Before Joseph died he told me that if he could find a way to come back to me, he would. Sometimes I think that’s a beautiful sentiment and it captured and expressed his love for me. Other times I think I might go out of my goddamn mind as I question – for the thousandth time – is there a reason that I have just met this particular person? Is that small child looking at me with knowing eyes? What are the odds that this particular individual would bring up the obscure place that Joseph and I had once spent a week exploring and enjoying? Are these signs? And if they are, what in the hell am I supposed to do about them?
My friends and family have informed me that I am not the same person that I once was. No shit. They’re all waiting for me to bounce back because I’m young and I have the rest of my life ahead of me and all those other trite clichés that people say to you to make themselves feel less uncomfortable. I don’t know what to say to them. I feel bad that they feel bad. I’m the same person; I’m just a little different now. How am I supposed to explain the feelings of guilt that I have? I just took for granted that Joseph was in my life, that he was mine and I sometimes wonder if I had appreciated the tenuous nature of life, the way it can be so quickly and randomly changed, that perhaps he wouldn’t have been ripped away from me. How, also, am I supposed to convey the way I currently feel? Every day is a goddamn blessing. Flowers in the concrete and all that shit. I’ve cried to see the sun rise and set. I’m infinitely grateful for all that hasn’t been taken from me: my family and friends, my health, my career. But it’s like that dog you had when you were a kid: the dog that allowed you to maul and paw it, the dog that followed you everywhere, that eat the gristly bits of meat secretly under the kitchen table, the dog that you taught to ‘give me five’, that you thought was going to be around forever but then started to suffer from hip dysplasia and started going to the bathroom in the house which was a nuisance for your mom to clean up, but still thumped his tail soundly on the kitchen floor when you came home and struggled to get up to greet you and eventually had to be put down. It’s like that dog. You fucking loved that dog, but you don’t know if you could ever bear the heartache of having another one only to lose it again. I’m like that. I don’t want to hold on to anything quite so tightly anymore, because I can’t bear to lose any more. I just can’t.
People start to treat you differently, too. They handle you with kid gloves. They don’t mention Joseph because they’re afraid all go on some unstoppable crying jag. I don’t go on unstoppable crying jags anymore. At first it was the Xanax that took care of that, and then one day I decided that feeling sad and bereft was valid and that I’d rather feel that way than feel nothing at all, so I flushed them down the toilet. Some friends, not extremely close friends, but friends nonetheless, sort of drifted away. I think it was a mixture of them not knowing how to react to me after Joseph’s death, and their inability to accept that I wasn’t going to return to the person that I once was. Not that that person was all that, anyways. I mean, maybe that person was a little naïve and cocky and didn’t recognize the amazing fragility of life. My parents sometimes treat me like some kind of invalid. My mom will “just happen to be in the neighborhood”, and for some reason she has a casserole with her. My dad calls a lot more often. My more intimate friends see me more for coffee and for lunch now, and there are significantly less invites for crazy nights out on the town. I suppose I’m a downer, but what exactly am I bringing to the table? Drinking is a depressant and when I drink I tend to think about Joseph, so I prefer to get tanked in the confines of my own home. I’m not exactly eager to start dating anyone. It’s funny how, on some of those internet dating sites, guys will make comments about wanting to date a girl that doesn’t have any baggage. I don’t know if baggage even begins to adeptly quantify what it is that I’m lugging around here.
I kept his clothes for months. Sometimes I would just smell them, smell him. I read and re-read his books and tried to understand them the way he would have understood them. I know he wouldn’t want me to be sad.
Work has been good. They gave me all the time I needed and didn’t ask prying questions when I returned with swollen, red-rimmed eyes. They didn’t question me when I had to cut out to go cry in the bathroom, when I called in “sick”. Actually, of all the people in my life they have been the most staid. I was never particularly close to anyone at my job, so none of them feel compelled to take me out for a coffee and to try and suss out how I’m doing with “all this”. I think they were relieved when I started taking the Xanax to control my random spurts of crying, though.
Sometimes I wake up thinking he’s in the bed next to me. I would often, at that point, get up and pull one of his shirts out of the chest of drawers and sleep with it, but I’ve since given them all to the Salvation Army. I remember the look the woman gave to me when I brought in all the bags of his stuff. She knew what it was, and I was trying to hard to be big and strong. She must’ve been in her late fifties or early sixties and she looked at me really kindly and it almost set me off and she said, “Do you want to keep anything from here? Are you sure you want to donate it all?” and I choked out yes, it all had to go and then I left the store, not crying but with tears streaming down my face and I got into my car and I just sobbed for like five minutes. Snotty nosed, fists grinding into your eyes kind of sobbing. Sobbing that leads to hiccups.
Maybe I’m giving you the wrong impression here, that I’m some kind of emotional, depressed nut job. I’m not. I’m pretty even keel these days. The only point that I’m trying to make is that when you love someone, don’t hold back: you never know what’s going to happen. And I realize that that’s about as Hallmark as one can get, because people told that to me all my life and I never really paid attention. And yeah, I am young and there is still a lot that I can accomplish. Maybe meet someone, settle down – the whole scenario. I’ve always wanted to go to Europe, too. It’s funny though, how I would toss all those ideals away for just one more day. For one more day where he slipped his hand into mine and told me he loved me. Where I leaned over and ruffled his hair as we were eating dinner and he told me in that concerned voice of his to “settle down”. His phone calls to me at work where he stiltingly told me what he and his classmates had done that day. The way his eyes lit up when I all too infrequently picked him up after school. How he would unabashedly run over to me when I picked him up from a play date, crashing into my legs, throwing his little arms around my upper thighs. The epic struggle to get him into the bathtub, and the even greater battle to pull him out of it. Carrying his slumbering body from the car to the house.
I saw this toddler in a stroller downtown today. His eyes met mine and locked on, and I turned as his father pushed him past and all the time he was staring at me, turning his head to meet my gaze. It’s stuff like that. What am I supposed to do with stuff like that?
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Needs
Man, it's weird when you dissect conversations sometimes. Like, if you try and figure out what message the sender was trying to send, and what was received and then infer what the sender was hoping to get from the transaction. I had a couple of conversations today where I wasn't conversing, rather I was talking and being talked to. A great disconnect. A waste of time. No one is heard or understood. Frustrations mount. I don't like when that happens, whether I am the person doing it or the person to whom it is being done.
In other news, I went to Extra Foods to pick up some tasty tidbits for tomorrow's wine tasting (a coworker scoffed at me, inferring the term 'wine tasting' was a misnomer and insinuated I was going to get trashed and... yeah, I guess he's got my score) and as I was looking for the antipasto I came across a can of "Drunk Beets". Really. Drunk beets. Drunk beats.
I feel vaguely sad right now and I'm not sure why.
In other news, I went to Extra Foods to pick up some tasty tidbits for tomorrow's wine tasting (a coworker scoffed at me, inferring the term 'wine tasting' was a misnomer and insinuated I was going to get trashed and... yeah, I guess he's got my score) and as I was looking for the antipasto I came across a can of "Drunk Beets". Really. Drunk beets. Drunk beats.
I feel vaguely sad right now and I'm not sure why.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Carmenere redux (fiction)
I finished John and Sandra's conversation at the bar, but I've changed her name to August, so please bear with me. Also, I have just started reading "The Catcher in the Rye" (I believe I read it in my teens but have no recollection of it) and it is so good that I am reading it very, very slowly to make it last. I love it. I fucking love this book. Anyways, here is my shite (and if you want to take me out behind the bleachers and beat me within an inch of my life for writing it, please feel free):
It’s somewhere past midnight and the music has taken a bit of a down-tempo chill and I’m wondering why I stayed on at the bar after my friends left. I smirk to myself, remember the days when my friends and I didn’t leave whatever watering hole we had hunkered down in for the night: it was the ghastly glare of the ugly lights at closing that would ultimately tumble us out into the streets, talking wildly of nothing. So maybe I’m trying to recapture my youth, but I’m pretty sure it’s less about that and more that I don’t want to go home to my empty apartment just yet. Oddly, the bar had seemed more friendly and intellectual when I had been conversing with my mates, and as I sip my fourth? fifth? glass of Carmenere I realize two things: I’ve had too much red wine, and the friendliness and intellectual capacity that I had felt when surrounded by my friends existed solely because of my friends. They left me behind with some bar stars and a couple of aspiring drug dealers and the rest of the lot are just indistinguishable rabble.
It’s somewhere past midnight and the music has taken a bit of a down-tempo chill and I’m wondering why I stayed on at the bar after my friends left. I smirk to myself, remember the days when my friends and I didn’t leave whatever watering hole we had hunkered down in for the night: it was the ghastly glare of the ugly lights at closing that would ultimately tumble us out into the streets, talking wildly of nothing. So maybe I’m trying to recapture my youth, but I’m pretty sure it’s less about that and more that I don’t want to go home to my empty apartment just yet. Oddly, the bar had seemed more friendly and intellectual when I had been conversing with my mates, and as I sip my fourth? fifth? glass of Carmenere I realize two things: I’ve had too much red wine, and the friendliness and intellectual capacity that I had felt when surrounded by my friends existed solely because of my friends. They left me behind with some bar stars and a couple of aspiring drug dealers and the rest of the lot are just indistinguishable rabble.
“Fucking rabble,” I commiserate with my half empty (full? empty? full?) glass of wine and stifle a yawn. I wish I’d had the foresight to bring a book or a pick up a Georgia Straight before coming in so I could at least pretend to be engrossed in it instead of feigning interest in Sports Central or whatever channel it is that is being loudly and predominately displayed near the bar. But then I really didn’t anticipate hanging out alone in a bar on this particular Saturday night to begin with. I start to cast my vicious and cutting gaze around the room, playing the age old game, “who would you fuck?”. There are a surprisingly high number of candidates. I think this has to do with the quantity of wine I have quaffed, but we’re talking about the actual act of coitus here, not love and commitment. They are. Two. Distinct. Things.
“You look a little lost in thought, there,” he says. I have no one but myself to blame. He saw me do my little meat market trawl and here he is, ripe for the plucking.I turn and give him my best bemused, sardonic twisting of the lips and he takes this as an invitation to sit down across from me. In the ten seconds that have passed I have noticed that he is quite attractive, is likely less drunk than I am and has a certain amount of kindness in his manner. This is atypical.
“I’m John,” he tells me, wrapping his large, warm hand around mine and making me feel vaguely like I’ve been caught doing something untoward.
“August,” I respond, doing my best to appear confident and in charge of myself.
“So, August, how is your evening going?” he asks me with apparent sincerity. I typically pride myself to be able to suss people out rather quickly but am totally failing to draw a bead on this guy.
“It’s been a slice, but it’s winding down. I think it’s getting to be time for me to go,” I reply.
“I’m curious as to why you stayed on after your friends left,” he throws out there.
I’m momentarily thrown by the straightforward question as Frank Sinatra’s “Come Fly With Me” comes over the sound system. “Well, John, I didn’t quite feel like going home just yet. What exactly about that fact has drawn your curiosity?”.
“Well, given that you’re an attractive girl sitting alone in a bar on a Saturday night, I thought that perhaps you wouldn’t want the attention that your singular presence might no doubt illicit,” he replies smoothly.
I laugh loudly. “Shit, John. Did we just accidentally time travel back to the late eighteen hundreds in England? ‘My singular presence might no doubt illicit’ a lot of things, but I’m not really worried about it.”
“Fair enough,” John concurs, clinking his glass of beer against my fragile glass of wine. “You’re a fiercely independent woman enjoying a solitary glass of wine on a Saturday night and you want for nothing.”
I shake my head in mirth, and brush the resulting irritant of hair out of my eyes. “You surmise too much. Enough about me and why I’m drinking alone on a Saturday night. What’s your deal?” “Me? Nothing much. I’ve taken a sabbatical from my work and am taking a few months to drive across Canada,” he answers with such flippancy that I’m forced to believe him. I peg him for between five and eight years older than me. He has sandy blonde hair which is somewhat rumpled, though not on purpose, and two day’s worth of stubble which is very attractive on him.
“Ah,” I retort. “So did you start out in Vancouver?”
He laughs. “No, I’m from P.E.I. I’ve been in BC for over a week now. I’ll likely be heading back in the next few days.”
“You’ll have to forgive my drunken cynicism, but what job do you have that enables you to take a sabbatical for an undetermined number of months so that you might find yourself in the great expanse of our vast country?” I inquire.
John quietly assesses me for a moment and I realize I’ve been a bit sarcastic and biting with my line of inquiry. It’s what I do. “I’m an elementary school teacher,” he tells me. “I teach sixth grade. The reason that I’m taking some time away from work is because one of my students hung himself because he was being bullied at school. He came from a poor family and was quite overweight, so he was a natural target for the other kids at the school. I, uh, I saw what was going on but I didn’t think that it was so bad that he was feeling that the only way out was to kill himself.”
“I’m sorry,” I said sincerely. “I had no idea obviously…”
“Well, you wouldn’t,” John shrugged. “It’s… yeah, it’s a pretty messed up situation. I don’t think that, as his teacher, I did all I could to prevent what happened. And then I started thinking about the disconnect from the time that I was a kid to what kids are facing today and… I don’t know… somewhere along the line things seemed to have changed immeasurably and I’m not sure if I have what it takes to be a teacher – to deal with some of this crazy shit – anymore. Hey, kids were shitty when I was growing up, but no one committed suicide.”
“So…” I began, wondering if I wasn’t entering into a conversation that was beyond the current capabilities afforded to me in my inebriated state. “What are you going to do? What are you hoping to find on your sabbatical?”
“Well, as corny as it sounds, I’m looking for some kind of reaffirmation of the overall greatness of life,” he gives me a half grin as the words spill from his mouth and he becomes aware of his religious zealot-like tone.
Feeling a bit brightened by his smirk I allow, “I’ve always found that that any reaffirmation of the overall greatness of life is easy to come by. And I’m quite surprised that you felt the need to take time off work to discover this fact.”
The waiter comes by as it appears that the contents of my glass have magically vanished again and John gives the universal twirl of his index finger to indicate another round even though I was slowly gathering the nerve to opt for a club soda. I still can’t get a bead on him: he’s very likable and honest and believable, but there’s got to be an angle. There’s always an angle.
“But enough about me. What about you? What’s your story?” he asks me.
I like that he doesn’t ask what I do since that’s the world’s most popular question asked by people that have a recalcitrant inability to come up with unique conversation (I am guilty of this), which is worsened further by the insinuation that we are little more than the jobs to which we attend.
“My story…” I ponder. “I actually have a lot of stories. I’m actually a pretty busy girl and I’ve got a lot on the go: I’m searching for religion; trying to appreciate and understand the necessity of evil in our society; and coming to the realization that there is a great life waiting for me to experience it, but I’m afraid.
“I’m John,” he tells me, wrapping his large, warm hand around mine and making me feel vaguely like I’ve been caught doing something untoward.
“August,” I respond, doing my best to appear confident and in charge of myself.
“So, August, how is your evening going?” he asks me with apparent sincerity. I typically pride myself to be able to suss people out rather quickly but am totally failing to draw a bead on this guy.
“It’s been a slice, but it’s winding down. I think it’s getting to be time for me to go,” I reply.
“I’m curious as to why you stayed on after your friends left,” he throws out there.
I’m momentarily thrown by the straightforward question as Frank Sinatra’s “Come Fly With Me” comes over the sound system. “Well, John, I didn’t quite feel like going home just yet. What exactly about that fact has drawn your curiosity?”.
“Well, given that you’re an attractive girl sitting alone in a bar on a Saturday night, I thought that perhaps you wouldn’t want the attention that your singular presence might no doubt illicit,” he replies smoothly.
I laugh loudly. “Shit, John. Did we just accidentally time travel back to the late eighteen hundreds in England? ‘My singular presence might no doubt illicit’ a lot of things, but I’m not really worried about it.”
“Fair enough,” John concurs, clinking his glass of beer against my fragile glass of wine. “You’re a fiercely independent woman enjoying a solitary glass of wine on a Saturday night and you want for nothing.”
I shake my head in mirth, and brush the resulting irritant of hair out of my eyes. “You surmise too much. Enough about me and why I’m drinking alone on a Saturday night. What’s your deal?” “Me? Nothing much. I’ve taken a sabbatical from my work and am taking a few months to drive across Canada,” he answers with such flippancy that I’m forced to believe him. I peg him for between five and eight years older than me. He has sandy blonde hair which is somewhat rumpled, though not on purpose, and two day’s worth of stubble which is very attractive on him.
“Ah,” I retort. “So did you start out in Vancouver?”
He laughs. “No, I’m from P.E.I. I’ve been in BC for over a week now. I’ll likely be heading back in the next few days.”
“You’ll have to forgive my drunken cynicism, but what job do you have that enables you to take a sabbatical for an undetermined number of months so that you might find yourself in the great expanse of our vast country?” I inquire.
John quietly assesses me for a moment and I realize I’ve been a bit sarcastic and biting with my line of inquiry. It’s what I do. “I’m an elementary school teacher,” he tells me. “I teach sixth grade. The reason that I’m taking some time away from work is because one of my students hung himself because he was being bullied at school. He came from a poor family and was quite overweight, so he was a natural target for the other kids at the school. I, uh, I saw what was going on but I didn’t think that it was so bad that he was feeling that the only way out was to kill himself.”
“I’m sorry,” I said sincerely. “I had no idea obviously…”
“Well, you wouldn’t,” John shrugged. “It’s… yeah, it’s a pretty messed up situation. I don’t think that, as his teacher, I did all I could to prevent what happened. And then I started thinking about the disconnect from the time that I was a kid to what kids are facing today and… I don’t know… somewhere along the line things seemed to have changed immeasurably and I’m not sure if I have what it takes to be a teacher – to deal with some of this crazy shit – anymore. Hey, kids were shitty when I was growing up, but no one committed suicide.”
“So…” I began, wondering if I wasn’t entering into a conversation that was beyond the current capabilities afforded to me in my inebriated state. “What are you going to do? What are you hoping to find on your sabbatical?”
“Well, as corny as it sounds, I’m looking for some kind of reaffirmation of the overall greatness of life,” he gives me a half grin as the words spill from his mouth and he becomes aware of his religious zealot-like tone.
Feeling a bit brightened by his smirk I allow, “I’ve always found that that any reaffirmation of the overall greatness of life is easy to come by. And I’m quite surprised that you felt the need to take time off work to discover this fact.”
The waiter comes by as it appears that the contents of my glass have magically vanished again and John gives the universal twirl of his index finger to indicate another round even though I was slowly gathering the nerve to opt for a club soda. I still can’t get a bead on him: he’s very likable and honest and believable, but there’s got to be an angle. There’s always an angle.
“But enough about me. What about you? What’s your story?” he asks me.
I like that he doesn’t ask what I do since that’s the world’s most popular question asked by people that have a recalcitrant inability to come up with unique conversation (I am guilty of this), which is worsened further by the insinuation that we are little more than the jobs to which we attend.
“My story…” I ponder. “I actually have a lot of stories. I’m actually a pretty busy girl and I’ve got a lot on the go: I’m searching for religion; trying to appreciate and understand the necessity of evil in our society; and coming to the realization that there is a great life waiting for me to experience it, but I’m afraid.
Oh, and I’m drinking too much. I feel as though I should tell you my last name. I mean, with an admission like the one I just gave you – not the drinking one – it seems that I ought to tell you that my last name is Patrick. And I’m also talking too much.”
John nods slowly as he summarily takes in my self-deprecating sense of humor and my overall reluctance to talk about myself for fear of being thought of as stupid or trite. Okay, maybe he doesn’t quite ken my fear of divulging personal details about my inner workings, but I’m allowed my artistic license. Even though I’m not an artist.
“You are a busy girl,” he agrees, raising a fresh pint of beer to meet my newfound glass of wine. “I’m glad I came over to talk to you. So let’s start with the first thing on your great, karmic agenda: finding religion – why are you searching for it?”
Of course the attractive guy from P.E.I. who will be heading back across the country in short order is glad that he came over to talk to me: who else would be? But I push my girlish, romantic ideals aside and try and come up with a plausible explanation as to why I am searching for a higher power.
“I want to believe in something bigger than me. I want to subscribe to something. I want there to be something available to me when all the other doors have been closed,” I admit, giving myself an invisible pat on the back for succinctness and eloquence.
“Why do you need to believe in anything but yourself? When doors are being closed in your face, you still have you. Do you not believe in you?” he posits.
Holy shit. Who is this guy? I laugh nervously as I run his questions through my muddled mind a couple of times. Wow. Why do I feel the need to subscribe to something greater than me? Why do I want to put my hopes and fears and troubles into the hands of some unseen and possibly non-existent power? Is it possible that I don’t believe in myself and it’s easier to foist the responsibilities of all things important onto someone or something else?
“I think there are three routes we can traverse down at this point,” I tell him. “I can tell you that I like unicorns and that rainbows are pretty and that can we please change the subject to something a bit easier.
Alternatively, I can bristle and take issue with the questions that you put to me about my faith – or lack thereof – in myself, but if two years of therapy hasn’t gotten me to the crux of that particular issue I doubt that you and I will resolve it here, tonight.
Lastly, I can put my ego on the backburner and admit to you, ‘random guy’ that I will not likely ever see again, that it is possible that I have problems believing in myself and that sometimes I feel like I’m a bit of a fraud and that I’m not being the best August that I can be.”
John leans back in his chair and scrutinizes me and I’m made to feel momentarily as though we’re locked in some adversarial chess match and I wonder what in the bloody hell am I doing here with a complete stranger, discussing things that I don’t even bring up to my closest friends when I could be home, drunkenly eating leftover Chinese food, cold, from the container and listening to Tori Amos. I stare back at him and I wonder if he’s married, if he has a girlfriend because I think he’s the kind of guy that you can wake up next to on a Sunday morning and a small conversation sparked by something read in the Globe and Mail over breakfast can constitute a major philosophical debate, and that he has a smattering of Taschen books, has at one time been a vegetarian and backpacked Europe in his late teens or early twenties. Man, I’m good at romanticizing people.
“I’d love to push the envelope, but I won’t. I just want to ask you one question: are you very critical of yourself?”
“You might say that,” I reply.
“Why?” he asks, leaning forward.
“That’s two questions,” I smile. “Are you a vegetarian?”
Without missing a beat he says, “No, but I was for a year in my late twenties.”
You can’t make this shit up. Then he asks me about evil and I tell him that I’ve come to understand that you can’t have great happiness without great suffering. I speak of his student that hung himself and say that in a roundabout way it likely had to happen so that some – or possibly just one – of his classmates came to either appreciate their life more through knowing him, or that perhaps it changed someone else’s actions and led them to be kinder and more considerate to others. I lay out the thing that I’m struggling with when it comes to evil: why does evil have to exist on such amazing and staggering levels? Like the Holocaust. Like child rape. Like animal abuse. Can’t we just have a little evil to keep us in line, to make us appreciate the good? Does it need to be evil of such epic and grotesque levels? John puts it another way: we don’t acknowledge the day to day good that happens. Every day we drive or take the bus to work and we don’t get killed in an accident and that is a veritable miracle, isn’t it? How many flights have we taken that didn’t crash? How many earthquakes did we not experience? He infers that I come from a healthy, loving family and he is right and he asks what it’s worth not to have been beaten or molested and to be healthy and to live in beautiful city in a beautiful country. For us to be here, now, it would seem that someone has to be struggling somewhat elsewhere and I say that’s a pretty heavy mantle to wear and that it’s really luck that I ended up here when I could be an eight year old orphan in Africa and he says it is luck and that it’s all sort of backwards and that now I should work towards earning that luck, or repaying the lot in life that I was arbitrarily dealt. I order my club soda.
“Who are you?” I bemusedly demand. “This is the best conversation that I’ve ever had with someone that I didn’t know. Or even someone that I did know. What is this?”
He smiles at me with that smile that is reserved for someone of whom you are both very fond, and amused by. I don’t want him to go back to P.E.I. I also know that I will never speak to him again because it will never be the same once he leaves. I want him to stay. I feel that he is resplendent with all the conversations that I would ever wish to have and that he has the answers to… something. To life? To understanding life? To blundering through life with a little more insight than that which I am currently accustomed?
"So you’ve driven across the damn country hoping to find something that reaffirms your belief about how great life is. You’re halfway through your trip: have you found anything that remotely resembles the answers which you seek?”
He leans forward and with great sincerity says, “Yes.”
John nods slowly as he summarily takes in my self-deprecating sense of humor and my overall reluctance to talk about myself for fear of being thought of as stupid or trite. Okay, maybe he doesn’t quite ken my fear of divulging personal details about my inner workings, but I’m allowed my artistic license. Even though I’m not an artist.
“You are a busy girl,” he agrees, raising a fresh pint of beer to meet my newfound glass of wine. “I’m glad I came over to talk to you. So let’s start with the first thing on your great, karmic agenda: finding religion – why are you searching for it?”
Of course the attractive guy from P.E.I. who will be heading back across the country in short order is glad that he came over to talk to me: who else would be? But I push my girlish, romantic ideals aside and try and come up with a plausible explanation as to why I am searching for a higher power.
“I want to believe in something bigger than me. I want to subscribe to something. I want there to be something available to me when all the other doors have been closed,” I admit, giving myself an invisible pat on the back for succinctness and eloquence.
“Why do you need to believe in anything but yourself? When doors are being closed in your face, you still have you. Do you not believe in you?” he posits.
Holy shit. Who is this guy? I laugh nervously as I run his questions through my muddled mind a couple of times. Wow. Why do I feel the need to subscribe to something greater than me? Why do I want to put my hopes and fears and troubles into the hands of some unseen and possibly non-existent power? Is it possible that I don’t believe in myself and it’s easier to foist the responsibilities of all things important onto someone or something else?
“I think there are three routes we can traverse down at this point,” I tell him. “I can tell you that I like unicorns and that rainbows are pretty and that can we please change the subject to something a bit easier.
Alternatively, I can bristle and take issue with the questions that you put to me about my faith – or lack thereof – in myself, but if two years of therapy hasn’t gotten me to the crux of that particular issue I doubt that you and I will resolve it here, tonight.
Lastly, I can put my ego on the backburner and admit to you, ‘random guy’ that I will not likely ever see again, that it is possible that I have problems believing in myself and that sometimes I feel like I’m a bit of a fraud and that I’m not being the best August that I can be.”
John leans back in his chair and scrutinizes me and I’m made to feel momentarily as though we’re locked in some adversarial chess match and I wonder what in the bloody hell am I doing here with a complete stranger, discussing things that I don’t even bring up to my closest friends when I could be home, drunkenly eating leftover Chinese food, cold, from the container and listening to Tori Amos. I stare back at him and I wonder if he’s married, if he has a girlfriend because I think he’s the kind of guy that you can wake up next to on a Sunday morning and a small conversation sparked by something read in the Globe and Mail over breakfast can constitute a major philosophical debate, and that he has a smattering of Taschen books, has at one time been a vegetarian and backpacked Europe in his late teens or early twenties. Man, I’m good at romanticizing people.
“I’d love to push the envelope, but I won’t. I just want to ask you one question: are you very critical of yourself?”
“You might say that,” I reply.
“Why?” he asks, leaning forward.
“That’s two questions,” I smile. “Are you a vegetarian?”
Without missing a beat he says, “No, but I was for a year in my late twenties.”
You can’t make this shit up. Then he asks me about evil and I tell him that I’ve come to understand that you can’t have great happiness without great suffering. I speak of his student that hung himself and say that in a roundabout way it likely had to happen so that some – or possibly just one – of his classmates came to either appreciate their life more through knowing him, or that perhaps it changed someone else’s actions and led them to be kinder and more considerate to others. I lay out the thing that I’m struggling with when it comes to evil: why does evil have to exist on such amazing and staggering levels? Like the Holocaust. Like child rape. Like animal abuse. Can’t we just have a little evil to keep us in line, to make us appreciate the good? Does it need to be evil of such epic and grotesque levels? John puts it another way: we don’t acknowledge the day to day good that happens. Every day we drive or take the bus to work and we don’t get killed in an accident and that is a veritable miracle, isn’t it? How many flights have we taken that didn’t crash? How many earthquakes did we not experience? He infers that I come from a healthy, loving family and he is right and he asks what it’s worth not to have been beaten or molested and to be healthy and to live in beautiful city in a beautiful country. For us to be here, now, it would seem that someone has to be struggling somewhat elsewhere and I say that’s a pretty heavy mantle to wear and that it’s really luck that I ended up here when I could be an eight year old orphan in Africa and he says it is luck and that it’s all sort of backwards and that now I should work towards earning that luck, or repaying the lot in life that I was arbitrarily dealt. I order my club soda.
“Who are you?” I bemusedly demand. “This is the best conversation that I’ve ever had with someone that I didn’t know. Or even someone that I did know. What is this?”
He smiles at me with that smile that is reserved for someone of whom you are both very fond, and amused by. I don’t want him to go back to P.E.I. I also know that I will never speak to him again because it will never be the same once he leaves. I want him to stay. I feel that he is resplendent with all the conversations that I would ever wish to have and that he has the answers to… something. To life? To understanding life? To blundering through life with a little more insight than that which I am currently accustomed?
"So you’ve driven across the damn country hoping to find something that reaffirms your belief about how great life is. You’re halfway through your trip: have you found anything that remotely resembles the answers which you seek?”
He leans forward and with great sincerity says, “Yes.”
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
I don't have much to say today
Not feeling entirely well.
What's with all the snow?
Bit torrents.
And my sudoku skills are rapidly improving.
What's with all the snow?
Bit torrents.
And my sudoku skills are rapidly improving.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Best. Weekend. Ever.
Had coffee with my good friend L in Marpole on Saturday and then as I was taking the bus home I get a call from another friend, C, who was up at Cypress. He wanted to know if I could go for a bite to eat and I said sure and we met up in North Van and shot the shit at Brown's. We had an argument about whether or not I had texted him earlier in the day (I had), because he said he hadn't received a text from me. It was resolved that we would test my texting capabilities and as I texted him he says, "So what did you write? 'I texted you, you idiot, and it's not my fault that you can't operate your Blackberry'?". I said, "Yeah. That's totally what I just texted you. Have you received it yet?". And he said, "Yes. It says 'poo'." I'm not sure what, if anything, was proved by that whole transaction.
Then Michael came over later and we watched "Say Anything" and it was really bad. I like John Cusack, but I wanted to smack the shit out of the female lead in the movie. I suppose it makes sense that I haven't seen her in ANYTHING ELSE since that movie. The weird bit? Jeremy Piven and Joan Cusack were in the movie, and they were also in "Grosse Pointe Blank" which Michael I watched the night before. Weird.
Stayed up too late given that we had to run at 8am the next morning. I went to bed praying for snow because we said we wouldn't run in the snow. Well, it didn't snow, but we didn't run anyways. Not in the morning at least. We ended up running close to 20k in the afternoon and then went for coffee, ran some errands, had some dinner, did a little wine tasting and Michael hooked up my laptop to my flatscreen t.v. and we watched some of the Curb Your Enthusiasm episodes that he had downloaded for me.
I think that it was when Michael and I were walking down Lonsdale, him burdened with my groceries while I told him I wanted to run to the bank and to the wine shop and he said, okay, give me your keys I'll buzz you in and we parted ways and I went and got some cash and a decent bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and I was crossing back over Lonsdale, heading to my place on a crisp, clear Sunday night and looking forward to sitting down and having a nice meal with a kind, attractive and intellectually stimulating individual after having a fun, laid back and engaging weekend that I thought, "I think I have everything now".
And that was before we got the Curb Your Enthusiasm to play on my 43" television and got into the chocolate.
Poo!
Then Michael came over later and we watched "Say Anything" and it was really bad. I like John Cusack, but I wanted to smack the shit out of the female lead in the movie. I suppose it makes sense that I haven't seen her in ANYTHING ELSE since that movie. The weird bit? Jeremy Piven and Joan Cusack were in the movie, and they were also in "Grosse Pointe Blank" which Michael I watched the night before. Weird.
Stayed up too late given that we had to run at 8am the next morning. I went to bed praying for snow because we said we wouldn't run in the snow. Well, it didn't snow, but we didn't run anyways. Not in the morning at least. We ended up running close to 20k in the afternoon and then went for coffee, ran some errands, had some dinner, did a little wine tasting and Michael hooked up my laptop to my flatscreen t.v. and we watched some of the Curb Your Enthusiasm episodes that he had downloaded for me.
I think that it was when Michael and I were walking down Lonsdale, him burdened with my groceries while I told him I wanted to run to the bank and to the wine shop and he said, okay, give me your keys I'll buzz you in and we parted ways and I went and got some cash and a decent bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and I was crossing back over Lonsdale, heading to my place on a crisp, clear Sunday night and looking forward to sitting down and having a nice meal with a kind, attractive and intellectually stimulating individual after having a fun, laid back and engaging weekend that I thought, "I think I have everything now".
And that was before we got the Curb Your Enthusiasm to play on my 43" television and got into the chocolate.
Poo!
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Matching underwear
It is a rare occasion that I don it. It's new and pretty. I enjoy it.
Today was a special day. I think the courier that I bumped into while waiting for the elevator (coffee cup in hand) realized just how special it was. He said to me, "Time for coffee? With maybe a little Grand Marnier?". Evidently he caught me at a rather transparent moment. By the time we got from the eighth floor to the ground level he was calling me sweetheart and helped me to put things into perspective. I love when stuff like that happens. Karma used to scream at me and kick me in the ass repeatedly to get me back on the beaten track, and I've gotten to the point now where all it takes is a little well-placed nudge from time to time. I get it, I got it, it's good.
Met up with Michael for sushi. You know what I strongly dislike? The waste that comes with take out sushi. So I called up my sushi place and said hey, can I bring tupperware and you can put the food in that? And they said hells, yeah. Okay, maybe that's not exactly how the young Japanese girl answering the phone put it, but it was damn close and yes they put the sushi, gomae, gyoza and miso soup in my various tupperware containers and I feel so much better about the whole process! And Michael and I stopped in to Jack Lonsdale's for a drink first because we'd never been and it was actually pretty decent. I enjoyed it because it was random and unexpected. I want to like Jack Lonsdale's because it's a three minute walk from my apartment. It's a little rough and tumble perhaps, but I'll go back: the prices were good, the people were friendly, and no one tried to sell me cheese that they had ripped off from the local Safeway.
Then we watched Grosse Pointe Blank and Michael took my car and left, but not before I brought up the matching underwear. He brought up the fact that he worked out after work and hadn't showered. He then said he would come back later in the weekend wearing a tool belt. He said he would install some more shelving and fix my door handle. Then we laughed and did a porn scene shtick and I was like, "No really, you need to install that shelving and swap out the door handle".
Boom chicka wah wah.
Today was a special day. I think the courier that I bumped into while waiting for the elevator (coffee cup in hand) realized just how special it was. He said to me, "Time for coffee? With maybe a little Grand Marnier?". Evidently he caught me at a rather transparent moment. By the time we got from the eighth floor to the ground level he was calling me sweetheart and helped me to put things into perspective. I love when stuff like that happens. Karma used to scream at me and kick me in the ass repeatedly to get me back on the beaten track, and I've gotten to the point now where all it takes is a little well-placed nudge from time to time. I get it, I got it, it's good.
Met up with Michael for sushi. You know what I strongly dislike? The waste that comes with take out sushi. So I called up my sushi place and said hey, can I bring tupperware and you can put the food in that? And they said hells, yeah. Okay, maybe that's not exactly how the young Japanese girl answering the phone put it, but it was damn close and yes they put the sushi, gomae, gyoza and miso soup in my various tupperware containers and I feel so much better about the whole process! And Michael and I stopped in to Jack Lonsdale's for a drink first because we'd never been and it was actually pretty decent. I enjoyed it because it was random and unexpected. I want to like Jack Lonsdale's because it's a three minute walk from my apartment. It's a little rough and tumble perhaps, but I'll go back: the prices were good, the people were friendly, and no one tried to sell me cheese that they had ripped off from the local Safeway.
Then we watched Grosse Pointe Blank and Michael took my car and left, but not before I brought up the matching underwear. He brought up the fact that he worked out after work and hadn't showered. He then said he would come back later in the weekend wearing a tool belt. He said he would install some more shelving and fix my door handle. Then we laughed and did a porn scene shtick and I was like, "No really, you need to install that shelving and swap out the door handle".
Boom chicka wah wah.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Unhappy customer
This morning I spoke with Dong Lee who is the boss of Eileen Mercer, the mortgage broker from Mortgagebrokers.com with whom I had such a disastrous experience in November of last year. He had received my letter chronicling my challenges with Eileen during my property purchase and left a message a couple of days ago saying he wished to speak to me. I called him this morning and I believe we spoke for under two minutes. He confirmed he had received the letter, asked if I had anything else to say, confirmed that in the interim Eileen had called me, advised me that normally Eileen has a great track record and that this letter will be kept on file. He did not ask me the details of my call with Eileen (the one that started with me telling her that it was not a good time for her to call as I was on my way out the door and would miss my bus, to which she responded, "Yes, but I need to know why you sent this letter": clearly the fact that I was so angry about the situation and with her behaviour at the end of 2007 was lost on her and she was incapable of understanding that I was the aggrieved party and that to assuage me, it really ought to be done at a time that worked for me), he did not apologize on behalf of Mortgagebrokers.com, he did not ask what he could do to ensure I did not sully their reputation or disparage people from using their services: he assumed that because Eileen had called me everything was fine, though he does not have any idea of the conversation that I had with her, or at the minimum he has her recollection of it.
At any rate, I held off posting this letter in hopes that Mortgagebrokers.com would take some steps to quell the bitter taste in my mouth and to attempt to salvage their reputation in some fashion, but they failed to do so. As such, here is the letter that was sent to Eileen Mercer and her boss Dong Lee:
Mortgagebrokers.com
Unit 11 – 260 Edgeley Blvd
Vaughan, Ontario
L4K 3Y4
Attention: Dong Lee
January 8, 2008
Dear Mr. Lee,
I am writing to express the frustration that I experienced as a direct result of one of your mortgage brokers – Eileen Mercer - towards the end of 2007 when I was trying to secure a mortgage to finance my home purchase. Before I explain the stress and aggravation that she put me through I would like to note that a) this was my first piece of property and b) I had a cash down payment of $xx, was seeking a mortgage of $xx and that I have exemplary credit.
In the fall of 2007 I started my search for a condo. I selected Mortgagebrokers.com and trusted them to provide me with a competent mortgage broker. I looked at several condos, made an offer on two of them (neither panned out) and at that time I provided Eileen with all the documentation that she had requested: a copy of a void cheque; a gift letter from my parents; a copy of my account statement from the investment advisor showing the funds in the account, etc. She had me pre-approved for a mortgage with TD Bank at that time.
On October 29th, 2007 I had an accepted offer on a condo. I advised Eileen and told her the closing date was November 15th. On October 30th I gave her the name and contact information for my notary public, who required a copy of the mortgage for the closing.
On November 5th Eileen sent me a copy of the mortgage commitment with an incorrect mortgage rate, and asked me for a copy of the proof of down payment, which I had sent her previously, along with the letter from my parents saying the funds were a gift. I sent her another screen shot of the balance of my account on that day.
On November 8th it appeared that Eileen and my notary had still not spoken, so I gave the information to Eileen again who said she would call her right away. Eileen had not indicated that anything further was required from me for the mortgage and I assumed that the information that I had sent her three days ago was sufficient.
On November 13th I received an email from my notary that she still had not received the mortgage from Eileen and requested that I call her as well. I spoke to Eileen who told me that TD Bank had an issue with the October 31st statement from my the financial institution where my down payment was being held and that they wanted a “hard copy” instead of the copy that I had downloaded from their online site and faxed to Eileen. I spoke to Eileen later in the day was then told that TD was satisfied and that she would be sending the documents to my notary and promised that we would receive them that night. Not only did we not receive the information that night, we did not receive it the following morning: November 14th.
I spent the majority of my day at work on November 14th leaving several voice messages for Eileen which went unanswered, as did my emails. My notary public told me we might have to extend the closing date so that the deal would not fall into default. I personally called the person at TD Bank that Eileen had been dealing with twice, only to learn that the mortgage had still not been sent to my notary. I called Mortgagebrokers.com and explained my situation and asked that my case be reassigned to someone else. The receptionist said she would have someone call me back right away. No one called me back. I called a second time and was told that Eileen had a parent in the hospital which was why she might not be answering my calls. I explained again that my deal was about to go into default and that if Eileen could not handle my case that she should transfer it to a colleague. Eventually I was transferred to someone else who said he would do what he could, but could not shed any light on whether I would get the paperwork on time or where in the process the mortgage was. As the day drew to a close Eileen had not replied to any of the phone calls or emails that both I and my notary public sent. My mother offered to cash out her GICs – at a penalty – in order to finance my $xx mortgage and keep the November 15th closing date: I accepted her offer.
On November 15th (the day the deal closed) my notary received the documents which had been promised to us on November 14th and November 13th. To meet the deadline I had to take the day off work to facilitate all the paperwork by noon. Eileen did not apologize for her unprofessional behavior or give any explanation as to why she had stalled, lied and failed to return my phone calls, nor why, if a family member had been in the hospital, she didn’t assign my file to a colleague. My notary public was shocked by her lack of professionalism and asked where I had gotten her name from: I told her. She said on a go forward that I could use her mortgage broker, apologized that I had had such a horrific experience for my first home purchase, and assured me that it should never be this stressful or trying.
I have deliberately withheld from writing this letter because it has taken me two months for the anger to subside. I was excited about the purchase of my first home and I never dreamed that it would be such a thoroughly unpleasant and stressful experience.
I work for a company that develops customer experience management software for some of the largest companies in the world. Our clients seek to redress issues in a timely manner, increase customer retention, decrease customer churn and minimize bad press. I obviously have a lot of negative feedback for the way I was dealt with by Eileen Mercer, and by Mortgagebrokers.com. If you would like to discuss this further, and if you value my customer experience and wish to learn from this so that steps can be taken to ensure that no one else has the disastrous experience that I had, I would be glad to speak with you. My number is xx.
At any rate, I held off posting this letter in hopes that Mortgagebrokers.com would take some steps to quell the bitter taste in my mouth and to attempt to salvage their reputation in some fashion, but they failed to do so. As such, here is the letter that was sent to Eileen Mercer and her boss Dong Lee:
Mortgagebrokers.com
Unit 11 – 260 Edgeley Blvd
Vaughan, Ontario
L4K 3Y4
Attention: Dong Lee
January 8, 2008
Dear Mr. Lee,
I am writing to express the frustration that I experienced as a direct result of one of your mortgage brokers – Eileen Mercer - towards the end of 2007 when I was trying to secure a mortgage to finance my home purchase. Before I explain the stress and aggravation that she put me through I would like to note that a) this was my first piece of property and b) I had a cash down payment of $xx, was seeking a mortgage of $xx and that I have exemplary credit.
In the fall of 2007 I started my search for a condo. I selected Mortgagebrokers.com and trusted them to provide me with a competent mortgage broker. I looked at several condos, made an offer on two of them (neither panned out) and at that time I provided Eileen with all the documentation that she had requested: a copy of a void cheque; a gift letter from my parents; a copy of my account statement from the investment advisor showing the funds in the account, etc. She had me pre-approved for a mortgage with TD Bank at that time.
On October 29th, 2007 I had an accepted offer on a condo. I advised Eileen and told her the closing date was November 15th. On October 30th I gave her the name and contact information for my notary public, who required a copy of the mortgage for the closing.
On November 5th Eileen sent me a copy of the mortgage commitment with an incorrect mortgage rate, and asked me for a copy of the proof of down payment, which I had sent her previously, along with the letter from my parents saying the funds were a gift. I sent her another screen shot of the balance of my account on that day.
On November 8th it appeared that Eileen and my notary had still not spoken, so I gave the information to Eileen again who said she would call her right away. Eileen had not indicated that anything further was required from me for the mortgage and I assumed that the information that I had sent her three days ago was sufficient.
On November 13th I received an email from my notary that she still had not received the mortgage from Eileen and requested that I call her as well. I spoke to Eileen who told me that TD Bank had an issue with the October 31st statement from my the financial institution where my down payment was being held and that they wanted a “hard copy” instead of the copy that I had downloaded from their online site and faxed to Eileen. I spoke to Eileen later in the day was then told that TD was satisfied and that she would be sending the documents to my notary and promised that we would receive them that night. Not only did we not receive the information that night, we did not receive it the following morning: November 14th.
I spent the majority of my day at work on November 14th leaving several voice messages for Eileen which went unanswered, as did my emails. My notary public told me we might have to extend the closing date so that the deal would not fall into default. I personally called the person at TD Bank that Eileen had been dealing with twice, only to learn that the mortgage had still not been sent to my notary. I called Mortgagebrokers.com and explained my situation and asked that my case be reassigned to someone else. The receptionist said she would have someone call me back right away. No one called me back. I called a second time and was told that Eileen had a parent in the hospital which was why she might not be answering my calls. I explained again that my deal was about to go into default and that if Eileen could not handle my case that she should transfer it to a colleague. Eventually I was transferred to someone else who said he would do what he could, but could not shed any light on whether I would get the paperwork on time or where in the process the mortgage was. As the day drew to a close Eileen had not replied to any of the phone calls or emails that both I and my notary public sent. My mother offered to cash out her GICs – at a penalty – in order to finance my $xx mortgage and keep the November 15th closing date: I accepted her offer.
On November 15th (the day the deal closed) my notary received the documents which had been promised to us on November 14th and November 13th. To meet the deadline I had to take the day off work to facilitate all the paperwork by noon. Eileen did not apologize for her unprofessional behavior or give any explanation as to why she had stalled, lied and failed to return my phone calls, nor why, if a family member had been in the hospital, she didn’t assign my file to a colleague. My notary public was shocked by her lack of professionalism and asked where I had gotten her name from: I told her. She said on a go forward that I could use her mortgage broker, apologized that I had had such a horrific experience for my first home purchase, and assured me that it should never be this stressful or trying.
I have deliberately withheld from writing this letter because it has taken me two months for the anger to subside. I was excited about the purchase of my first home and I never dreamed that it would be such a thoroughly unpleasant and stressful experience.
I work for a company that develops customer experience management software for some of the largest companies in the world. Our clients seek to redress issues in a timely manner, increase customer retention, decrease customer churn and minimize bad press. I obviously have a lot of negative feedback for the way I was dealt with by Eileen Mercer, and by Mortgagebrokers.com. If you would like to discuss this further, and if you value my customer experience and wish to learn from this so that steps can be taken to ensure that no one else has the disastrous experience that I had, I would be glad to speak with you. My number is xx.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
The morning after
Wow. Hats off to anyone that understood my last blog entry.
And I've decided that I will watch the last few minutes of "Flannel Pajamas" because I just have to know.
As for the other stuff? I still don't know, but I will do my best to figure it out in a reasonably short time frame.
And I've decided that I will watch the last few minutes of "Flannel Pajamas" because I just have to know.
As for the other stuff? I still don't know, but I will do my best to figure it out in a reasonably short time frame.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
I'm pretty sure I kept my therapist's card...
First off? "Flannel Pajamas" fucking sucked. Like, wow, give me those two hours back. Oh, and it wasn't even over. I'm sure there was only ten minutes left, but I don't care. The only way the movie would have been salvageable would be if a masked gunmen burst in at the end and shot all the characters to death. Christ.
So I was doing pretty good today. Toodling along, happy with most everything and enjoying the sun. Then M asks me what's going on and I give my pat answer that nothing is going on and then he asks me again and all of a sudden I have verbal diarrhea and I'm unloading all my neuroses and fears and hopes and I'm sure he'll never ask me how I'm doing again. For some reason I have this propensity to divulge things to him with the most minimal prompting.
Anyways. I just don't know. I must have said that about six times to M. I don't say that often: I usually do know, or at least I'll pretend to know. But I don't know.
I am unaccustomed to being put in the position to be the instigator of certain things and I don't understand if I am being put in this certain position because the feeling is not mutual or because the situation is infinitely complex. Because I love when things are complex. I do not understand if this particular predicament requires patience, or if I am supposed to take the initiative or if there is actually no predicament at all.
Right. I am not the same person that I was a year ago. It is selfish of me to expect to be immediately accepted as this new, beautific individual given the six years of fantastic and tumultuous behaviour that preceded it. I am ultimately asking to have my cake and to eat it too. God, I like cake.
I'm being petulant. Am I? Fuck. And narcissistic. This is the burning question then: is there anyone out there that will put up with my petulant narcissism, and how much would I have to compromise? I would prefer not to compromise at all, but in my (extensive?) experience it seems that something's got to give.
Bleh. So I don't know. And I will try. Perhaps I will take the initiative. And it will work, or it won't work and I will go on and it will be one thing that I tried and whether it fails or succeeds I shall be glad that I had the balls to try it in the first place.
Wow. Good chat. Thanks for talking me down from the ledge there. Though I'm normally even-keeled I sometimes get inextricably wrapped up in my own non-important reveries. Thanks. How is life treating you, these days? I think we should get together for coffee soon. Maybe a biscotti, too.
So I was doing pretty good today. Toodling along, happy with most everything and enjoying the sun. Then M asks me what's going on and I give my pat answer that nothing is going on and then he asks me again and all of a sudden I have verbal diarrhea and I'm unloading all my neuroses and fears and hopes and I'm sure he'll never ask me how I'm doing again. For some reason I have this propensity to divulge things to him with the most minimal prompting.
Anyways. I just don't know. I must have said that about six times to M. I don't say that often: I usually do know, or at least I'll pretend to know. But I don't know.
I am unaccustomed to being put in the position to be the instigator of certain things and I don't understand if I am being put in this certain position because the feeling is not mutual or because the situation is infinitely complex. Because I love when things are complex. I do not understand if this particular predicament requires patience, or if I am supposed to take the initiative or if there is actually no predicament at all.
Right. I am not the same person that I was a year ago. It is selfish of me to expect to be immediately accepted as this new, beautific individual given the six years of fantastic and tumultuous behaviour that preceded it. I am ultimately asking to have my cake and to eat it too. God, I like cake.
I'm being petulant. Am I? Fuck. And narcissistic. This is the burning question then: is there anyone out there that will put up with my petulant narcissism, and how much would I have to compromise? I would prefer not to compromise at all, but in my (extensive?) experience it seems that something's got to give.
Bleh. So I don't know. And I will try. Perhaps I will take the initiative. And it will work, or it won't work and I will go on and it will be one thing that I tried and whether it fails or succeeds I shall be glad that I had the balls to try it in the first place.
Wow. Good chat. Thanks for talking me down from the ledge there. Though I'm normally even-keeled I sometimes get inextricably wrapped up in my own non-important reveries. Thanks. How is life treating you, these days? I think we should get together for coffee soon. Maybe a biscotti, too.
Let's not work.
Seriously. Would anyone like to take a sabbatical with me to Europe this spring for a one to three month stretch? I'd be doing it cheaply: staying in hostels; walking a lot; taking the train.
I really want to go but have no one to go with.
You want to go with me, don't you? We'll have the time of our lives!
If you are interested please give me a shout.
I really want to go but have no one to go with.
You want to go with me, don't you? We'll have the time of our lives!
If you are interested please give me a shout.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
The end of the two dollar latte
I didn’t sleep well last night, so I did something this morning that I don’t typically do: I went downstairs to Take 5 for a coffee. Normally I go in the afternoon with one of my coworkers, but this morning I am beat.
There’s a big lineup when I get there and I patiently wait my turn and order my two dollar latte (yes, they still have them which is the main reason I go) and then I grab a seat at one of the tables and begin my tortuous wait for caffeine. While I had been ordering my coffee a slim, white, well dressed man in his sixties said to the barrista next to mine, “Latte. Extra hot,” in a South African accent. Hey, I’m not a morning person at the best of times, but I was brought up to be polite and his curt manner turned me off. And as I sat at my table by myself, cleaning my nails with the quadruple-folded receipt that had been given to me telling me which number I was even though I brought my own cup so I’m pretty sure I could figure it out regardless of the level of fatigue I’m currently experiencing, my South African friend gives me a once over managing simultaneously to make me feel underdressed, more tired and a bit like I’d like to have another shower.
Then a homeless black woman comes in. She had the score down: she knows she’s on private property and that the patrons don’t want to be hassled and that she has scant seconds to hit up as many people as she can before she gets kicked out. And I recognized her. I have seen her at least twice before: once taking the bus over the Granville Street bridge during the summer (she had been wearing a skirt or a dress and was humming or muttering quietly to herself, and occasionally laughing) and another time coming out of the Starbucks that is attached to Chapters at Broadway and Granville. I remember the Starbucks time rather vividly: Michael and I were still together and we had decided to go shopping along Granville for some reason. I bought two bras at La Senza with a gift certificate that his mother had given me for Christmas (or my birthday) and it was dark and unbelievably windy. She held the door open for me as she exited Starbucks and I didn’t realize that she was homeless until she asked me for some spare change.
At any rate, I’m quite sure this is the same woman and I look at her jacket which looks decent given that it’s -3 out there, but she’s wearing a dress again and her exposed lower legs looked like they belonged to a twelve year old girl, not a grown woman. The first person she asked said no and she approached me working as quickly as she could and I thought about giving her my change and I could see in her face that she was expecting me to say no and she was just waiting for me to formalize it, which I did and she headed towards some of the other customers and then she stated loudly, “Don’t touch me” as someone from around the counter had come to usher her out. At which point the South African man turned and spat, “Get out of here! We’re sick of you coming in here and bothering us!”. She informed us all that she was not leaving and the Take 5 employee confirmed that yes, she was and before he could grab her she asked another person who was putting the necessary touches on his coffee if he could spare some change, and then the guy grabbed her sleeve and forced her to leave the store.
And the South African man said, “You should have her arrested.”
And the Take 5 guy said, “We’ve tried.”
There’s a big lineup when I get there and I patiently wait my turn and order my two dollar latte (yes, they still have them which is the main reason I go) and then I grab a seat at one of the tables and begin my tortuous wait for caffeine. While I had been ordering my coffee a slim, white, well dressed man in his sixties said to the barrista next to mine, “Latte. Extra hot,” in a South African accent. Hey, I’m not a morning person at the best of times, but I was brought up to be polite and his curt manner turned me off. And as I sat at my table by myself, cleaning my nails with the quadruple-folded receipt that had been given to me telling me which number I was even though I brought my own cup so I’m pretty sure I could figure it out regardless of the level of fatigue I’m currently experiencing, my South African friend gives me a once over managing simultaneously to make me feel underdressed, more tired and a bit like I’d like to have another shower.
Then a homeless black woman comes in. She had the score down: she knows she’s on private property and that the patrons don’t want to be hassled and that she has scant seconds to hit up as many people as she can before she gets kicked out. And I recognized her. I have seen her at least twice before: once taking the bus over the Granville Street bridge during the summer (she had been wearing a skirt or a dress and was humming or muttering quietly to herself, and occasionally laughing) and another time coming out of the Starbucks that is attached to Chapters at Broadway and Granville. I remember the Starbucks time rather vividly: Michael and I were still together and we had decided to go shopping along Granville for some reason. I bought two bras at La Senza with a gift certificate that his mother had given me for Christmas (or my birthday) and it was dark and unbelievably windy. She held the door open for me as she exited Starbucks and I didn’t realize that she was homeless until she asked me for some spare change.
At any rate, I’m quite sure this is the same woman and I look at her jacket which looks decent given that it’s -3 out there, but she’s wearing a dress again and her exposed lower legs looked like they belonged to a twelve year old girl, not a grown woman. The first person she asked said no and she approached me working as quickly as she could and I thought about giving her my change and I could see in her face that she was expecting me to say no and she was just waiting for me to formalize it, which I did and she headed towards some of the other customers and then she stated loudly, “Don’t touch me” as someone from around the counter had come to usher her out. At which point the South African man turned and spat, “Get out of here! We’re sick of you coming in here and bothering us!”. She informed us all that she was not leaving and the Take 5 employee confirmed that yes, she was and before he could grab her she asked another person who was putting the necessary touches on his coffee if he could spare some change, and then the guy grabbed her sleeve and forced her to leave the store.
And the South African man said, “You should have her arrested.”
And the Take 5 guy said, “We’ve tried.”
Monday, January 21, 2008
Carmenere interrupted (a fruity fiction/non-fiction blend)
It’s somewhere past midnight and the music has taken a bit of a down-tempo chill and I’m wondering why I stayed on at the bar after my friends left. I smirk to myself, remember the days when my friends and I didn’t leave whatever watering hole we had hunkered down in for the night: it was the ghastly glare of the ugly lights at closing that would ultimately tumble us out into the streets, talking wildly of nothing. So maybe I’m trying to recapture my youth, but I’m pretty sure it’s less about that and more that I don’t want to go home to my empty apartment just yet. Oddly, the bar had seemed more friendly and intellectual when I had been conversing with my mates, and as I sip my fourth? fifth? glass of Carmenere I realize two things: I’ve had too much red wine, and the friendliness and intellectual capacity that I had felt when surrounded by my friends existed solely because of my friends. They left me behind with some bar stars and a couple of aspiring drug dealers and the rest of the lot are just indistinguishable rabble.
“Fucking rabble,” I commiserate with my half empty (full? empty? full?) glass of wine and stifle a yawn. I wish I’d had the foresight to bring a book or a pick up a Georgia Straight before coming in so I could at least pretend to be engrossed in it instead of feigning interest in Sports Central or whatever channel it is that is being loudly and predominately displayed near the bar. But then I really didn’t anticipate hanging out alone in a bar on this particular Saturday night to begin with. I start to cast my vicious and cutting gaze around the room, playing the age old game, “who would you fuck?”. There are a surprisingly high number of candidates. I think this has to do with the quantity of wine I have quaffed, but we’re talking about the actual act of coitus here, not love and commitment. They are. Two. Distinct. Things.
“You look a little lost in thought, there,” he says. I have no one but myself to blame. He saw me do my little meat market trawl and here he is, ripe for the plucking.
I turn and give him my best bemused, sardonic twisting of the lips and he takes this as an invitation to sit down across from me. In the twenty seconds that have passed I have noticed that he is quite attractive, is likely less drunk than I am and has a certain amount of kindness in his manner. This is atypical.
“I’m John,” he tells me, wrapping his large, warm hand around mine and making me feel vaguely like I’ve been caught doing something untoward.
And then the phone rings in real life and I might normally ignore it, but its Michael’s distinctive ring and I always want to talk to him. He asks me if I had called him this evening and I say no, I didn’t and then he asks again if I’d tried to call because he had been on the phone for quite a while and I say “No, I didn’t call you” and he says, “Why?” and we both laugh. And then he tells me about the fictional book he’s reading about Frank Lloyd Wright (the architect, whose lover and her children, as well as some of his employees were killed by one of Wright’s servants) and how it appears that one of Frank’s clients is all “a-twitter” around him and it looks like it’s leading up to an affair and I say, “Do you think that maybe we might….” and he says, “…be murdered?” and I say, “No. Maybe we could... you know, have an affair?” and he says, “We could. Oh, you mean with each other?”.
So I think I would like to get back to John and Sandra because they were about to have a very deep conversation about the good and evil that abounds in our world, and come up with a rather karmic explanation as to why such a disparity exists. Of course the conversation would be a little more illustrative and engrossing than that which I’ve just plainly described: Sandra would come away from the evening both mesmerized by the topic at hand and by the way John sensed her loneliness and held her proverbial hand as she worked through her muddled thoughts, but did not take advantage of her because he recognized a kindred spirit and the culmination of their conversation and his actions would leave her buoyant and changed.
Have an affair. Yes, with each other.
I’m going to bed. I shall attempt to finish this anon. And if you’re having problems following the plotline, try a couple of glasses of Carmenere.
“Fucking rabble,” I commiserate with my half empty (full? empty? full?) glass of wine and stifle a yawn. I wish I’d had the foresight to bring a book or a pick up a Georgia Straight before coming in so I could at least pretend to be engrossed in it instead of feigning interest in Sports Central or whatever channel it is that is being loudly and predominately displayed near the bar. But then I really didn’t anticipate hanging out alone in a bar on this particular Saturday night to begin with. I start to cast my vicious and cutting gaze around the room, playing the age old game, “who would you fuck?”. There are a surprisingly high number of candidates. I think this has to do with the quantity of wine I have quaffed, but we’re talking about the actual act of coitus here, not love and commitment. They are. Two. Distinct. Things.
“You look a little lost in thought, there,” he says. I have no one but myself to blame. He saw me do my little meat market trawl and here he is, ripe for the plucking.
I turn and give him my best bemused, sardonic twisting of the lips and he takes this as an invitation to sit down across from me. In the twenty seconds that have passed I have noticed that he is quite attractive, is likely less drunk than I am and has a certain amount of kindness in his manner. This is atypical.
“I’m John,” he tells me, wrapping his large, warm hand around mine and making me feel vaguely like I’ve been caught doing something untoward.
And then the phone rings in real life and I might normally ignore it, but its Michael’s distinctive ring and I always want to talk to him. He asks me if I had called him this evening and I say no, I didn’t and then he asks again if I’d tried to call because he had been on the phone for quite a while and I say “No, I didn’t call you” and he says, “Why?” and we both laugh. And then he tells me about the fictional book he’s reading about Frank Lloyd Wright (the architect, whose lover and her children, as well as some of his employees were killed by one of Wright’s servants) and how it appears that one of Frank’s clients is all “a-twitter” around him and it looks like it’s leading up to an affair and I say, “Do you think that maybe we might….” and he says, “…be murdered?” and I say, “No. Maybe we could... you know, have an affair?” and he says, “We could. Oh, you mean with each other?”.
So I think I would like to get back to John and Sandra because they were about to have a very deep conversation about the good and evil that abounds in our world, and come up with a rather karmic explanation as to why such a disparity exists. Of course the conversation would be a little more illustrative and engrossing than that which I’ve just plainly described: Sandra would come away from the evening both mesmerized by the topic at hand and by the way John sensed her loneliness and held her proverbial hand as she worked through her muddled thoughts, but did not take advantage of her because he recognized a kindred spirit and the culmination of their conversation and his actions would leave her buoyant and changed.
Have an affair. Yes, with each other.
I’m going to bed. I shall attempt to finish this anon. And if you’re having problems following the plotline, try a couple of glasses of Carmenere.
I'm hungry
Sitting here at my bar, blogging, waiting for my chicken to broil. Go, chicken, go! This was the view from my balcony when I got home. Not too shabby!
Today was great. Nothing really happened per se, but I did buy a hat. I know this seems small and trivial, but when you have as tiny a cranium as I do (Michael refers to it as my "pea head") it is difficult to buy hats. I tried some on at Sears today, and the overall effect was similar to a toddler putting a pot on his head: absolutely ridiculous looking, but kind of amusing. So as I trudged, defeated, from the mall I happened to peer into Laura Petite's and, because I'm one smart cookie, I thought hmmm, I bet small people also have small heads. And they do! I found a hat that fit, but the coup de grace is that the hat can be tightened (say when I'm feeling particularly stupid and empty-headed). Alternatively it can be loosened (say when my brain is swelling if and when I ever get to the medium level sudoku games).
And I felt particularly happy as I strolled down the walk way to the seabus and gazed out at the water and the train tracks and the heritage buildings of East Vancouver and was just again reminded of what an absolutely beautiful city we live in, and all the while a cute busker was strumming away and I gave him a smile and the rough and tumble construction worker that was walking in front of me stopped and gave him some change.
Today was great. Nothing really happened per se, but I did buy a hat. I know this seems small and trivial, but when you have as tiny a cranium as I do (Michael refers to it as my "pea head") it is difficult to buy hats. I tried some on at Sears today, and the overall effect was similar to a toddler putting a pot on his head: absolutely ridiculous looking, but kind of amusing. So as I trudged, defeated, from the mall I happened to peer into Laura Petite's and, because I'm one smart cookie, I thought hmmm, I bet small people also have small heads. And they do! I found a hat that fit, but the coup de grace is that the hat can be tightened (say when I'm feeling particularly stupid and empty-headed). Alternatively it can be loosened (say when my brain is swelling if and when I ever get to the medium level sudoku games).
And I felt particularly happy as I strolled down the walk way to the seabus and gazed out at the water and the train tracks and the heritage buildings of East Vancouver and was just again reminded of what an absolutely beautiful city we live in, and all the while a cute busker was strumming away and I gave him a smile and the rough and tumble construction worker that was walking in front of me stopped and gave him some change.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
You know what's fun to do at 6:30 on Sunday mornings?
Sleep! Sleep is what is fun to do at 6:30 on Sunday mornings. Scratch that: sleep is fun to do at 6:30 regardless of what day of the week it is! I don't even get up at 6:30 during the week. But we got up and we drove to the Nike Runners Lounge in Coal Harbour where I was introduced to a whole new level of pain. I think I've mentioned this before, but the running clinic that I have joined is fast... and the concept of "tens and ones" (run for ten minutes and walk for one) is foreign to them. We ran from Coal Harbour along the seawall, past Science World and almost to Granville Island, and then back again. Fast. Even though I had to slow down during the last couple of kilometres because I had, oh, say "overdone it", I still put in 20k in 1:40. Sundays are supposed to be LSD - long slow days - but I was keeping pace with Michael, the Ironman I had run with two weeks ago, and a woman that runs a 3:18 marathon. Like, why? No messing around with these guys.
Then Michael and I went for coffee at Bojangles (I love that place) and I was so beat and stiff that I had to make two attempts to get up out of my chair to leave. And we both limped a little on the way back to the car. And I got to pet a puppy! I love puppies: the way they wriggle around when they're so excited is funny. I was one wriggle and hand lick away from stealing him (or possibly her). I was absurdly struck by the puppy's innocence and overall friendliness to strangers. I mean, I know puppies are happy creatures and they'll love and piddle on whoever will feed and pat them, but its exuberance was unexpectedly refreshing and it made me smile.
I was amazed that we were back in North Van before noon. And not entirely surprised that I fell asleep on my couch shortly thereafter. Finished "The End of the Affair" and though I enjoyed the first three quarters of it, I think I will have to remove it from my "Books are for reading" list. Too many references to God and hating God and loving God and not believing in God and believing in God and making promises to God and wanting to break the promises made to God for my taste.
I would do risque things for a decent massage right about now.
Ibuprofen it is...
Then Michael and I went for coffee at Bojangles (I love that place) and I was so beat and stiff that I had to make two attempts to get up out of my chair to leave. And we both limped a little on the way back to the car. And I got to pet a puppy! I love puppies: the way they wriggle around when they're so excited is funny. I was one wriggle and hand lick away from stealing him (or possibly her). I was absurdly struck by the puppy's innocence and overall friendliness to strangers. I mean, I know puppies are happy creatures and they'll love and piddle on whoever will feed and pat them, but its exuberance was unexpectedly refreshing and it made me smile.
I was amazed that we were back in North Van before noon. And not entirely surprised that I fell asleep on my couch shortly thereafter. Finished "The End of the Affair" and though I enjoyed the first three quarters of it, I think I will have to remove it from my "Books are for reading" list. Too many references to God and hating God and loving God and not believing in God and believing in God and making promises to God and wanting to break the promises made to God for my taste.
I would do risque things for a decent massage right about now.
Ibuprofen it is...
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Bountiful
Michael is staying over again tonight, because we have to get up so early to get to Coal Harbour at 8am for tomorrow's run.
Grin.
Grin.
So sickly sweet, you might be sick
Michael stayed over last night. There was hand holding and some foot rubbing.
Because I had moved to the couch at 6am one morning due to his snoring a few weeks ago (he came out to get me within twenty minutes when he became cognisant of my absence) he informed me that I was to wake him up if he was snoring and he directed me not to make for the couch. So at around 7am this morning I had to use the lavatory and I quietly eased out of bed and as I was halfway across the bedroom this alarmed and forlorn voice cried out, "Sweetie! Where are you going?". I told him that I had to go pee and, still somewhat worried, he confirmed that I would be coming back after my trip to the washroom and that I was not abandoning him for the couch.
I am very happy today.
Because I had moved to the couch at 6am one morning due to his snoring a few weeks ago (he came out to get me within twenty minutes when he became cognisant of my absence) he informed me that I was to wake him up if he was snoring and he directed me not to make for the couch. So at around 7am this morning I had to use the lavatory and I quietly eased out of bed and as I was halfway across the bedroom this alarmed and forlorn voice cried out, "Sweetie! Where are you going?". I told him that I had to go pee and, still somewhat worried, he confirmed that I would be coming back after my trip to the washroom and that I was not abandoning him for the couch.
I am very happy today.
The thing that I am supposed to do
The main character of "The Razor's Edge" is named Larry and he said this: "It's strange how many people suffer from it. I don't mean fear of closed spaces and fear of heights, but fear of death and, what's worse, fear of life. Often they're people who seem in the best of health, prosperous, without any worry, and yet they're tortured by it."
So, harkening back to Thursday's blog about the way I seem to effortlessly court good luck, I believe the thing that I am supposed to do about it is to be grateful for it, enjoy it and share it with others.
If you come over right now I will give you a hug, and will share with you the chocolate covered almonds that I bought from a rather preposterous youth outside the liquor store last night.
So, harkening back to Thursday's blog about the way I seem to effortlessly court good luck, I believe the thing that I am supposed to do about it is to be grateful for it, enjoy it and share it with others.
If you come over right now I will give you a hug, and will share with you the chocolate covered almonds that I bought from a rather preposterous youth outside the liquor store last night.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Tomorrow's Friday
All day.
In other, less tortured news, Michael has promised to wear something low cut tomorrow night. Saucy.
In other, less tortured news, Michael has promised to wear something low cut tomorrow night. Saucy.
The end of the affair
Have you ever prayed to whatever god, whatever deities, whatever powers that you dimly suspected hovered in some spectral fashion just out of your reach, and made rash, passionate promises to them that if they would grant you but this one wish you would accomplish some ridiculous feat, resign yourself to some stringent binding contract if only, just only they would grant you your plea?
Isn't it fascinating how we tempt, cajole, bargain with and become complicit with Fate? Isn't it odd that whether we're religious, agnostic or atheist that at some point we are all driven to our knees and we find ourselves cringing and bargaining and trying vainly to change the hand that we were dealt?
I don't understand the hands that I have been dealt. I can't reconcile the number of feverishly whispered prayers of mine that have been answered. Why do some people wish for so much and not receive anything, when I deserve so much less and receive an abundance? But more importantly, what am I supposed to do with it?
Isn't it fascinating how we tempt, cajole, bargain with and become complicit with Fate? Isn't it odd that whether we're religious, agnostic or atheist that at some point we are all driven to our knees and we find ourselves cringing and bargaining and trying vainly to change the hand that we were dealt?
I don't understand the hands that I have been dealt. I can't reconcile the number of feverishly whispered prayers of mine that have been answered. Why do some people wish for so much and not receive anything, when I deserve so much less and receive an abundance? But more importantly, what am I supposed to do with it?
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Vulva
Had dinner with Po before heading over to N's for our second book club meeting (resplendent with two new members!). She said coyly, "So your blog has been quite enthusiastic lately". I think 'enthusiastic' was the word she used. Maybe she used 'shite'. I don't quite remember. I said, "Enthusiastic?". And she nodded and I said, "I guess I'm enthusiastic then". And I said it with vigor. She said she hadn't read it in a couple of days, so I don't think she got to the park where I felt the need to quit my job and do some soul searching in a foreign country for an indeterminate amount of time. It really does change daily with me...
Then we went to the book club and we discussed Joan Didion's "Play It As It Lays" and came to the agreement that no, it wasn't the most uplifting book ever written, and perhaps the characters weren't necessarily likable but... something. The book made me think, it was atypical of the books I normally read and I ended up reading it twice and I definitely looked forward to discussing it with my fellow book club mates. One of whom managed to get a Star Trek reference in there somehow. And then another person was leafing through our book club diary and said, "Why does it say vulva in here?". Why indeed? If you can't say vulva at your book club, then where the hell can you say it? A rating system for the books read was proposed and Skyhammer, our token male, discerned the book was worth two vulvas and a clitoris. Did I mention that we partake of wine at our book club meetings?
The next one is at my place. We will being reviewing "The Eyre Affair". When it was first proposed I thought it was "The Air Affair" and was quite intrigued, but then thought no, that can't be right. I reckoned it was more likely "The Heir Affair", a story about two spoiled siblings fighting over their deceased parents estate, but evidently that was wrong too.
Fielding a lot of questions about the relationship situation with Michael. Some grumblings about my overall vagueness regarding our current situation on my blog. I will admit this: we've reached the hand holding stage. Placated?
Ah.
Vulva!
Then we went to the book club and we discussed Joan Didion's "Play It As It Lays" and came to the agreement that no, it wasn't the most uplifting book ever written, and perhaps the characters weren't necessarily likable but... something. The book made me think, it was atypical of the books I normally read and I ended up reading it twice and I definitely looked forward to discussing it with my fellow book club mates. One of whom managed to get a Star Trek reference in there somehow. And then another person was leafing through our book club diary and said, "Why does it say vulva in here?". Why indeed? If you can't say vulva at your book club, then where the hell can you say it? A rating system for the books read was proposed and Skyhammer, our token male, discerned the book was worth two vulvas and a clitoris. Did I mention that we partake of wine at our book club meetings?
The next one is at my place. We will being reviewing "The Eyre Affair". When it was first proposed I thought it was "The Air Affair" and was quite intrigued, but then thought no, that can't be right. I reckoned it was more likely "The Heir Affair", a story about two spoiled siblings fighting over their deceased parents estate, but evidently that was wrong too.
Fielding a lot of questions about the relationship situation with Michael. Some grumblings about my overall vagueness regarding our current situation on my blog. I will admit this: we've reached the hand holding stage. Placated?
Ah.
Vulva!
Alternatively
Or India? Asia? Australia?
Ah, but it is all good. This is all part of the learning process.
To change the topic entirely and speak of the mundane: boot camp was fun last night. I really enjoyed being yelled at by fit, attractive men and made to do burpees (or however it's spelled). I refused to bunny hop up the bleacher stairs though. Mostly because I couldn't. I didn't realize that my range of hopping ability was so small.
Ah, but it is all good. This is all part of the learning process.
To change the topic entirely and speak of the mundane: boot camp was fun last night. I really enjoyed being yelled at by fit, attractive men and made to do burpees (or however it's spelled). I refused to bunny hop up the bleacher stairs though. Mostly because I couldn't. I didn't realize that my range of hopping ability was so small.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Awesome
Yeah. I don't want to do this anymore. It's getting harder and harder to keep sticking my head in the sand.
Anyone want to spend six months or a year backpacking Europe with me? I'm quite sure the meaning of life cannot be discerned through bookkeeping, though damn it's a lot of fun. Oh wait... no it's not.
Anyone want to spend six months or a year backpacking Europe with me? I'm quite sure the meaning of life cannot be discerned through bookkeeping, though damn it's a lot of fun. Oh wait... no it's not.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
The drive
I'll just start off by saying that I legitimately didn't have to run today because I did get my period for real, so I don't feel like such a wanker for missing the run, though I will try and make it up at some point this week. Even though my next four days are booked in the evenings. I laugh when I remember being concerned that I would be sitting around with my thumb up my ass once I moved over here. But we're not here to talk about my menstrual cycle, unless you really want to.
Checked in with Michael as I was en route to Abbotsford to see how the whole running in pajamas/pancake breakfast went. He said that he put on his pajamas over his running pants and then watched ten people pile into the store - none of whom were wearing pajamas - so he ducked into an alleyway and took off his pajamas and saved them for after the run. And then the post-run pancakes didn't go so well because the guy could only make a couple at a time and when you've got a store full of hungry runners... well, the chef was lucky he lived to talk about it.
An hour later I'm in Abbotsford. I haven't been in years, and when I had been it was to go to what my brother refers to as "Old Abbotsford". This would mean that my brother refers to the area in which he lives as "New Abbotsford". Are you with me so far? Okay. The place reminded me of Nanaimo. It was nice: every store, restaurant and coffee joint that you could want was no more
than a ten minute drive away. He lives in an upscale area with a lot of development going on up the hill and he says his neighbors are friendly. He's on a quarter of an acre and his house is, well, it's a house. He has tenants in the suite in the basement. He has a Hallowe'en ghost hanging in the living 
room. Quite evidently he bought this to celebrate Hallowe'en (it only cost fourteen dollars, he told me repeatedly), so I was somewhat perplexed as to why it was still hanging in his living room, replete 
with a Santa hat. Apparently he's named it, but I can't remember the name. And the goal is to decorate it for each holiday (Easter's next), but the caveat is that the prior season's decorations cannot be removed. So come Easter, his Hallowe'en ghost will be wearing a Santa hat and will likely be holding a basket of colored eggs. This is what happens when twenty-six year olds own houses.
The main bathroom had a wallpaper border around the ceiling showcasing panda bears. I just don't understand how that happens. I've
heard of fish and I've seen ducks (Jay's girlfriend Andrea explained the water connection), but I really don't get the whole panda/bathroom connection. I'm not opposed to it, and I like to keep an open mind and think that perhaps the interior decorator was just way ahead of his time and we'll have a lot of zoo-related bathroom motifs in the future. Perhaps I can incorporate aardvarks into my bathroom. You don't hear much about aardvarks these days.
His television is a 47", so it's bigger than mine, though it didn't look bigger given that his living room is pretty much the size of my entire apartment. Additionally, he has a fireplace and some pink carpeting in one of the bedrooms. Another room is his junk room. When you have a house you can have a junk room. I am maxed out with my single junk drawer and I frequently ask people to take their garbage home with them when they visit me.
It was a good visit. I returned some mats to the Home Depot there and we looked at a two person sauna, but decided against buying it. Then we drove through "Old Abbotsford" which I thought was quaint and I wouldn't mind investigating further some day. Had lunch nearby and I'm pretty sure Iggy Pop was at the table across from us. I stared at him a lot, and they eventually left. We went to this huge development up the road from him and they told us that they expect to build 64,000 houses in the next ten years to accommodate an additional million people or something and I coughed into my hand and said, "housing market crash says what?".
We said our goodbyes and I met up with T and L in Langley. I hadn't seen them for... well, for at least five months since T is five months pregnant. That freaked me out quite a bit. I know two pregnant people right now. I'm not childproofing my apartment! I feel old! Actually, I think the OIM was my "baby": months of preparation to prepare me for a few hours of unbearable agony, the pain of which has subsided from my memory and allowed me to, stupidly, embark on the whole process again. I even have the happy, post race photos to proudly show anyone that's interested.
It was great, as always, to see T and L. We all have such busy schedules and it's hard to connect sometimes, but I don't think any of us are going anywhere. And they both looked fantastic. Sometimes I'm amazed that we graduated together in '94 because, in my mind, they still look remarkably the same.
And now I'm home. A big day. A big, big day. Sleepy. Partially due to the extra-strength Ibuprofen.
I still like my condo. I think the only thing it's missing is some fucking ridiculous wallpaper in the bathroom. Big D was saying that he wanted a couple of objets d'art for his place that espoused a little whimsy or humour. I think aardvark wallpaper might just do it.
Checked in with Michael as I was en route to Abbotsford to see how the whole running in pajamas/pancake breakfast went. He said that he put on his pajamas over his running pants and then watched ten people pile into the store - none of whom were wearing pajamas - so he ducked into an alleyway and took off his pajamas and saved them for after the run. And then the post-run pancakes didn't go so well because the guy could only make a couple at a time and when you've got a store full of hungry runners... well, the chef was lucky he lived to talk about it.
An hour later I'm in Abbotsford. I haven't been in years, and when I had been it was to go to what my brother refers to as "Old Abbotsford". This would mean that my brother refers to the area in which he lives as "New Abbotsford". Are you with me so far? Okay. The place reminded me of Nanaimo. It was nice: every store, restaurant and coffee joint that you could want was no more
than a ten minute drive away. He lives in an upscale area with a lot of development going on up the hill and he says his neighbors are friendly. He's on a quarter of an acre and his house is, well, it's a house. He has tenants in the suite in the basement. He has a Hallowe'en ghost hanging in the living 
room. Quite evidently he bought this to celebrate Hallowe'en (it only cost fourteen dollars, he told me repeatedly), so I was somewhat perplexed as to why it was still hanging in his living room, replete 
with a Santa hat. Apparently he's named it, but I can't remember the name. And the goal is to decorate it for each holiday (Easter's next), but the caveat is that the prior season's decorations cannot be removed. So come Easter, his Hallowe'en ghost will be wearing a Santa hat and will likely be holding a basket of colored eggs. This is what happens when twenty-six year olds own houses.The main bathroom had a wallpaper border around the ceiling showcasing panda bears. I just don't understand how that happens. I've
heard of fish and I've seen ducks (Jay's girlfriend Andrea explained the water connection), but I really don't get the whole panda/bathroom connection. I'm not opposed to it, and I like to keep an open mind and think that perhaps the interior decorator was just way ahead of his time and we'll have a lot of zoo-related bathroom motifs in the future. Perhaps I can incorporate aardvarks into my bathroom. You don't hear much about aardvarks these days.His television is a 47", so it's bigger than mine, though it didn't look bigger given that his living room is pretty much the size of my entire apartment. Additionally, he has a fireplace and some pink carpeting in one of the bedrooms. Another room is his junk room. When you have a house you can have a junk room. I am maxed out with my single junk drawer and I frequently ask people to take their garbage home with them when they visit me.
It was a good visit. I returned some mats to the Home Depot there and we looked at a two person sauna, but decided against buying it. Then we drove through "Old Abbotsford" which I thought was quaint and I wouldn't mind investigating further some day. Had lunch nearby and I'm pretty sure Iggy Pop was at the table across from us. I stared at him a lot, and they eventually left. We went to this huge development up the road from him and they told us that they expect to build 64,000 houses in the next ten years to accommodate an additional million people or something and I coughed into my hand and said, "housing market crash says what?".
We said our goodbyes and I met up with T and L in Langley. I hadn't seen them for... well, for at least five months since T is five months pregnant. That freaked me out quite a bit. I know two pregnant people right now. I'm not childproofing my apartment! I feel old! Actually, I think the OIM was my "baby": months of preparation to prepare me for a few hours of unbearable agony, the pain of which has subsided from my memory and allowed me to, stupidly, embark on the whole process again. I even have the happy, post race photos to proudly show anyone that's interested.
It was great, as always, to see T and L. We all have such busy schedules and it's hard to connect sometimes, but I don't think any of us are going anywhere. And they both looked fantastic. Sometimes I'm amazed that we graduated together in '94 because, in my mind, they still look remarkably the same.
And now I'm home. A big day. A big, big day. Sleepy. Partially due to the extra-strength Ibuprofen.
I still like my condo. I think the only thing it's missing is some fucking ridiculous wallpaper in the bathroom. Big D was saying that he wanted a couple of objets d'art for his place that espoused a little whimsy or humour. I think aardvark wallpaper might just do it.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
I know where my brother lives
He lives 81 kilometres away. One way! That's 162 kilometres round trip. They better have some amazing fucking corn and some big fucking trucks in Abbotsford, that's all I have to say. I had better be blown away by the Abbotsfordians' fervent religious beliefs. I really hope they shun me and my immoral ways.
Told Michael that I wasn't doing the run tomorrow because I thought I was having my period, but now I'm not sure that I am. It's sort of like a pre-period or something. My body was like "hey! Let's shed some uterine lining" but then it just couldn't commit. It's a serious commitment, the period. You've got to be willing to be in it for the long haul. You need to buckle down for five, maybe six days.
Basically I could likely do the run tomorrow, but I don't want to. So I'm hoping my period re-starts in the next little while. Maybe I can trick it into coming by wearing white pants or contemplating having sex. I mean, I feel bloated enough, but that's mostly because I ate a lot today, and then Michael came over and brought chips and licorice allsorts. So now I'm bloated and hooped up on sugar.
I lent Michael "Blood Diamond" so he was going to return it to the Rogers and I was like, "since you're going there.... could you return the other two movies that I have?". I get away with murder with him. So he dropped them off as well, came back (with treats) and then oh look! we watched more "Curb Your Enthusiasm".
I love Michael. He's so much fun. He says I should try and write a "Curb Your Enthusiasm" episode. We totally had a moment at the door (not a "moment" moment, but a CYE moment, which is just as good). My friend L is coming over to see my place on Monday night and then we're going out for dinner. Michael and L like each other a lot and I knew he'd like to see her so I tried to give him the last bus ticket that I had thinking he could hop the bus from work and be here in ten minutes versus twenty on Monday, have a glass of wine with us, and then still use the ticket to get back home. The conversation went like this:
Duder: "Oh, hang on, I have something for you. L's coming over on Monday night and I thought you could drop by after work and visit with us before we go out for dinner."
Michael: "I don't want that. Don't give me that."
Duder: "No, take it, I have the bus pass now. Just take it and you can take the bus from work."
Michael: "I can just walk, it'll-"
Duder: "No, it's like twenty minutes and then you have to walk back, just take the ticket."
Michael: "But it's a two zone ticket. I can't take that. It's two zones. I'm not going two zones: I'll just pay the $2.25."
Duder: "But it doesn't matter - I'm not going to use it ever. It's worthless to me: I have the bus pass. Just take the ticket and you can use it to go two zones if you ever need to go two zones."
Michael: "I'm not taking the bus to go two zones. If I ever have to go two zones you're driving me."
Duder: "Not necessarily, I took the bus today. That was two zones. I don't always drive, sometimes the bus is the way to go."
Michael: "So where are we going for dinner?"
Duder: "No, we're not going for dinner: you are coming over for a drink and to visit with L and then she and I are going for dinner. We're going to talk about you."
Michael: "I can't come for dinner?"
Duder: "I didn't think you'd want to come for dinner. Do you want to come for dinner?"
Michael: "It depends on where you're going, where are you going?"
Duder: "We're going to go to One Twelve."
Michael: "Then I don't want to go - it looks to fancy, I spent too much on dinner this weekend."
Duder: "You've never been to One Twelve, how do you know it's fancy? Look, I owe you dinner so if you come on Monday it's my treat. You can have two beers."
Michael: "Okay, maybe I'll come."
Duder: "It's like I can't even give this bus ticket away. Why does no one want the ticket? It's a free ticket! Take the ticket..."
It's hilarious to no one but us. It's the shtick. I love the shtick. I like to engage in the shtick. The shtick is life.
Told Michael that I wasn't doing the run tomorrow because I thought I was having my period, but now I'm not sure that I am. It's sort of like a pre-period or something. My body was like "hey! Let's shed some uterine lining" but then it just couldn't commit. It's a serious commitment, the period. You've got to be willing to be in it for the long haul. You need to buckle down for five, maybe six days.
Basically I could likely do the run tomorrow, but I don't want to. So I'm hoping my period re-starts in the next little while. Maybe I can trick it into coming by wearing white pants or contemplating having sex. I mean, I feel bloated enough, but that's mostly because I ate a lot today, and then Michael came over and brought chips and licorice allsorts. So now I'm bloated and hooped up on sugar.
I lent Michael "Blood Diamond" so he was going to return it to the Rogers and I was like, "since you're going there.... could you return the other two movies that I have?". I get away with murder with him. So he dropped them off as well, came back (with treats) and then oh look! we watched more "Curb Your Enthusiasm".
I love Michael. He's so much fun. He says I should try and write a "Curb Your Enthusiasm" episode. We totally had a moment at the door (not a "moment" moment, but a CYE moment, which is just as good). My friend L is coming over to see my place on Monday night and then we're going out for dinner. Michael and L like each other a lot and I knew he'd like to see her so I tried to give him the last bus ticket that I had thinking he could hop the bus from work and be here in ten minutes versus twenty on Monday, have a glass of wine with us, and then still use the ticket to get back home. The conversation went like this:
Duder: "Oh, hang on, I have something for you. L's coming over on Monday night and I thought you could drop by after work and visit with us before we go out for dinner."
Michael: "I don't want that. Don't give me that."
Duder: "No, take it, I have the bus pass now. Just take it and you can take the bus from work."
Michael: "I can just walk, it'll-"
Duder: "No, it's like twenty minutes and then you have to walk back, just take the ticket."
Michael: "But it's a two zone ticket. I can't take that. It's two zones. I'm not going two zones: I'll just pay the $2.25."
Duder: "But it doesn't matter - I'm not going to use it ever. It's worthless to me: I have the bus pass. Just take the ticket and you can use it to go two zones if you ever need to go two zones."
Michael: "I'm not taking the bus to go two zones. If I ever have to go two zones you're driving me."
Duder: "Not necessarily, I took the bus today. That was two zones. I don't always drive, sometimes the bus is the way to go."
Michael: "So where are we going for dinner?"
Duder: "No, we're not going for dinner: you are coming over for a drink and to visit with L and then she and I are going for dinner. We're going to talk about you."
Michael: "I can't come for dinner?"
Duder: "I didn't think you'd want to come for dinner. Do you want to come for dinner?"
Michael: "It depends on where you're going, where are you going?"
Duder: "We're going to go to One Twelve."
Michael: "Then I don't want to go - it looks to fancy, I spent too much on dinner this weekend."
Duder: "You've never been to One Twelve, how do you know it's fancy? Look, I owe you dinner so if you come on Monday it's my treat. You can have two beers."
Michael: "Okay, maybe I'll come."
Duder: "It's like I can't even give this bus ticket away. Why does no one want the ticket? It's a free ticket! Take the ticket..."
It's hilarious to no one but us. It's the shtick. I love the shtick. I like to engage in the shtick. The shtick is life.
The adult store
I'm blogging from my couch. So comfortable!
Met with Big D at Granville Island today. I took the #50 from Waterfront Station to get there: how easy! I love my bus pass. I am a dork.
Anyways, we met at Net Loft and had a coffee before wandering around and taking in all Granville Island has to offer. It ended up being a pretty decent day and I was happy to be back at Granville Island since I haven't been for months. We went to the co-op where they sell all things wood and saw a beautiful cabinet made out of woods I had never heard of. It was selling for $5,000. I like nice things. One of the women there gave us a run down on it (perhaps we looked like a married, wealthy couple or something) and she opened it up so we could smell it. That's right, the damn thing even smelled nice. I smiled demurely and informed her that the majority of my furniture smelled of the sweat of the small children from various third world countries who had assembled it with their nimble little fingers.
We went over to the glass blowing place and I saw a couple of glass figurines that I really wanted. They were like Royal Doultons, but a bit different. Yeah, they were tiny, naked glass women with high heels brandishing whips. I stared at them for a while and yeah. So they were neat.
The best part of the trip though was the kids' market which Big D told me used to be called "Kids Only" or something, but had since changed names. We joked about what the current name might be and I threw out something like "Kids Only... but Adults Too" and then Big D laughed and said "Triple X". Wow. Total precursor of things to come. We go over there and spent way too much time playing with puppets and then in the last store on the way out I found something that I felt that I really should have. I'm not a hundred percent sure what it was, but I really think that a shipment destined for the Love Nest got waylaid. It was a big finger, perhaps twice the width of a normal finger and a bit longer, and you are supposed to put batteries in it. I announced that I would definitely like to take one home, and that I was quite sure they were not meant for children. I then found another toy that had a very familiar texture to it. I stood there with it in the palm of my hand as I gently massaged and squeezed it, and then it dawned on me what it reminded me of and before you could say "Holy scrotum, Batman!" I was thinking that I should take one of them home with me too. When Big D regained his composure he tried to convince me that two little girls for whom he had to buy presents (oh yeah, that was why we went there in the first place - but now I know you can also go there for sex toys, which is probably the reason it's no longer called "Kids Only") would greatly appreciate a scaled down mop and broom combo. Then he named all the characters from Thomas the Train or whatever, and got into a fight with a small child, which was quite random and unexpected.
Caught the #50 back to Waterfront Station, saw there was 1:20 left until departure and proved that yes, even though the disembarking seabus passengers have made it almost to the main part of the station, you can run fast enough and leap onto the seabus under the amused gaze of Translink employees and fellow transit riders alike.
Chowdah.
Met with Big D at Granville Island today. I took the #50 from Waterfront Station to get there: how easy! I love my bus pass. I am a dork.
Anyways, we met at Net Loft and had a coffee before wandering around and taking in all Granville Island has to offer. It ended up being a pretty decent day and I was happy to be back at Granville Island since I haven't been for months. We went to the co-op where they sell all things wood and saw a beautiful cabinet made out of woods I had never heard of. It was selling for $5,000. I like nice things. One of the women there gave us a run down on it (perhaps we looked like a married, wealthy couple or something) and she opened it up so we could smell it. That's right, the damn thing even smelled nice. I smiled demurely and informed her that the majority of my furniture smelled of the sweat of the small children from various third world countries who had assembled it with their nimble little fingers.
We went over to the glass blowing place and I saw a couple of glass figurines that I really wanted. They were like Royal Doultons, but a bit different. Yeah, they were tiny, naked glass women with high heels brandishing whips. I stared at them for a while and yeah. So they were neat.
The best part of the trip though was the kids' market which Big D told me used to be called "Kids Only" or something, but had since changed names. We joked about what the current name might be and I threw out something like "Kids Only... but Adults Too" and then Big D laughed and said "Triple X". Wow. Total precursor of things to come. We go over there and spent way too much time playing with puppets and then in the last store on the way out I found something that I felt that I really should have. I'm not a hundred percent sure what it was, but I really think that a shipment destined for the Love Nest got waylaid. It was a big finger, perhaps twice the width of a normal finger and a bit longer, and you are supposed to put batteries in it. I announced that I would definitely like to take one home, and that I was quite sure they were not meant for children. I then found another toy that had a very familiar texture to it. I stood there with it in the palm of my hand as I gently massaged and squeezed it, and then it dawned on me what it reminded me of and before you could say "Holy scrotum, Batman!" I was thinking that I should take one of them home with me too. When Big D regained his composure he tried to convince me that two little girls for whom he had to buy presents (oh yeah, that was why we went there in the first place - but now I know you can also go there for sex toys, which is probably the reason it's no longer called "Kids Only") would greatly appreciate a scaled down mop and broom combo. Then he named all the characters from Thomas the Train or whatever, and got into a fight with a small child, which was quite random and unexpected.
Caught the #50 back to Waterfront Station, saw there was 1:20 left until departure and proved that yes, even though the disembarking seabus passengers have made it almost to the main part of the station, you can run fast enough and leap onto the seabus under the amused gaze of Translink employees and fellow transit riders alike.
Chowdah.
Look ma: no wires!
I think I need to start taking iron pills again because even though I went to bed at ten last night and had a relatively good sleep, I was yawning and drooling all over my keyboard at work today. What the hell? Totally had planned on a pilates or yoga session after work, but ended up napping. Napping is nice. I'm old.
Got up around 6:45 and hit the shower to try and make myself look purdy for Michael who called me around 7:45... from work. I was like, "Yeah... why are you still at work?". And then I got a bit dejected because of past issues regarding Michael's work interfering with oh, say, our six year anniversary. And then several things occurred to me: a) wow, it must really SUCK to have a job like Michael's, and the last thing that he needs at 7:45 on a Friday night when he's still at work is more stress; b) I understand his work and his life and I accept it and in doing so I realize that certain dates will have to be postponed and that we will have to leave early from the occasional social function; and c) he still wanted to get together so I could be in a snit about it, or we could go out - however briefly - and try and make the best of it. The best of it, it was.
I dropped my car off at his work, met up with him and we tried to figure out where to go. He was hankering for Burgoo, but since we'd already been there once before I really wanted to try Raglans. He thought it was too young and trendy so I said, "Let's just walk by and see what's going on.". We walked by Burgoo first and yeah, that's the place to go if, on a Friday night, you are an attractive woman who is wearing a blouse which is tucked into her slacks even though she's a size four and is only twenty-eight. But she has the diamond earrings to pull the whole thing off. Fun. I think everyone in the place was whispering. We walk up to Raglans. Yay hippies! Yay plaid shirts because they're warm, not because of some Seattle grunge fashion affliction! Happy pitchers of beer, the hockey game, good music and frazzled, funky waitresses. Michael even had two beers: it was awesome. Our table kept on slipping and shifting every time we so much as looked at it, I peed in the men's washroom (I think) because the other one was labelled "Ho's" and I just really wasn't feeling it, and I totally felt the same way I did that time I showed up at the Whip in East Van resplendent in full Kerrisdale gear. But it was good. It was cheap, the food was good, I liked the music and the clientele and the overall feel of the place and I will most definitely go back.
So then I thought surely Michael needed to be dropped off at home to do some more work remotely but he said, "I thought that maybe you would invite me back to your place for a decaf coffee". What? Okay. So he came over and fixed my wireless internet connection in five minutes like I knew he could! Awesome. I had attempted to set it up earlier and ran into "technical difficulties" which I had convinced myself could be rectified by dropping my laptop off the balcony of my 10th floor apartment, and Michael wanted to know "what was your network name? I want it to be something funny. Was it something funny?" and I scraped through the dim doldrums of my mind to recall what I named it and then I said, "it's 'chowdah'" and he was like, "that's awesome". Chowdah. Boston Clam Chowder. Mayor Quimby. It works on so many levels. When I contributed food at our running clinic's food drive I donated a couple of cans of chowdah. It's nice when someone gets these moronic little references. Then we had cookies and watched "Curb Your Enthusiasm" like we always do.
It was fun. It was more fun than I expected it to be. I like fun. I like Michael. And I like you.
Got up around 6:45 and hit the shower to try and make myself look purdy for Michael who called me around 7:45... from work. I was like, "Yeah... why are you still at work?". And then I got a bit dejected because of past issues regarding Michael's work interfering with oh, say, our six year anniversary. And then several things occurred to me: a) wow, it must really SUCK to have a job like Michael's, and the last thing that he needs at 7:45 on a Friday night when he's still at work is more stress; b) I understand his work and his life and I accept it and in doing so I realize that certain dates will have to be postponed and that we will have to leave early from the occasional social function; and c) he still wanted to get together so I could be in a snit about it, or we could go out - however briefly - and try and make the best of it. The best of it, it was.
I dropped my car off at his work, met up with him and we tried to figure out where to go. He was hankering for Burgoo, but since we'd already been there once before I really wanted to try Raglans. He thought it was too young and trendy so I said, "Let's just walk by and see what's going on.". We walked by Burgoo first and yeah, that's the place to go if, on a Friday night, you are an attractive woman who is wearing a blouse which is tucked into her slacks even though she's a size four and is only twenty-eight. But she has the diamond earrings to pull the whole thing off. Fun. I think everyone in the place was whispering. We walk up to Raglans. Yay hippies! Yay plaid shirts because they're warm, not because of some Seattle grunge fashion affliction! Happy pitchers of beer, the hockey game, good music and frazzled, funky waitresses. Michael even had two beers: it was awesome. Our table kept on slipping and shifting every time we so much as looked at it, I peed in the men's washroom (I think) because the other one was labelled "Ho's" and I just really wasn't feeling it, and I totally felt the same way I did that time I showed up at the Whip in East Van resplendent in full Kerrisdale gear. But it was good. It was cheap, the food was good, I liked the music and the clientele and the overall feel of the place and I will most definitely go back.
So then I thought surely Michael needed to be dropped off at home to do some more work remotely but he said, "I thought that maybe you would invite me back to your place for a decaf coffee". What? Okay. So he came over and fixed my wireless internet connection in five minutes like I knew he could! Awesome. I had attempted to set it up earlier and ran into "technical difficulties" which I had convinced myself could be rectified by dropping my laptop off the balcony of my 10th floor apartment, and Michael wanted to know "what was your network name? I want it to be something funny. Was it something funny?" and I scraped through the dim doldrums of my mind to recall what I named it and then I said, "it's 'chowdah'" and he was like, "that's awesome". Chowdah. Boston Clam Chowder. Mayor Quimby. It works on so many levels. When I contributed food at our running clinic's food drive I donated a couple of cans of chowdah. It's nice when someone gets these moronic little references. Then we had cookies and watched "Curb Your Enthusiasm" like we always do.
It was fun. It was more fun than I expected it to be. I like fun. I like Michael. And I like you.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Abbotsford
My brother invited me out to visit him in Abbotsford over the weekend. I have yet to see his new house which he moved into in October. Abbotsford. I think that's in Saskatchewan. All I know is that it's really goddamn far. Nevertheless, I shall make the journey out there this Sunday to see Abbotsford and all that it has to offer. I think that all it offers is corn, trucks and bible-thumpers, but I could be wrong.
In other news, I read that twins that had been separated at birth (a girl and a boy) ended up getting married later in life (a story out of England). That's super-terrific. How many showers would you have to have to get over that one. How would you introduce your brother or sister on a go forward? "Um, this is my sister and ex-wife Sarah".
That's pretty much all I got. Oh, except that I went for a run in the shoes that made me bleed last year (you'll recall I visited Michael afterwards and he cleaned my shoes for me, because that's what really good friends do: clean blood up) and they made me bleed again. They're Sauconys, they weren't cheap and I will break them in. I bested my Asics, and I can work these bad boys in too.
So I guess I'll bring my bloodied shoes along when I go out with Michael tonight. What the hell is he doing this weekend? I have to go to Abbotsford!
In other news, I read that twins that had been separated at birth (a girl and a boy) ended up getting married later in life (a story out of England). That's super-terrific. How many showers would you have to have to get over that one. How would you introduce your brother or sister on a go forward? "Um, this is my sister and ex-wife Sarah".
That's pretty much all I got. Oh, except that I went for a run in the shoes that made me bleed last year (you'll recall I visited Michael afterwards and he cleaned my shoes for me, because that's what really good friends do: clean blood up) and they made me bleed again. They're Sauconys, they weren't cheap and I will break them in. I bested my Asics, and I can work these bad boys in too.
So I guess I'll bring my bloodied shoes along when I go out with Michael tonight. What the hell is he doing this weekend? I have to go to Abbotsford!
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Great
Ran hills last night. Hit the gym tonight. Checked my clinic's website and we have "10k time trials" tomorrow night. I'm guessing that means we have to run 10k and get timed.
At least Michael and I aren't competitive and we won't kill ourselves trying to beat each other tomorrow night. Oh wait, that's only the scenario in a parallel universe.
I have a pretty good feeling that I'm going to be walking very slowly on Friday morning.
Go-go gadget hamstrings!
At least Michael and I aren't competitive and we won't kill ourselves trying to beat each other tomorrow night. Oh wait, that's only the scenario in a parallel universe.
I have a pretty good feeling that I'm going to be walking very slowly on Friday morning.
Go-go gadget hamstrings!
The pot is boiling
I've just shrugged on my jacket and donned my jaunty cap and my office phone rings. No one ever calls me at work. I answer it and lo and behold it is E, my mortgage broker. The receptionist at her office tipped her off that I had called yesterday to get the name and address of her husband's boss. I told her that I was just heading out out the door, that I didn't have time to chat because I would miss my bus. She said she just wanted to know what I was angry about. I replied curtly that I had a sent a letter to her, her boss/husband, and her boss/husband's boss and that letter laid out rather explicitly the issues that I had with her. Oh, but she felt that she deserved to know why I had sent the letter. I asked her to hold on, slammed the phone into the cradle and explained, "Fuck" to my perplexed boss. Marched down the hallway of my office, undoing my jacket, pulling off my hat and went into a private boardroom to speak with her. Here are some excerpts of my conversation with her:
E: "But why did you not call me to tell me about any of this? I would've have wanted to know."
Duder: "It's really not about what you want. I need the people that you report to to understand how difficult it was to deal with you on November 14th and 15th."
E: "Can I ask you a question? Why did you wait two months to take any action?"
Duder: "Well, E, it took me two months for the anger to subside."
I absolutely let her have it. I was firing on all cylinders. And yelling a bit, as I was able to deduce when I passed one of my coworkers who had been in a nearby boardroom and he shrank against the wall. I asked, "Why did you not return any of my numerous phone calls on November 14th when you knew that the closing date was the following day?". No good answer, profuse apologies. "Would you describe your behaviour over November 14th and 15th as professional?". No, she would not (followed by more apologies). I explained that the deal had been about to slide into default and that I had accepted my mother's offer to cash in her GICs to make the closing deadline and she said to me, "I had no idea that any of that had happened". I yelled, "What the hell did you think was going to happen when November 15th came and my notary still hadn't received the paperwork that you had promised that we would have on TWO separate occasions?". It was un-fucking believable. At some point it occured to me that she might be some kind of masochist, because nothing else could conceivably explain why she would call me and expect anything but utter anger. To end it, because it was just going around in circles and I didn't want to miss my subsequent bus, I asked if there was anything else that I could help her with. She seemed to want my forgiveness, which I gave, but I came away with the feeling that it was more upsetting to her that I was mad than the fact that I viewed her (and still do view her) as totally unprofessional and borderline incompetent.
The flip side? I have closure. I have street cred for doing what I said I would do. I had a really invigorating workout. And L emailed me today and said she wants to take a trip, so we might be going somewhere at the end of the month. That would be fun!
Okay. Deep breaths. It's time for dinner.
I just need to come up with a happy thought first. Mmmm... happy. Uh. In an attempt to be friendly I made small talk with three different people when I was riding the elevator at various times today.
I seem to spend a lot of time on elevators.
E: "But why did you not call me to tell me about any of this? I would've have wanted to know."
Duder: "It's really not about what you want. I need the people that you report to to understand how difficult it was to deal with you on November 14th and 15th."
E: "Can I ask you a question? Why did you wait two months to take any action?"
Duder: "Well, E, it took me two months for the anger to subside."
I absolutely let her have it. I was firing on all cylinders. And yelling a bit, as I was able to deduce when I passed one of my coworkers who had been in a nearby boardroom and he shrank against the wall. I asked, "Why did you not return any of my numerous phone calls on November 14th when you knew that the closing date was the following day?". No good answer, profuse apologies. "Would you describe your behaviour over November 14th and 15th as professional?". No, she would not (followed by more apologies). I explained that the deal had been about to slide into default and that I had accepted my mother's offer to cash in her GICs to make the closing deadline and she said to me, "I had no idea that any of that had happened". I yelled, "What the hell did you think was going to happen when November 15th came and my notary still hadn't received the paperwork that you had promised that we would have on TWO separate occasions?". It was un-fucking believable. At some point it occured to me that she might be some kind of masochist, because nothing else could conceivably explain why she would call me and expect anything but utter anger. To end it, because it was just going around in circles and I didn't want to miss my subsequent bus, I asked if there was anything else that I could help her with. She seemed to want my forgiveness, which I gave, but I came away with the feeling that it was more upsetting to her that I was mad than the fact that I viewed her (and still do view her) as totally unprofessional and borderline incompetent.
The flip side? I have closure. I have street cred for doing what I said I would do. I had a really invigorating workout. And L emailed me today and said she wants to take a trip, so we might be going somewhere at the end of the month. That would be fun!
Okay. Deep breaths. It's time for dinner.
I just need to come up with a happy thought first. Mmmm... happy. Uh. In an attempt to be friendly I made small talk with three different people when I was riding the elevator at various times today.
I seem to spend a lot of time on elevators.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Stirring the pot
Oh. That made me kind of hungry.
Wrote my much delayed and eagerly anticipated "angry letter" to my mortgage broker today. I called her office because I wanted to send a copy to her boss as well and the receptionist gave me the boss's name which oddly had the same name as my mortgage broker. I said, "Is her boss her husband?" and the answer was yes so I said, "Huh. Can I have his boss's name?". We'll see how it goes. I was trying to determine what they could do or say to assuage my insurmountable rage and I'm just not sure. Obviously a letter of apology, but then what? Money, I guess. Give me financial compensation!
I don't want to go for a run today. Do I ever want to go for a run? Why do I run?
Enough of my trivial matters: how are you? I miss you! It's been so long since we chatted. Tell me about what's going on in your world. Are you happy? I hope you are and I hope your new year has gotten off to a brilliant start. Drop me a line. I love you!
Wrote my much delayed and eagerly anticipated "angry letter" to my mortgage broker today. I called her office because I wanted to send a copy to her boss as well and the receptionist gave me the boss's name which oddly had the same name as my mortgage broker. I said, "Is her boss her husband?" and the answer was yes so I said, "Huh. Can I have his boss's name?". We'll see how it goes. I was trying to determine what they could do or say to assuage my insurmountable rage and I'm just not sure. Obviously a letter of apology, but then what? Money, I guess. Give me financial compensation!
I don't want to go for a run today. Do I ever want to go for a run? Why do I run?
Enough of my trivial matters: how are you? I miss you! It's been so long since we chatted. Tell me about what's going on in your world. Are you happy? I hope you are and I hope your new year has gotten off to a brilliant start. Drop me a line. I love you!
Monday, January 7, 2008
Awwwww, yeah...
I've been here for a couple of months now, and haven't yet had the pleasure of soaking in my tub. Around 9pm I was a little cold, a little sore (okay, okay, my legs were almost immovable thanks to the 19k of pain I endured yesterday) and so I thought hey, let's check out that tub. I have fond memories of my tub in Kerrisdale. I used it often, relaxing, listening to music, flipping through my Vanity Fair, talking to friends on the phone (those who didn't care that I was naked, that is). I didn't think another tub could compare. How wrong I was. This is a soaker tub. It is deep and I don't have to use a goddamn hot water bottle as a pillow because the back of the tub is on an angle - a perfect angle - that perfectly supports my languid, lazy recline. Oh, and it has armrests so you can prop your elbows up while reading Minette Walters' latest book showcasing yet another ballsy and straightforward heroine. Also there is ample corner space for, oh, wine. And I had KCSM cranked just so the swinging jazz would permeate the bathroom door as I pondered why, oh why, did it take me two months to figure this out.
Sweet. Love it. Love it.
Have a quasi-date with Michael on Friday night. I emailed him and said that I needed to return a couple of items to Home Depot, and did he want to come and grab a late dinner in West Van at this pub that we had gone to once and enjoyed? He said it sounded like fun. I'm am such a sultry seductress! Who else would use Home Depot in their proposal? Who else would create such a wiley ruse! I'm very wicked.
And sleepy.
We shall talk anon.
Sweet. Love it. Love it.
Have a quasi-date with Michael on Friday night. I emailed him and said that I needed to return a couple of items to Home Depot, and did he want to come and grab a late dinner in West Van at this pub that we had gone to once and enjoyed? He said it sounded like fun. I'm am such a sultry seductress! Who else would use Home Depot in their proposal? Who else would create such a wiley ruse! I'm very wicked.
And sleepy.
We shall talk anon.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
One more for the road
I hate leaving things on such a bad note. It's like letting the sun set on a fight, so let me speak of something more trivial.
I watched "Breakfast on Pluto" last night. It was the most rambling, pointless and enraging piece of shit that I'd seen in some time. Utter kife. Just really trivial bullshit.
And I totally had that nap for an hour and half this afternoon. It's the first time that I've fallen asleep on my couch methinks, so it was quite the inaugural bash. It would've gone longer but I had to pee.
I did try and sleep on it Friday morning at 6am when Michael was snoring like it was going out of style, but he noticed my absence and came padding out to get me twenty minutes later.
Aren't you glad you tuned in?
I watched "Breakfast on Pluto" last night. It was the most rambling, pointless and enraging piece of shit that I'd seen in some time. Utter kife. Just really trivial bullshit.
And I totally had that nap for an hour and half this afternoon. It's the first time that I've fallen asleep on my couch methinks, so it was quite the inaugural bash. It would've gone longer but I had to pee.
I did try and sleep on it Friday morning at 6am when Michael was snoring like it was going out of style, but he noticed my absence and came padding out to get me twenty minutes later.
Aren't you glad you tuned in?
Blood diamonds are a girl's best friend
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