no matter how good it tasted, it'll still taste like that hours later...

Ugh... re-burp smoked salmon... a pack of gum later... still ugh.

day 10374: a lady just came around pushing a cart and handed me a bottle of wine

Before you read on, click on this… Support breast cancer research through drinking… I like that!

(ps… in Ontario, no mailing is necessary. Funds are donated based on sales recorded at the LCBO)

~

…hanging out with the boys…

Yesterday afternoon, Triscuit IM’d me asking about my plans for the weekend and that a bunch of ex-coworkers wanted to get together Saturday night for drinks. Great, I thought, we never go out with his friends… always mine or our common friends. Baby step forward… YES!

But I erred on the side of caution and instead asked him the question, “Are you inviting me or telling me?”

“Telling,” he responded. “I hope you’re ok with that.”

Humph. One step back. I’m sooo not down with that… so not down with that… breathe… breathe… breathe… Why? Is he embarrassed by me? Does he not want to be seen with me? Why am I being so darn insecure with myself? Shades of past-Triscuit float through my mind…

No… it’s just more of a guy thing. They want to sit, drink, talk about the old days, make jokes about women and then drink until they pass out.

Ok, phew… well then, whatever, fine, I guess I’ll find something else to do… and eventually “have fun.”

But it was too late… the wheels in the head had started going ‘round-and-’round. Why did he bother asking if I was ok with it? He’d go drinking with the boys even if I wasn’t ok with it. If I said that I wasn’t ok with it and he ended up not going then he’d be all crankypants with me… and WAS HE ASKING PERMISSION?

Huh? Does he think I was the type of girl would doesn’t want her boy to do anything without him? Because in my mind, that’s just wrong… we don’t have to do everything together… and boy, do I ever feel like a BITCH now! Does he expect me to ask if he’s ok when I do things without him? I don’t ask him. I don’t tell him. I make plans and then see if he wants to tag along…

And so we had a little mini “discussion” via IM.

“It’s all in the way you say it, baby.” I wrote. “If you say, hey… do you have backup plans for Saturday night, cuz I want to go hang out with the boys… then all I’ll say is sure, I’ll find something to do… have fun. But if you ask me if I’m ok with you going somewhere without me, then it sounds like you’re feeling guilty about it, and that there’s something you’re not telling me that makes me wonder why I’m not invited.”

“Maybe I overthought it,” Triscuit typed back. “I just thought if your feelings would be hurt because I wanted to do something on my own or if you’d feel left out. Maybe I won’t think so much next time.”

“Though to be honest… I’m only ok with it because you said it was a guy’s thing… if it wasn’t just hanging-out-with-the-guys I would not be ok with it… cuz then I’d start wondering why again.”

“Completely understandable… “

Take one step forward…

day 10372 1/2: you asked me what i want out of life...

I want this. I want knowing that you love me as much as I love you and that we have a chance at happy ever after.

day 10372: significance in nothing…

Is there a way to meet someone, know someone and not judge them?
Accept them for who they are and move on…

Let their presence flow over you like water and not let them bother you?

In the grand scheme of things, they, like you, are insignificant and unworthy of the time you spend clenching your fists and grinding your teeth, seething at their presence in the very same place that you find comfort and rejuvenation.

Yes, they may be undeserving, but then again, so are you.

From one extreme to the other… forgiveness to unrelenting hatred…

Why?

day 10371: the day in which i take the step towards my new career because last night i dreamt i was fired…

I’ve been having a whole whack of crazy ass dreams these days. In the past weekend, I’ve dreamt of assembling wheelchairs, sanding plaster off the wall, and other weird and wonderful things. Last night’s dream tops the charts though.

I dreamt I was fired. It seemed so realistic, that I woke up in a fit of what-am-I-going-to-do-now panic. In my dream, my boss wasn’t forthcoming about the whole firing issue and ended up hemming and hawing about it in front of an elderly age-spotted-client named “Mr. Love.” Someone from HR walked into the meeting and said something akin to “I guess it’s goodbye then.” And that was it.

I was jobless; canned on the spot and embarrassed beyond belief.

All this happened on a day that a comet was soaring through the sky. My cousin was watching it from a rooftop and I was supposed to join her. Instead, we crashed a party and met Mr. Love (before the firing incident) who somehow developed a soft spot for me. How could he not?

So at the meeting, Mr. Love voiced his outrage and offered to hire me instead. For what job, what position, doing what, I have no clue whatsoever. I could have said yes to being his love slave for all I know. I think he had a resume/technical writing business and I was to be his heir apparent.

All I know is that once I put my pink plaid jacket and laptop bag into the trunk of his really old yellow Mercedes convertible, my alarm went off (again) and I woke up disoriented and thinking that things are going to be changing really soon.

How prophetic.

Seriously though, what bugged me the most… WHY THE HECK COULDN’T I COME UP WITH A BETTER NAME INSTEAD OF “MR. LOVE.”

day 10368: don't hate me because i'm lazy...

Promise me you won't be jealous when I tell you this...

In about half an hour, I'm heading to the spa for a morning of massage, manicure, and pedicure. And when I'm all aglow and tired from being pampered, I'm meeting up with the Maternal One (who I definitely need a new nickname for) and we're going jewellry shopping.

Tonight, Triscuit and I are dressing up just for the heck of it and going to Mildred Pierce for a romantic candlelight dinner for two... courtesy of the bachelorette auction (of course).

day 10365 1/2: good deeds and random ponderings

Is someone trying to punish me? I try to do something good, a tiny act of random kindness. It's not MY day on kitchen duty at monkeyco, so why is it that when I TRY to help someone out, I end up with coffee-water-backsplash all over my work skirt and new nylons.

*sigh*

Maybe I should have emptied the cup before I turned it over in the dishwasher.

~

I thought I was taking a break from all activities. So why is it so hard to schedule my bartending course. It's either conflicting with wedding one, bridal shower for wedding two, bonfire two, my motorcycle course, the airbrush course I finally signed up for, softball or one of my climbing days.

I don't even have any major projects coming up...

I'm tired.

day 10365: …wisps of white

Let’s get this part over with. I’m not Catholic. Baptised, yes. Catholic by choice, no.

That said, I, like the rest of the world, am on tenterhooks, waiting breathlessly to see who the new Pope-elect will be. Every plume of black smoke, every day the bells don’t ring heighten the anticipation.

Who will it be? Will it be a great statesman like the last, or someone ultra-conservative and closed to change within the Church?

I hope for a man who does not want to be Pope, a gentle man, a leader who has proven himself time and time again, but for the sake of the people he will lead and influence, he is a man open to the consideration of change, a statesman like Jean Paul II. I hope for a man who will work to improve life beyond the Church; someone quiet and unassuming who listens and does not rely on his popularity and dynamics to win him the Cardinal votes.

After all, the Papacy is the most powerful position in the world. With it brings great responsibility. Organized religion has done much for the world in the past, but it has also brought in a lot of wrongdoing and harm as well.

As I write, the wisps of white bellowed from the Vatican chimney. The bells have rung. The feeling of change is in the air.

Who will it be?

day 10364: let’s talk all in-tell-ec-tu-al-like… a’ight?

Contrary to popular belief, my life is not all shits-and-giggles, drinkie-poos-and- partying, and bouts of endless weekends spent sunning myself on the beach. I have been known to wax eloquently on a multitude of intellectual topics. I play a mean game of chess, a downright dirty game of Scrabble, and remain unbeatable in all shapes and forms of Connect-4. I can identify Robert Frost’s poetry as it is being quoted to me and can defend the upbringing of the typical CBC, even as I slump outside Ivory’s in a drunken absinthe-induced haze.

Just because I can drink men under the table does not mean I am a complete moronic flake.

But rereading recent past entries, that’s what it seems, doesn’t it. So, message me with a topic we’ll discuss.

I’m ready.

Round one.

*ding*

day 10362: dirty dawg

Think girls dancing on the bar. Think bras hanging from the ceiling fixtures. Think Coyote Ugly.

And then think… man wouldn’t it be a whole heck of a lot of fun working there?

Because that’s exactly what I’m thinking, and that’s exactly what I was thinking the entire time I was dancing on the bar.

I’m thinking I need to rethink not taking the bartending course… this could be entirely too much fun.

day 10361: it’s ok, you just keep living in your own little happy world

A couple of weekends ago, Triscuit and I were spending a very bleary Sunday afternoon recovering from an equally bleary Saturday night. ABBA was playing, doggy cookies were fresh out of the oven, and we were laying one on top of the other in a random pile of people and dog.

Random kisses, absently scratching the dog’s head; we were content as can be listening to music… until I listened to the lyrics and attempted to sing along…

DID YOU KNOW THAT ABBA SONGS ARE SAD?

I didn’t. I also didn’t know that the astronaut in David Bowie’s Space Oddity floated away into outer space. I also didn’t know that Tracy Chapman’s Fast Cars wasn’t a happy song either.

I cried…

No REALLY, I CRIED. Tears weren’t just daintily flowing from the corner of my eyes. I BAWLED…

“Are you crying?”

“Why didn’t you tell me these songs were so sad…” I could barely get the words out… it sounded more like “Whddirtellkgsonwad…” I think I hiccupped.

“You’ve been singing the songs all day…”

“Yeah, but I don’t listen to the words. I just make them up as I go along…”

day 10359: heard & said…

“Because I am just THAT COOL, they should write a BOOK about me. Better yet, they should make a MOVIE. But then I’d be the ONLY person to watch the movie which would really suck because I’ve already lived it and so there will be no suspense and no surprise ending… what kind of sucky-ass movie is that? Ok, I’ll shut up now, and no, I’m not drunk.” Hic.

~

“Is cookie code for booze?”

~

“We’ll be Mr. and Mrs. Sleepyhead. They’ll make a game out of us. It’ll bore everyone to death and lull them all into sleepiness… shhh… don’t wake the Sleepyheads… they’re sleepy…”

~

“It’s hard to find the perfect shoes. If only I could buy these boots in shoes and maybe half and inch shorter and maybe in a different colour with a little more flashy-flash, I’d be perfectly happy… Oy… FCUK me… when did I become such a girl?”

“Sometime last year…”

“You should have shot me…”

“Yeah, probably.”

day 10358: IM

So I overreacted. I read the IMs and thought Triscuit wanted to have “the talk.”

[Insert panicky dread hand-wringing here.]

Everyone else thought I was overreacting except for me who really was overreacting but refused to admit it. I hate confrontation with a passion and go to the extremes to avoid it at all possible costs.

I prepped myself for the ultimate worse… and instead, came out of it relatively unscathed with a new pair of earrings (that I love) and a boy who will now call himself my “boyfriend.”

Finally.

Not that I would call him “my boyfriend.” It’s just one of those phrases that feel weird coming off your tongue.

“My boyfriend…”

Hmmm… maybe I could get used to it.

"My boyfried..."

Hmmm... probably not... but does this mean I can tell my grandmother now?

day 10357: Definition for $500 please, Alex

Laughing with the boys about their naked hoo-ha weekend, discussing Montrealers and metrosexuals… Triscuit leans over and asks, “What’s the definition of a metrosexual.”

I whisper back, “BMW…”

“Ahh. I get it.”

day 10355: it's bad enough that it's naked hoo-ha weekend, but did you really have to go awol and make everyone worry?

Babe... promise me that the next time you're supposed to go out of town and don't because you got smashed having "dinner" with your roomie and his cousins, then you tell me or someone who will eventually tell me... don't leave it up to JB and Laaaaaaaaaaawwwrence to call me in a fit of panic the next morning because you were supposed to be there the night before and you still hadn't gotten there by lunchtime the next day.

And if you ever, ever, EVER do that again... at least turn on your cellphone.

I have better things to worry about than whether or not your car went into a ditch.

Sooo not happy about that.

day 10354: it’s your birthday…

I remember feeling you kick inside mom’s stomach, and putting my face down close so I could whisper nothings to you.

I remember the day you were born and being told to stay by the bunnies and fish tanks they used to have in the kids corner at the hospital.

I remember the day they brought you back from the hospital, being all excited when the car pulled up and jumping up and down on the sofa.

I remember holding you close and singing lullabies with words that made no sense.

Happy Birthday, Sista… no matter how many times I wanted to give you away when we were younger, I wouldn’t trade you for the world.

day 10353: sharing is caring

Said the daughter to the mother, "What are you doing right now?"
Said the mother to the daughter, "Pooping."
"Ok, I'll call back later then."
"No, speak. Now's a good time, I've got nothing else to do right now."

day 10352: and all along i thought it was april 10th...

Whoops... well, happy belated anniversary to me two days ago. For what, I'm not saying.

That's all I'm saying.

day 10351: learning to juggle

It was a Saturday afternoon; raining probably, since we were stuck inside. For lack of something better to do, Da proclaimed that it was as good a time as any to learn how to juggle and dug out a can of old, fuzzy tennis balls.

First it was gently tossing the tennis ball from one hand to the other… nothing too spectacularly difficult for the young softball superstar that I was way back when. Two balls, two hands… still nothing spectacular.

“What a cinch! I could do it blind folded.” I tried it and ended up whacking myself in the head.

Two balls, one hand was a lot harder to master. My hands weren’t big enough so I had to downsize to racquet balls… bouncier, and oh-that-much-more-painful when you throw too hard, and look down at the same time…

Three balls damn well nearly killed me.

But I learned how to juggle.

Sometimes it feels like life is a little like learning how to juggle. One thing, one stressor is fine. Two – no big deal – life goes on. Two at the same time… a little harder but still manageable with a few bumps and bruises along the way… but three… whoa… watch out…

… that is until you learn how to deal with it, and then you can start adding more. When it rains, it pours...

day 10350: ugh... 400 litres of mouthwash please?

This made me really sad (knowing that such a substandard level of human being exists)... after it made me gag at the thought...

day 10347: randomisc.

o This weekend I very firmly plan on baking at least 6 dozen doggy cookies just for the heck of it. I’m thinking I’ll start a little business selling cookies out of the Beach House shed this summer.

o Why am I on Papal death watch? I won’t even admit to being Catholic… damn my morbid curiosity. I also sat and watched CNN non-stop the day JFK Jr.’s plane went down.

o Last night, instead of watching a movie, Triscuit and I went to the LCBO. He almost passed out from shock when I told him about the possible strike. He then grabbed a cart and starting filling it with “necessities.” There were a lot of “necessities.”

o Because I only started budgeting on Wednesday, this week I still have $46.45 left in the food budget (until Monday morning). Technically, if I was to count from Monday, I would have $0.32, but I’m giving myself a little leeway in week one. So far so good. Now, too bad about the hockey stick, the taxi ride, the Swiss Chalet delivery last night, and the magazines I bought yesterday. Whoops. Bonus though, all the alcohol I bought last night was on GIFT CERTIFICATES. Whoopie!

o Scary. Monday afternoon 5:15, I had $175 in LCBO gift certificates. Thursday night, 8:15… I had $0.

o One second he’s talking about my lack of an ice cube tray, and the next second, he’s referring to himself as my boyfriend. Hm.

o I’m addicted to grapefruit.

day 10346: quelle horror… une été sans boozies?

It’s time to stock up on the boozies, boys and girls. The current collective agreement between the LCBO and the Ontario Liquor Boards Employees’ Union ends today and workers voted 91% in favor of strike action. We’re looking at a possible cutoff to my boozie supply as early as mid-April/May if they don’t get their act together.

Either that, or we're going to have to switch to *gasp* beer. May the gods have mercy on our souls.

day 10345 1/2: where art thou, oh mysterious benefactor...

Remember the entry a couple of days ago about someone paying off my credit card and how estatically happy I was?

Turns out that the so-called "credit" payment was actually FAKE. The glorious people at AMEX were playing around with my balances transferring them from old-blue-card to new-not-blue-not-gold-but-really-ugly-yellow-card. Now I actually owe $3900 + because they screwed up the transfers and didn't tell me that they hadn't actually applied the "credits" (i.e. payments) that I had been making.

... and here I was all geared up to do some serious shopping. Instead, I'm living on no-name Cheerios and water for the next month or so.

day 10345: i swallow

It’s always the split second just before you swallow the last bite. Your brain starts hammering you with guilty thoughts…

“You shouldn’t have eaten that box of cookies,” it mutters. “What the hell were you thinking? You weren’t thinking, WERE YOU? Do you know how many calories, how much fat was in that? Do you know how goddamn plump you look in that picture?”

“It’s too late.” your stomach argues back. “Mwuaahahahahaha… I’ve got you now fatty-boo-boo-ness. There’s no turning back. MWUAAAAHAHAHAHA…”

day 10342: my superhero name is… ultimate girl

When I arrived at the beach house late Friday afternoon, I found the boys cranking hard on an ancient carjack trying to pull out forty year old fence posts. There was “no way in hell” that they were going to dig them out by hand. Post #1 came out with only a little difficulty. 30 tons of pressure will do that to you. Post #2 took a considerably greater amount of effort and resulted in a very heavy duty steel carjack bent completely out of shape.

30 tons of pressure will do that to you, too; as will a two feet deep concrete foundation.

So for the lack of a better way (other than to dig by hand), they called it quits for the day, vowing to find a tool that would make their lives a heck of a lot easier.

Easier said than done.

Round TWO… FIGHT!!!

The rented jack didn’t work. The pressure of ripping a hundred somewhat pounds of concrete out of the frozen sand was too much for it to take. Post #3 took an inhuman amount of effort and extraordinary amounts of cussing and swearing and temper tantrums only to discover that forty years ago, the mold used to set the concrete had broken, thus leaking concrete in shapeless blobs, making it all the more difficult for us to try to YANK IT STRAIGHT OUT OF THE GROUND…

It’s kindergarden, really. Big non-circular object will not fit through small circular hole.

Elementary, my dear Watson. Elementary.

But no. The lesson would not be learned. Post #4 was tackled the same way. We looped a piece of chain around the fence post and attached it to the jack. We jacked the jack and jacked some more. But the post would not budge except to bend in a way that forced the pole to break and bits of concrete fluffing through the dirt.

[Insert massive amounts of profanity here.]

Still, he refused to dig. Instead he stormed off into the wild unknowns of the auto repair/hardware store known as Princess Auto never to be seen alive again (or so it felt like).

It was time to take matters into my own hands. Patience is as patience does, and I only have so much of it. I grabbed a shovel and dug.

And dug. And dug…

Little by little, I cleared just enough dirt that I could wiggle the post back and forth. I dug a little, talked to the neighbours, checked to see if Mr. There-has-to-be-a-better-way had finally returned, and dug a little more. I was having a glorious time doing it MY WAY. The way that existed WITHOUT grown men having TEMPER TANTRUMS…

One big heave and out came the post. No help from the hundreds of guys that had jogged and rollerbladed by. I DID IT ALL BY MYSELF.

I CAN DO ANYTHING. I AM A SUPERWOMAN. I AM AMAZING. I AM… damn, but my shoulder was throbbing… but I CAN DO ANYTHING HE CAN DO… I am the incredible, independent woman who showed everyone passing by on the Hamilton beach path that I AM REALLY, REALLY STRONG!

Oh yeah, baby. Post #4 is O-VER!!

The look of surprise and admiration in his eyes when he FINALLY came back carrying a second jack was worth it.

“Wow… oh wow… I can’t believe you did it. How did you lever it out? What did you use?”

I tried not to rub it in. “I didn’t use anything, I just lifted it out.”

“That’s a huge piece of concrete…”

“Yeah, I guess…” (See my attempt at modesty? What I really wanted to say was HELL YEAH, and where the heck were you for the past half an hour?)

“Wow. I’m impressed. Most girls aren’t as cool as you. First the dump and then this. Wow. Other girls would just pretend to help or something, but you… you… you’re the ultimate girl. You ARE the ULTIMATE GIRL!!!”

“Oh yeah, Bay-be…” I Hulk Hogan pose my not so scrawny arms… “HWA… I am ULTIMATE GIRLLLL! GRRRRR!!!”

Post #5 and #6… pshaw… didn’t even break a sweat…

day 10341: i always knew i was a honky-tonk kind-a gal

9:30 am…

Riding in the pickup truck on the way to the city dump, sitting in the middle seat, no less, country music blaring on the radio, singing along with a smile on my face, Triscuit’s hand on my thigh, happy as can be.

“Heehee,” I said, “I put on makeup and we’re going to the dump! How girlie-girl can I be?”

“You can never be too girlie-girl.” Double take. “You put makeup on to go to the dump? Bay-bee… you’re totally white trash.”

“Bay-bee… I’m neither white, nor am I trash. Turn up that ray-dee-oh. I wanna hear me some Travis.”

7:30 pm…

Terry and Triscuit are up to their elbows in cornmeal mash

“Oh, we had a great day. We went to the dump, dug up the fence, drove around town in the pickup...”

“Listening to country music!” I chime in. Chop. Chop. More tomatoes for yesterday’s leftover bouillabaisse…

“Yeah, it was fun. J was sitting right up next to me on the bench seat. I always wanted to drive around in a pickup with my girl next to me.” Triscuit looks over and gives me a wink.

“Aw shucks… how cute. You guys are sooo white trash. Did she give you a blowjob too?”

day 10339: ostrich? who me?

For all intents and purposes, I should be rich. If not rich, then I should have a nice healthy portfolio, own a house, maybe a rental property and be merrily on my way to an early retirement. In the least, I should have a semi-healthy portfolio and a rental property on the lakefront that garners me a sweet $1,700 in rental income per month.

But I don’t.

Instead, I have bonds dating back to 1985, a pittance of a so-called-RRSP, an etrade account that is in the red because they’re trying to charge me for my inactivity, $80 in an ING savings account, half a month’s pay in my chequing account, and a whole whack of debt owing to the bank of mom.

As you can tell, I’m well on my way to financial freedom!!

[notice sarcastic way of saying “I’m in the poor house, and if I don’t do something soon, I’m going to be flat broke and living under my desk at the office…”]

Please stop screaming. You don’t need to yell. Yes, yes, I know that as a person gainly employed in the field of FINANCE I should know better. I can discuss theoretical, practical, hypothetical accounting and give detailed tax-ical advice on the most inane of topics. I can manage the funds of a multi-national corporation, yet I can barely balance my own books.

IS THERE SOMETHING WRONG WITH ME?

I mean well. I just don’t manage well. I have a pile of unopened mail sitting on my kitchen counter and am dreading the day that said-pile topples over when I’m at work… That would be the day I either find dear-dawg buried under an avalanche of eight month old mail, or deliriously happy running around unfettered in my not-too-tidy condo WITHOUT SUPERVISION. gasp. the. horror…

This is beyond ostrich-investment-personality where if you pretend you don’t see it, it doesn’t exist. This is borderline denial. Screw the ostrich, I’ve barricaded myself in a 4x4 bunker 100’ deep into the ground. I’ve hermit-ized myself from my own personally financial matters. In essence, I’ve become a FINANCIAL DEGENERATE… a FINANCIAL RETARD… a FINANCIAL NOBODY.

It’s time. I’ve bought this book and this book to get me started. This weekend will be filled with paperwork, balancing my debits and credits and getting started on my plan… to gain financial freedom by the time I’m 105.

Freedom 1-0-5 baby… you too can live the dream…

day 10337: i suppose

I suppose in a way that I should feel lucky. It’s not every day that a girl finds out that some mysterious benefactor paid off her credit card bills (and then some) and that she has a nice healthy little credit balance on her favourite credit card.

I should just thank my lucky stars and go on a shopping binge with a devil-may-care attitude. I need new jeans, new boots, new t-shirts, new cutesy skirts and everything else that I’m entitled to because I’m me, and I deserve it. And now I have the funds to do so.

Or do I?

day 10336: oh wow, oh wow, oh wow, oh wow, oh wowwww…

The rush of adrenaline was almost orgasmic. A hundred people clapping and cheering; the eight of us deliriously happy that the second “Feed Me” Theatre Company production went off without a hitch.

It was grand. It was awesome. It was magical.

It is over.

We’ve gone through everything from bloodshed to tears. We’ve learned things about ourselves we never thought possible. Friendships were forged, some made stronger. We’re still alive, though just barely. I know now that I can do anything.

And the best part of it all... (apart from being centre of attention like my inner drama queen demands)… the bouquet of pink roses that Triscuit gave me IN FRONT OF MY MOM!!

If that doesn’t scream WOW… I don’t know what does…

day 10333: i am still alive!

There are a lot of things I refrain from talking about. Not so much because I don’t want to, because HELL YEAH sometimes I really, really DO want to share my deepest darkest secrets, but more so that some things (i.e. my favourite “chocolate-chip eating” position) really doesn’t need to be known by my nearest and dearest. I can share anonymously on someone else’s site, but the thought of a friend coming up to me with a knowing nod of his head and saying, “Hey, I know you like your coffee crisp!” (and then leer at me) disturbs me.

Ah, the joys of sharing one’s life in semi-full glorious detail and then having to edit it, because you think that if people knew about the full extent of your life, they’d probably disapprove. (Not like I’m talking leather or whips or chains or anything… though with all the what’s- it and going-ons over the past few weeks, leather, whips and chains have become almost regular every day vocabulary.)

I’m feeling the need to shake things up, and reach beyond my familiar comfort zone. I’ve tried almost every single hobby known to mankind, yet, I still feel like something is missing. Something exciting and unique... something that screams out “SCHMASSION, YOU’RE SO COOL!” Something that will give my inner drama queen the recognition and fame she deserves.

Tomorrow is play-day. We’ve spent months agonizing over a hundred pages of script, arguing over who’s-on-top and whether or not Victor should be dressed like a Catholic school girl. A hundred people have been suckered into driving out to god-forsaken suburbia (i.e. my old hood) and paying the exorbitant amount of $5 to watch the eight of us prance around in all our tom-foolery. And then it’ll be over. No more Tuesday night “rehearsals.” No more “practicing” on the weekends amidst choruses of “I don’t feel it today…”

I’m going to have time to spare, and tons of time to kill. I’ll need something new and soon, especially since Triscuit’s Friday night sailing lessons are going to start soon.

I think I’m going to start bartending. After all, that was today’s monkeyco cool thing of the day… I’m Smart Served now. I can serve drinkies for tips so that I can be tipsy. Oh yeah, baby...

day 10332: by-the-ways

Triscuit and I officially "came out" as a couple to the people at the gym last night... or rather I did. Apparently in my drunken post-Paddy-Day-celebration haze, I called out "Good night, gym! I love you!" and when everyone turned to see what was going on, I had my hand down his pants.

day 10331: i'm only wasting precious blog space on idiotgirl because it's just so freaking funny

Triscuit (programmer extraordinaire): I spent the whole day on four lines of code!

Idiotgirl: Oh I HATE that!

Someone else: Aren't you an admin assistant or something?

Idiotgirl: Yeah, but I took a computer course in HIGH SCHOOL and I had to write code...

Me (thinking): Code for what? IF 1+1 = 2 then print happyface, ELSE print sadface? You freaking flake... what are you trying to prove? How cool you are because you wrote four lines of code FIFTEEN YEARS AGO?!

day 10329: the mystery of *gasp* the bachelor party

I don’t get it. Why the last hurrah? If a guy really wanted to go out, get smashed and see nearly-naked hoohas dangling in front of his face, he would have done it anyway, regardless of whether or not he is getting married.

Of course, nine-and-a-half out of ten guys are probably not planning their own bachelor party, so in actuality, it really is just an excuse for the planner to drag out ten to fifteen of his buddies who also want an excuse to get smashed and see nearly-naked hoohas and not get in trouble with their significant others.

I wish I could be cool about it. I wish I could be one of those non-prudes who tell their honeys to have fun, but just don’t bring home anything. But I can’t… I don’t love the idea – but then again, what girl would?

Nearly-naked-hoohas… yucky…

I don’t get it. At. All. Boo. Boys are icky.

day 10326: you should be worried when you boss calls you into his office at 5:30 and asks you to shut the door

Let’s see… all the things that have happened in the past week that I wanted to blog about, but couldn’t because I’ve been locked up in the boardroom from Monday morning until 12:30 this afternoon…

~ monkeyco is really, really, really cool…
~ I love www.torontobartending.com... love it, love it, LOVE IT!!
~ I can’t climb for schmuck anymore
~ imported chocolate cupcakes (THE BEST IN THE WORLD, btw) totally rock…
~ Sista who sends imported chocolate cupcakes (and new clothes) totally rocks
~ Crazy-cousin-Bo who imported said cupcake and almost got cavity searched at the airport totally rocks
~ PDA totally rocks
~ I love my monkeyco… it’s going to be a totally “euphoric” summer… you just wait and see!
~ oh, and did I mention, they changed my contract so that NOW I’M FULL TIME!!!

Did I say I love my monkeyco, yet? Y'all should be totally jealous of me... ;)

day 10325: reason #14937 why i love my monkeyco…

Because yesterday they sent me here, so I could learn how to make candy apple martinis, purple hazes and 19 other martinis.

Bubble, two, three, four... the perfect oz.

Candy Apple Martini:
1.5 oz Polar Ice Vodka
1 oz Sour Puss Apple
1 oz Phillips Butter Apple
4 oz cranberry juice

day 10322: violated (almost)

We went because someone told us that we had a 1-in-16 chance of winning a two year lease on a Mercedes. They actually wanted to sell us timeshare. There was no hope in hell of winning a two year lease on a Mercedes. It wasn’t 1-in-16… it was more like 1 in a drawerful of keys.

“That guy just told them that they’re in extreme financial difficulty!” my mom whispered. “Maybe we should just tell them the same thing.”

“Why don’t we just tell them that we don’t fly?”

“Because they have places in Collingwood… you don’t have to fly to go to Collingwood.”

“Yeah, but you don’t drive on the highway. So you don’t drive on the highway, and I’m afraid to fly, so we can’t go anywhere…” That was the plan.

They called us into the room, told us to pick our prizes (2 nights stay in Tremblant, and a dinner for two… oh-yeah-baby) and sent us on our merry way. No sales pitch, nothing. Just thanks for coming, have a nice day, etcetera, etcetera.

Wow. We weren’t violated. They didn’t try to high-pressure-sales-tactic us into buying timeshares! Whooo hooo! We beat the system!

And all because we’re single… bonus.

day 10319: girlie troubles

It’s not that I don’t have anything to say. I have a million thoughts tumbling around riotously inside my mind. My “what-ifs” are conflicting with my “who-cares” as are thoughts of Tricuit-the-idiot-WINGNUT, bizarre-love-triangles, used-to-be-friends, and wanna-be-used-to-be-friends.

It doesn’t help that I’m pms-ing beyond belief either.

If you’re drinking this weekend, have a drink for me… god knows I’ll need it.

day 10317: brown paper baggin’ it

For much of my childhood, I hated carrying anything in plastic bags. Kids that carried their school papers in plastic bags annoyed me to no end. I thought them uncouth, and well, icky, and could never bring myself to socialize with them. Packed lunches could never be carried to school in a plastic bag; otherwise it was yucky and food could not be eaten without a vast amount of grimacing and nose-holding. The only exception to the rule was groceries. Groceries, as we all know, come in plastic bags, not dumb-ass-hard-to-carry paper bags like in the States.

Of course, there was the hierarchy of plastic bag carrying. Anything foreign was a direct no-no. Thus, Big Land Farms, Lee’s Poultry Supermarket, etc etc. were the ultimate faux pas in my mind and the mere thought of having to touch them would almost make me puke. No Frills, A&P, and Miracle Mart were barely acceptable, with Loblaws and Dominion being the preferred bag-o’-choice.

I was a baggie-snob; a memory I had suppressed over years of self-denial.

I’d forgotten until this morning. I reached into the baggie drawer and pulled out a T&T Supermarket… ew… can’t have that touching my boots… must find a new bag…


On tap for tonight… chicken stew:

Take onions, carrots and potatoes… boil the heck out of them in chicken broth, and then add some chicken breast marinated in soy sauce and sesame oil. Salt and pepper to taste. Comfort food totally rocks.

day 10316: why all this talk about babies?

A couple of weekends ago, Triscuit and I took my coworker’s two year old to the climbing gym. Cute and shy, she was no more interested in climbing than she was in running around and playing in the caves. Her “daddeee” tried, in vain, but a combination of lack of sleep and a little too much arm effort rendered his climbing experience very, very limited as well. Nevertheless, it was tons of fun – coworker, daddeee and I getting little Jaya to attempt to climb and Triscuit snapping pictures of them like a madman.

They got tired soon and said their goodbyes; dissection of the day and comments of Triscuit not to be relayed until I returned to the office almost a week later.

“Daddeee asked me if you were pregnant,” Coworker said. “I told him NO and he goes, THAT GIRL WAS GLOWING. If she’s not pregnant, then she’s in LOOOOVE with that boy…” No. I refuse to admit anything of that sort.

I told Triscuit the story. He laughed and agreed. “You WERE glowing.”

“Green? I AM RADIOACTIVE WOMAN!”

“No, white. You were covered in chalk as usual. It’s cute...”

Then, Sunday night, after a long, hard day of walking around aimlessly in the mall, we sprawled across his couch to dissect our purchases of Dr. Seuss books. He… The Cat in the Hat and me, well I’m a sucker for Green Eggs and Ham. Roommate walked in, raised an eyebrow and quipped…

“You two have something you want to tell me?”

"Yeah, enough about the baby talk. We're just trying to read things that appeal to our child-like intellect and undeveloped, undermatured sense of humour."

day 10315: Spiderman

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!! There's a spider in the shower! Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!!!" The shower is still running. Water drips onto the floor. "Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!"

"It's only a spider." He looks a little too nonchalant.

"WHAT?! You knew it was there and you didn't TELL ME?!"

"Yep, saw it earlier when I was in the shower."

"And you didn't kill it?"

"He just wanted to take a steam bath!"

day 10312: can of worms

Once upon a time, a friend came up to me and said, “I hardly ever talk to you anymore. Why don’t you ever call me?”

“I try,” I replied, “But, time difference. Anyway, you never call me either.”

“Yeah, I know,” she said. “Well, call me sometime.”

“You call me, too.”

She never called. I never called. I sent emails for a while, but rarely got one back. I visited, she visited. Times were fun when we were together just hanging with a group. But it wasn’t the same. Things were different.

We had become strangers…once-upon-a-time friends who shared a history, common friends and that’s about it.

I’ve been thinking about writing this for a while. Type, delete, type, delete… it wasn’t something I necessarily wanted out in the public airwaves. I tortured myself with the what-if-she-sees-this-what-if-it’s-just-me-etcetera-etcetera, just like I did when I was agonizing over whether or not I could write off a long term friendship.

I’ve come to the conclusion that it isn’t just me, and that even if she sees this, it’s probably for the better. Open a can of worms and maybe you’ll catch a fish.

People change. Life’s circumstances and our day-to-day actions make us into who we are. Things happen between people that they don’t necessarily agree upon. Expectations are set and occasionally people are disappointed.

I’m not mad, upset or angry. I’m just disappointed at the bad-timing, self-justification, and the night ending with her conclusion that just because she had her say, everything was fine and peachy. Everything was not fine and peachy – it’s still stuck in my mind.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ve wasted enough time grouching about it, and have spent too many minutes being disappointed in her. I no longer care.

Once upon a time, she said, “I’m glad you said that, because I’m worried that we won’t all be friends down the road.”

“We’ll always be friends,” I replied. I was innocent and naive buoyed by holiday spirit.

I never thought I’d see the day where she’d say “If you can think that I’d do something like that, then you don’t know me at all.”

To which my initial thought was… you’re right, girl...I don’t know you at all. Not anymore. Actions speak louder than words. You've done it before, you can do it again.

But it's true, actions speak louder than words. So I will make one last ditch effort to resuscitate a once-upon-a-time-friendship. I will be the bigger person, send out that one last email and ask her for coffee or tea so we can try to talk things out and maybe restore what once was.

One last ditch effort. I can do that. I think.

day 10310: non-ex-pat

"Business or pleasure?" Business...
"Where did you go?" Connecticut...
"Who do you work for and what do you do?" Monkeyco... finance...
"What alcohol are you bringing back?" Sapphire...
"That's not one of your brands, is it?" *whisper* No...
"Figures. You paid too much for it too. NEXT!"

day 10308: who knew????????????

Who knew nine months ago that my monkeyco would be my downfall. Maybe I should have expected it when my boss told me that I wasn't allowed to quit drinking.

I have yet to return "home" to my hotel room unscathed from a night out with co-leagues from my monkeyco (and monkeyco senior). It's only Monday night, and already, I am blushing a rather becomingly-drunken pink (complete with blood shot eyes). I've tettered on my three inch heels, and you can consider all the chocolate chip cookies officially stolen from the front desk.

In Connecticut less than 24 hours and already "what happens on the road stays on the road..." has become a favourite saying. But just to tease you...

"Are you going to fry my pie?"
"I've got to peeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee... someone open a window!!"
"Is the seat warm?"
"I'll strangle you gently..."
"Yo, this must be one HELL of a drinking town."
"Let's go visit MARTHA!!!!!!!!!!!"
"You can chimmy anything? What about my Guinness?"

day 10307: ex-pat

Going through US immigration...
US immigration-dude: This is a picture of you?
J: Yes
USID: What the heck happened?
J: I lost a bit of weight
USID: Damn, girl, you look good... how did you do it?
J: Starved...
USID: Must of... you look real good...

day 10305: the trouble with me

The trouble with me is that I like instant gratification. I’m not the wait-and-see kind of girl. When I want something, it usually means that I want it now. I don’t like to wait. I don’t have the patience to wait.

Take emails for example. I ask a question, I need an answer. Send me an answer within a thirty second time frame and I’ll be perfectly happy. Anything more than that, and I’m not so happy…

Or boys… if you’re interested, suck up your ego and don’t wait the two days to call. I lose interest really quickly… I think that’s what went wrong with Serious Boy… that and we have absolutely nothing in common…

Or medicine… take two and call me in the morning… well, if my pills don’t work after an hour, can I take a couple more? This one usually backfires on me. Four extra strength Advils, four tylenol cold tablets... I think I'm rather doped up. Flying high as a kite. Still feeling really rather crappy, but hey, at least I can breath…

That’s all I’m saying…

day 10304: if there could be anything worse than your mom walking in on you when you and the boy are *hmmm*, it could be accidentally calling her in the middle of the night when you and the boy are *hmmm*…

Need I say any more? ... oops...

day 10301: there were no black olives on the pizza…

It’s V-Day…

I suppose that as a member of the fairer sex, it is my duty to sigh, bat my eyelashes and expect an armful of red roses to be delivered to my door by a knight in shining armour. Gifts of chocolate, lingerie, expensive day trips to the spa, a romantic candlelight dinner in a five star restaurant overlooking the water… *sigh*…

Alas, it’s not to be. Not for me. Not this year.

We are spending V-day apart. Just like last year.

The boy is wallowing in the quagmire of solitude (a.k.a. he’s self-exiled to the 6’x4’x5’ hole under his kitchen floor, running miles of electrical wire and attempting to home-repair his hot water heater), while I am making the drive ALL THE WAY OUT TO SUBURBIA to drop off darling-princess-poop-a-lot at my mother’s house because I’m flying out early tomorrow morning.

There are no flowers, no candies, and no undying vows of love and admiration BECAUSE I PROCRASTINATED TOO LONG and couldn’t decide what to get him. I still can’t decide. I STILL HAVEN’T BOUGHT ANYTHING!!! (I NEED IDEAS!!!)

(I’m still expecting flowers, btw… from last week’s not-so-subtle questions about my favourite flowers…)

Uh-oh spaghetti-o… Yikes…

I tried to make amends. I ordered him a pizza for lunch so he wouldn’t have to dodge the HOLE between exclamations of “Fcuk!” and “Terry… can you turn the water OFF!” It being V-Day and all, I thought I’d get some laughs by having them arrange the toppings in the shape of a heart.

But Bitter-Customer-Service-Chick cut me down for being corny. And when I called back to try to get the number for the individual store, I was told that my pizza was already in the oven.

“Do it with black olives, then.”

“I’ll call the store and see if they will.” I crossed my fingers and hoped. She sounded a lot friendlier than Bitter-Customer-Service-Chick #1.

Yeah right.

She put me on hold and then hung up on me instead.

End of story… there was no black olives on the pizza.

But he still thinks I’m “wonderful.”

Happy-hallmark-holiday-Valentine’s-Day. Hope you have a good one. Even if you’re going to be like me – sitting in front of the tv.

day 10298 1/2: yawwwwwwnnnnnn...

I think I sleepwalk. Can you sleepwalk if you're only half asleep?

Last night I woke up in the middle of the night with the overwhelming urge to shower. I have no idea what I was dreaming of... mud wrestling, perhaps?

Anyway, next thing I know, I'm in the shower soap in hand wondering... how the heck did I get here...

Like I said... I think I sleepwalk...

day 10298: get with the times

So Charles and Camilla are getting married. And the world has gone into a righteous uproar whipped up by a media bored with disaster and war.

Should they? Should they not? What kind of title is she getting…princess…duchess…?

Who really cares.

Good for them that they finally have the guts to stand up and marry for love. Everyone deserves to be with someone they love. Circumstances of birth aside, they’re just people – ordinary people who are entitled to leading their own lives and making their own choices.

When it comes down to the nitty-gritty, being “royal” is just like being born into a job.

Agreed, there are certain responsibilities, images etc that they have to maintain, and a lifestyle they have to commit to. But, at the end of the day, when the lights turn off and they go to bed, they just want to reach out for someone they love to cuddle up with.

They dream just like everyone else does.

So get off their backs. It’s no big deal. What they may have or may not have done when Di was still alive is moot. Forgive and forget and let them move on.

Go bug someone else for a change... save the whales, preserve the rainforest... and whatever else we haven't heard about for a while...

day 10297: “yesterday was plain awful…”

Ten years ago, yesterday, my father dropped dead in front of me. We were at a fencing class that I made him go to despite the fact that he had just gotten back from a business trip earlier that evening. He was tired and stressed and clearly didn’t want to go. But I did, and that was enough for him.

He had just fought a match. Win or lose, I can’t remember. He shook his opponent’s hand, turned to walk away and collapsed, epee falling to the ground. I can still hear the sounds… the clatter and the thud. And then the silence before anyone could react.

Someone went to call 911. Someone else came and started administering CPR. I didn’t know what else to do, and ran to find an old law teacher who used to be in the army. In my panicking mind, he was the solution and the salvation. I abandoned my father to complete strangers who I thought didn’t have a clue about what they were doing, and tried to find help. Little did I know that one of them was actually a medical resident. Poor guy, he must be scarred still.

Three flights of stairs up, I burst into a room not remembering that it was Thursday night, and that law was taught on Wednesday. Blank stares all around… it was a Mandarin class, and no, she did not know where Mr. Halloran was and went back to talking about the characters she had written on the blackboard. The characters spelled out barbeque pork.

I ran down the hallway, anxiously looking into the classroom windows, trying in vain to find him. He wasn’t there… not on the third floor… there was no way I could comb the school looking for him. There was no time. I had to get back. I needed to find help.

And then I ran into Andrew who kept asking me where his girlfriend was and didn’t hear my whispers for help through my unsteady breathes. I don’t remember what I said to him afterwards, but I think I told him to fcuk off. I hope I told him to fcuk off.

When I got back to the gym, I could hear the sirens. Fire trucks, the first to arrive… I kicked away the dropped epees and face masks. I didn’t care if they broke. I just wanted them out of the way. I dropped to the ground beside him, rocking and whispering “I’m sorry.” His eyelashes fluttered once, maybe twice and that was it.

The firemen came. The police came. One of them played with the dial on the oxygen tank despite admonishments from the firemen. Some of them chatted about budget cuts and why they didn’t have defibrillators on the firetrucks.

I wanted to yell at them for being so callous. My FATHER was DYING on the floor and THEY WERE TALKING POLITICS. But I didn’t and kept rocking and kept apologizing for dragging him there.

A teacher came and led me out of the room to the school office to call my mother. I was brutal when I told her. Not knowing what to say... had I thought of it beforehand, I could have softened the blow instead of saying that something had happened and everyone was there and that we were all going to go to NYGH. There must have been something else that I could have said.

But I didn’t think. I couldn’t think… I should have thought.

The drive to the hospital was a blur. They put me in the back of a police cruiser. I wanted to ride in the ambulance. I remember thinking that they were idiots and why didn’t they drive any faster, and that there was surprisingly little leg room in the back. I guess criminals don’t need to be comfortable.

We drove by the house. My uncle was just pulling into the drive way to pick up my mom and my sister to take them to the hospital. Ever practical, and not really knowing the situation, my mom got my sister to bring her homework with her. Just in case.

I remember the waiting room – the private room they reserved for the “really special cases” - the ugly grey chairs, the nurse in the pink uniform who tried to hold my mother’s hand. I remember slamming my fist into the wall, angry and frustrated that we weren’t hearing anything and that I couldn’t do anything to make things better. It was the first time I lashed out in anger, but not the last.

Later that night, my uncle drove me back to the school to pick up the car. The streets were muffled by the freshly fallen snow. Everything seemed so still, as if the world knew that my heart was broken, and it grieved along with me… tears that no longer could be shed, a mind trying to grasp at whatever memories remained.

For years afterwards, I believed that I killed him. I believed that it was my fault that he died, and if I had not forced him to go to class with me, he would have lived until he was 82. I harbored it deep inside, believing that I had killed my father, and for that reason, rationalized that my life wasn’t important and that I deserved to die early too. I didn’t care what happened to me. I didn’t care about anything. I just went with the flow, let things carry me along and did the minimum I needed to do in order not to excessively worry my family.

I didn’t want to die. But I didn’t want to live either. I had been daddy’s little girl for a very long time, but things changed, and I grew up. I was forced to grow up. It was my responsibility to be strong which is why I’ve never told anyone what happened that night; bits and pieces, but never in its entirety.

I spent part of last night sitting in the parking lot where the old school building had been. The gym is gone now, smoothed over and paved, while the new school stands not too far away. Dark, silent… just watching as I sat there thinking about the past ten years… going over in my head the “what if’s” and the “whys.”

There were no answers, no easing of the pain that I feel whenever I let myself think about that night. There was only silence just like that night ten years ago. The world hushed by sadness, blanketed by the falling snow that covered the bouquet of flowers I left behind.