I'm never getting home tonight. Why did I become an accountant again? Oh right, I was rebuffed when I tried to get a job at Hooters.
Sigh.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
Tremendous
I just did a quick check to see who is linking to this blog, and one of the sites is for people searching for "Fuck Buddies in Abbotsford". I must say that I was pretty curious about that so I went to the site and, because I use the word "fucking" (as in there had better be a lot of "fucking" corn and some big "fucking" trucks) a couple of times in my blog about going to visit my brother in "Abbotsford", I ended up as a link on this site.
And now, since I have used "fucking" and "Abbotsford" a few more times, I'm sure my site will move up the ranks, to be viewed by corn growing monster truck drivers residing in Abby.
Hi, boys!
Say no to Monsanto!
And now, since I have used "fucking" and "Abbotsford" a few more times, I'm sure my site will move up the ranks, to be viewed by corn growing monster truck drivers residing in Abby.
Hi, boys!
Say no to Monsanto!
Clearly I'm still not done.
Conversed with the robot liberator as to who gets what and why, and the answer is: good looking people. Good looking people become successful because they're good looking and society values them more. Then they seek other good looking people to surround themselves with, marry and breed with.
My mother is trying to find an apartment in Kits and she said the one that she viewed today was lined up into the lobby just for a viewing and that everyone was good looking and no one was going to select her as a tenant. It's true. I don't know what to tell her and she knows this to be the case, so what more remains to be said?
Though, if you're rich, you don't have to be good looking, I suppose. So the pecking order is: the wealthy; followed by the good looking; followed by the rest of us. That's why it's hard to get a date: because I don't have enough money and I'm odd looking.
Anyways. I'm not actually lamenting (I swear - I'm actually in a good mood). I had a funny experience today at work, going through the HR run down with a new employee visiting from our Toronto office. She's (in my opinion) quite ridiculously good looking. When I was running to catch the seabus I passed her and her boss: he was holding an umbrella for her so she didn't get wet. In the past I have held my umbrella out so that my male coworkers didn't get wet. No one is laying their jacket over a puddle for me to step on as I climb out of a cab. Could be because of my penchant for Clarks versus stilettos. During our meeting I could actually sense her scrutinizing me and I bet after two glasses of wine she'd confess that if I just dolled myself up a bit I could pass muster.
My point is this: I love all the people that I know that get this and just sort of let it roll off with some bemused smile. It's pointless to rail against it, so it's best just to find the humor in it. You know, I think I've had too much Neo Citran.
And this isn't to say that everyone wants to date the really good looking people. I don't. I like people that are interesting and make me laugh and I've pointed out my various ideals of attractiveness to some friends and they've looked at me quizically.
So the theory would hold, then, that I might be the ideal for certain people and so when you find these people, that you find attractive (physically and otherwise) and they find you attractive also, you should advise them against lasik eye surgery.
Or else keep playing the lottery.
My mother is trying to find an apartment in Kits and she said the one that she viewed today was lined up into the lobby just for a viewing and that everyone was good looking and no one was going to select her as a tenant. It's true. I don't know what to tell her and she knows this to be the case, so what more remains to be said?
Though, if you're rich, you don't have to be good looking, I suppose. So the pecking order is: the wealthy; followed by the good looking; followed by the rest of us. That's why it's hard to get a date: because I don't have enough money and I'm odd looking.
Anyways. I'm not actually lamenting (I swear - I'm actually in a good mood). I had a funny experience today at work, going through the HR run down with a new employee visiting from our Toronto office. She's (in my opinion) quite ridiculously good looking. When I was running to catch the seabus I passed her and her boss: he was holding an umbrella for her so she didn't get wet. In the past I have held my umbrella out so that my male coworkers didn't get wet. No one is laying their jacket over a puddle for me to step on as I climb out of a cab. Could be because of my penchant for Clarks versus stilettos. During our meeting I could actually sense her scrutinizing me and I bet after two glasses of wine she'd confess that if I just dolled myself up a bit I could pass muster.
My point is this: I love all the people that I know that get this and just sort of let it roll off with some bemused smile. It's pointless to rail against it, so it's best just to find the humor in it. You know, I think I've had too much Neo Citran.
And this isn't to say that everyone wants to date the really good looking people. I don't. I like people that are interesting and make me laugh and I've pointed out my various ideals of attractiveness to some friends and they've looked at me quizically.
So the theory would hold, then, that I might be the ideal for certain people and so when you find these people, that you find attractive (physically and otherwise) and they find you attractive also, you should advise them against lasik eye surgery.
Or else keep playing the lottery.
The flip side, of course...
... is that we're all entitled. We all are worthy and we all deserve the best. But if you look at it from that angle the question becomes: given that we all can't have what we want (constraints, scarcity, unreciprocated desire, etc.), who gets what and why?
Okay. I'm stopping now.
Okay. I'm stopping now.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Entitlement/What are we worth?
I've been thinking a lot this weekend about what we are worth, what we are worthy of, what we are deserved of, what we are entitled to. It stemmed from a conversation that I had with a couple of friends on Friday night and I've been mulling it ever since (hey, if there are two things I'm good at, it's drinking Zinfandel and mulling).
Having dated a few men in 2007 I was surprised to hear that some people (men and women) assume that the man should pick up the cheque on the first date. I've never believed this because: a) it makes me feel uncomfortable and as though I "owe" something; b) it vaguely insinuates that I am worth less financially and that the man is the breadwinner so he should pay; and c) it's pompous to expect someone else to foot the bill for simply being in my presence for a brief period of time. Additionally, it doesn't make sense economically: how many first dates would a guy have to pay for before finding someone he wanted to have a serious relationship with? It seems an expensive venture.
So, if we are not entitled to having our meals and drinks bought and paid for, then what? Should car doors be opened for you? Should he send flowers on anniversary dates? Should he spend three months of his salary to buy you a nice ring? Is the ring an indication of how much he loves you?
I tried to look at it from another angle: work. You are only worth what your employer pays you. If you think you are worth $100,000 but are getting paid $75,000, then you are worth $75,000 until you go out and get another job for another sum of money. I think this rationale can also be applied to our personalities. I think I am a totally awesome person and that everyone should fall over themselves to be with me. I know, too, that my friends and family would say "yeah... but she's loud, obnoxious, opinionated, egotistical, crude, elitist and stubborn". I'm quite sure we all walk around thinking we're the most fantastic person you've never met, and that's just it: we all think that about ourselves. It doesn't matter what you think about yourself because you will only ever be what society deems you to be. As I runner I think I'm in great shape. And the women in the walking clinic probably think I have a great body and perhaps they aspire to it. But the women that are in the faster group than me likely think I should cut out carbs, hit the gym more often and lose ten pounds.
I suppose this is ego. And I further suppose that my ego is rampant and, for the most part, relatively unchecked. I need to work on my ego. Leggo my ego. What's so great about me? Nothing. What do I have to offer that others don't? Nothing. You are only valuable if someone else sees something of value in you.
A couple of months ago Michael and I went for dinner with a group of runners from our clinic. One of the guys there had brought his wife (not a runner) along. I like this guy, D: he's had some amazing life experiences; has a great sense of humor; is attractive; successful; positive and balanced. I found it interesting that he wanted to know the details of Michael and my relationship (we had only recently been "outed" at that point). I explained that Michael and I had been together for six years, split for one, and that we had recently gotten back together. He was surprisingly positive, which I found refreshing given the amount of scepticism I had encountered from other people. He made a comment about being able to learn from the past and grow from it and to look to the future. He then said something that kind of blew my mind. D basically said that the relationship with his wife was somewhat tenuous (they have a couple of kids): she was aware that he wasn't a given in her life - he had the option of leaving when he wanted. He didn't say this in a conceited way, and his love for his wife and children was evident, and it took me a while to process this: he was no more beholden to his wife and that lifestyle than she was to him.
I'm not sure that I'm entirely comfortable with that thought process. In fact, I know I'm not. I want things to be secure, concrete. I want safety and security and longevity. I don't have it. I have a relationship that I work very hard at and that I appreciate immensely. I love Michael tremendously and try to do my best to demonstrate it whenever I can and to appreciate all that he is (more Citrix Power Point tonight, naturally). But he owes me nothing and I owe him nothing. There is nothing stopping him for asking that hot girl with the long blonde hair and tight Lululemon workout gear walking her dog past us yesterday afternoon for her number. Alternatively, there is no reason that he had to buy me dinner tonight, or walk me home or offer to cash out his GICs this past November when my fucknut mortgage broker couldn't get her act together.
I guess what I'm trying to say, in a very, very long winded way, is that none of us are entitled to anything. I had this epiphany today when driving to Park Royal in the rain to return an expensive purse that I had bought that I didn't feel I was worthy of. We were born. That's what we were entitled to. And if you were born healthy, and into a loving and positive environment, then the rest is on you. Anything good or positive above and beyond that that happened to us is either a result of dumb luck or very hard work and we should be appropriately grateful for that, because there are millions of people that were born into incredibly dire situations, or people that have had strokes of very bad luck.
No one owes anyone anything. We do things because we're motivated to (for whatever reason: love; lust; power; money; greed; guilt; a sense of well-being). We're all here, doing the same damn thing, thinking that we're deserved of more.
You want more? Go out and get it.
Having dated a few men in 2007 I was surprised to hear that some people (men and women) assume that the man should pick up the cheque on the first date. I've never believed this because: a) it makes me feel uncomfortable and as though I "owe" something; b) it vaguely insinuates that I am worth less financially and that the man is the breadwinner so he should pay; and c) it's pompous to expect someone else to foot the bill for simply being in my presence for a brief period of time. Additionally, it doesn't make sense economically: how many first dates would a guy have to pay for before finding someone he wanted to have a serious relationship with? It seems an expensive venture.
So, if we are not entitled to having our meals and drinks bought and paid for, then what? Should car doors be opened for you? Should he send flowers on anniversary dates? Should he spend three months of his salary to buy you a nice ring? Is the ring an indication of how much he loves you?
I tried to look at it from another angle: work. You are only worth what your employer pays you. If you think you are worth $100,000 but are getting paid $75,000, then you are worth $75,000 until you go out and get another job for another sum of money. I think this rationale can also be applied to our personalities. I think I am a totally awesome person and that everyone should fall over themselves to be with me. I know, too, that my friends and family would say "yeah... but she's loud, obnoxious, opinionated, egotistical, crude, elitist and stubborn". I'm quite sure we all walk around thinking we're the most fantastic person you've never met, and that's just it: we all think that about ourselves. It doesn't matter what you think about yourself because you will only ever be what society deems you to be. As I runner I think I'm in great shape. And the women in the walking clinic probably think I have a great body and perhaps they aspire to it. But the women that are in the faster group than me likely think I should cut out carbs, hit the gym more often and lose ten pounds.
I suppose this is ego. And I further suppose that my ego is rampant and, for the most part, relatively unchecked. I need to work on my ego. Leggo my ego. What's so great about me? Nothing. What do I have to offer that others don't? Nothing. You are only valuable if someone else sees something of value in you.
A couple of months ago Michael and I went for dinner with a group of runners from our clinic. One of the guys there had brought his wife (not a runner) along. I like this guy, D: he's had some amazing life experiences; has a great sense of humor; is attractive; successful; positive and balanced. I found it interesting that he wanted to know the details of Michael and my relationship (we had only recently been "outed" at that point). I explained that Michael and I had been together for six years, split for one, and that we had recently gotten back together. He was surprisingly positive, which I found refreshing given the amount of scepticism I had encountered from other people. He made a comment about being able to learn from the past and grow from it and to look to the future. He then said something that kind of blew my mind. D basically said that the relationship with his wife was somewhat tenuous (they have a couple of kids): she was aware that he wasn't a given in her life - he had the option of leaving when he wanted. He didn't say this in a conceited way, and his love for his wife and children was evident, and it took me a while to process this: he was no more beholden to his wife and that lifestyle than she was to him.
I'm not sure that I'm entirely comfortable with that thought process. In fact, I know I'm not. I want things to be secure, concrete. I want safety and security and longevity. I don't have it. I have a relationship that I work very hard at and that I appreciate immensely. I love Michael tremendously and try to do my best to demonstrate it whenever I can and to appreciate all that he is (more Citrix Power Point tonight, naturally). But he owes me nothing and I owe him nothing. There is nothing stopping him for asking that hot girl with the long blonde hair and tight Lululemon workout gear walking her dog past us yesterday afternoon for her number. Alternatively, there is no reason that he had to buy me dinner tonight, or walk me home or offer to cash out his GICs this past November when my fucknut mortgage broker couldn't get her act together.
I guess what I'm trying to say, in a very, very long winded way, is that none of us are entitled to anything. I had this epiphany today when driving to Park Royal in the rain to return an expensive purse that I had bought that I didn't feel I was worthy of. We were born. That's what we were entitled to. And if you were born healthy, and into a loving and positive environment, then the rest is on you. Anything good or positive above and beyond that that happened to us is either a result of dumb luck or very hard work and we should be appropriately grateful for that, because there are millions of people that were born into incredibly dire situations, or people that have had strokes of very bad luck.
No one owes anyone anything. We do things because we're motivated to (for whatever reason: love; lust; power; money; greed; guilt; a sense of well-being). We're all here, doing the same damn thing, thinking that we're deserved of more.
You want more? Go out and get it.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
I actually did throw up in my mouth a little
If you do the crime, you gotta do the time. I had promised Michael a run today, so run we did. We ran about twelve miles at an 8:15 per mile pace. After I had my gel at forty five minutes I threw up in my mouth a little. That out of the way I had a really strong six miles back home. Michael was like, "You have to run a marathon in a week" and yes, I agree that last night's binge wasn't exactly productive, but as I said to him, "Hey, if I can run twelve miles with a head cold and a hangover, imagine how good I'll feel on race day!".
Then we went for coffee and then we compared our abs in the mirror in the lobby for like, two minutes. It was great. We both pulled up our shirts and flexed our obliques and our six packs. Okay, I don't have a six pack, but I still look pretty damn good. Michael does have a six pack. I guess I could work on it a bit more but, as evidenced last night, I prefer to do other, more fun things.
I have a headache, but I do recommend California's Gnarly Head Zinfandel.
Then we went for coffee and then we compared our abs in the mirror in the lobby for like, two minutes. It was great. We both pulled up our shirts and flexed our obliques and our six packs. Okay, I don't have a six pack, but I still look pretty damn good. Michael does have a six pack. I guess I could work on it a bit more but, as evidenced last night, I prefer to do other, more fun things.
I have a headache, but I do recommend California's Gnarly Head Zinfandel.
I love wine too much
So ended up cabbing it home from downtown. I had never done that before: much nicer than the seabus, but it cost more than $3.25.
I wanted to ask my cabby what he thought the meaning of life was. I mean, of all people a cabby should know, right?
It's 4:15am and the lights are on at my nemesis's place across the way - in the living room and bedroom no less. What the hell is he doing? It's 4:15am!
I'm going back to bed now.
I wanted to ask my cabby what he thought the meaning of life was. I mean, of all people a cabby should know, right?
It's 4:15am and the lights are on at my nemesis's place across the way - in the living room and bedroom no less. What the hell is he doing? It's 4:15am!
I'm going back to bed now.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
"Knocked Up"?
Sorry. Not that funny. The beard jokes were good, but they were offset by the fact that they flashed to the baby's head emerging from the vagina. You can tell me the funniest joke in the world, but then flash to that and I don't feel like laughing anymore.
People ask me why I'm not having kids. There are a lot of reasons. I'm selfish. I think the world is getting worse, not better. I'm selfish. I don't really have an affinity for the small folk. I like my life and don't want it to change (to be read: I'm selfish). A baby for me means less wine for me (selfish). But predominately? Yeah, it was the film we saw of a birth in Grade 9. I took one look at that and said, "Um, no. So, that's not ever going to happen."
That's pretty much it. Oh, except I picked up "Atlas Shrugged" which is my suggestion for the next book club meeting, and it's like a thousand pages long in small print. It looked smaller the last time I saw it...
People ask me why I'm not having kids. There are a lot of reasons. I'm selfish. I think the world is getting worse, not better. I'm selfish. I don't really have an affinity for the small folk. I like my life and don't want it to change (to be read: I'm selfish). A baby for me means less wine for me (selfish). But predominately? Yeah, it was the film we saw of a birth in Grade 9. I took one look at that and said, "Um, no. So, that's not ever going to happen."
That's pretty much it. Oh, except I picked up "Atlas Shrugged" which is my suggestion for the next book club meeting, and it's like a thousand pages long in small print. It looked smaller the last time I saw it...
I forgot to put on socks today
Welcome to audit time.
And? Several men (okay, three) smiled at me and/or checked me out this morning.
What can I say? I have sexy ankles.
Michael gave me a foot rub last night (and I didn't have to put out PowerPoint style to get it). In looking at my blistered, ragged feet with a toenail on the verge of falling off, he recommended that I not wear open toed shoes this summer.
And? Several men (okay, three) smiled at me and/or checked me out this morning.
What can I say? I have sexy ankles.
Michael gave me a foot rub last night (and I didn't have to put out PowerPoint style to get it). In looking at my blistered, ragged feet with a toenail on the verge of falling off, he recommended that I not wear open toed shoes this summer.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
You complete me
I just finished watching "Jerry Maguire" and man were their cell phones and laptops old school. Then I looked it up and it's from 1996. It took me twelve years to get around to seeing this movie. No wonder I never seem to make any headway on my to-do list.
As I'm studying Tom Cruise's character I am have a feeling of familiarity: who does this person remind me of? I call Michael and here is a rough synopsis of our conversation:
Michael (in an oddly low voice): "Hello?"
Duder: "Why are you answering the phone like that?"
Michael: "Why are you telling me how to answer the phone? I can answer the phone any way I want."
Duder (mimicking Michael and speaking in a low voice): "Hello? I have a big penis and a Corvette.
I just called to say that I finished watching 'Jerry Maguire'."
Michael: "And?"
Duder: "And you're Jerry Maguire."
Michael: "What do you mean?"
Duder, quoting Jerry Maguire from the movie: "'I'm good with friendship but bad with intimacy'. That's you."
Michael: "And who are you?"
Duder: "I'm Rod Tidwell."
Michael: "Which one is that?"
Duder: "Cuba Gooding Junior."
Michael, laughing: "Yeah right. The girl I met years ago wanted to throw things out of cars at people that she didn't think looked right. You're Cuba Gooding Junior..."
Duder: "Yeah, I still want to do that. I'm Rod Tidwell in that I'm more vocal about my love for you. I still hate people. But I love you."
Michael... still laughing: "You're the girl who made fun of the fat guy on the scooter with the tiny helmet, and now you're telling me that you're all 'I love everything, the flowers are so beautiful'."
Duder: "No, no. I don't love everything: I just love you."
Then we digressed to what route we're going to run on Saturday (because the run on Sunday isn't long enough, so we're going to run the day before as well) and we decided on the route that would make our feet bleed the most with the hopes of severe nipple chaffing. Well, that's my hope for Michael at any rate. We go to sign off.
Michael, mumbling a little: "Night. Love you."
Duder, laughing: "Love you too."
As I'm studying Tom Cruise's character I am have a feeling of familiarity: who does this person remind me of? I call Michael and here is a rough synopsis of our conversation:
Michael (in an oddly low voice): "Hello?"
Duder: "Why are you answering the phone like that?"
Michael: "Why are you telling me how to answer the phone? I can answer the phone any way I want."
Duder (mimicking Michael and speaking in a low voice): "Hello? I have a big penis and a Corvette.
I just called to say that I finished watching 'Jerry Maguire'."
Michael: "And?"
Duder: "And you're Jerry Maguire."
Michael: "What do you mean?"
Duder, quoting Jerry Maguire from the movie: "'I'm good with friendship but bad with intimacy'. That's you."
Michael: "And who are you?"
Duder: "I'm Rod Tidwell."
Michael: "Which one is that?"
Duder: "Cuba Gooding Junior."
Michael, laughing: "Yeah right. The girl I met years ago wanted to throw things out of cars at people that she didn't think looked right. You're Cuba Gooding Junior..."
Duder: "Yeah, I still want to do that. I'm Rod Tidwell in that I'm more vocal about my love for you. I still hate people. But I love you."
Michael... still laughing: "You're the girl who made fun of the fat guy on the scooter with the tiny helmet, and now you're telling me that you're all 'I love everything, the flowers are so beautiful'."
Duder: "No, no. I don't love everything: I just love you."
Then we digressed to what route we're going to run on Saturday (because the run on Sunday isn't long enough, so we're going to run the day before as well) and we decided on the route that would make our feet bleed the most with the hopes of severe nipple chaffing. Well, that's my hope for Michael at any rate. We go to sign off.
Michael, mumbling a little: "Night. Love you."
Duder, laughing: "Love you too."
Monday, April 21, 2008
Notes on daily life
My new dentist and hygienist do not tell me to floss my teeth. It's about goddamn time. I didn't do it when I was eight, nor when I was twenty six, so why would I start at thirty one? And also? Because I have perfect teeth and haven't had any cavities, I suppose the rational response I could give if my dentist wanted to insist that I floss would be "Why?". Not flossing has been working really well for me for the past three decades.
When I was in the washroom at the dentist's office (availing myself of the mouthwash that they set out for apathetic people like me who can't even be bothered to brush their teeth before their appointment) I spent a lot of time looking at the picture displayed there. It really, really sucked and it got me to thinking about how this print ended up in the washroom of a dentist office in North Van. It was just really bad. It had no redeeming qualities and didn't make any sense (and it wasn't abstract). The more I stared at it, the worse it appeared and the more perplexed I became. I ended up being in the washroom a lot longer than I had anticipated. The colors were bad, the subject matter was confusing (two large pots from which sprung odd looking ferns), I wasn't sure what I was supposed to focus on and I had a lot of questions. And I also think the artist's depth perception was off. So why was this print put into production? And, moreover, why did someone buy it? At least they had the good sense to hang it in the john, but still. If you really don't have a clue then just buy a Matisse print or a Monet or something. Monet is great in doctors' offices. And it was really large, this picture, like four feet by three feet. The more I think about this, the more I think I would like Po to come with me to see it, because it's a spectacle and it's concerning me. Obviously.
Okay. So lastly I would just like to say how funny it is to see a cop car going down Lonsdale. It was doing the speed limit, maybe five kilometres over and you could see all the cars behind it keeping their exact distance, unable to bring themselves to pass the cruiser. It was like a slow, anxious, ill-attended motorcade.
I am now going to watch "Jerry McGuire" because I've never seen it.
Rock on.
When I was in the washroom at the dentist's office (availing myself of the mouthwash that they set out for apathetic people like me who can't even be bothered to brush their teeth before their appointment) I spent a lot of time looking at the picture displayed there. It really, really sucked and it got me to thinking about how this print ended up in the washroom of a dentist office in North Van. It was just really bad. It had no redeeming qualities and didn't make any sense (and it wasn't abstract). The more I stared at it, the worse it appeared and the more perplexed I became. I ended up being in the washroom a lot longer than I had anticipated. The colors were bad, the subject matter was confusing (two large pots from which sprung odd looking ferns), I wasn't sure what I was supposed to focus on and I had a lot of questions. And I also think the artist's depth perception was off. So why was this print put into production? And, moreover, why did someone buy it? At least they had the good sense to hang it in the john, but still. If you really don't have a clue then just buy a Matisse print or a Monet or something. Monet is great in doctors' offices. And it was really large, this picture, like four feet by three feet. The more I think about this, the more I think I would like Po to come with me to see it, because it's a spectacle and it's concerning me. Obviously.
Okay. So lastly I would just like to say how funny it is to see a cop car going down Lonsdale. It was doing the speed limit, maybe five kilometres over and you could see all the cars behind it keeping their exact distance, unable to bring themselves to pass the cruiser. It was like a slow, anxious, ill-attended motorcade.
I am now going to watch "Jerry McGuire" because I've never seen it.
Rock on.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
I think I have a tapeworm
Seriously. I've been starving all day and we only ran 11 miles. It makes no sense, I tell ya.
So, uh, this girl ran with the fast group today. I'm so stoked. They kept on looking back at me, waiting for me to fall back into my old group, but I would not relent! Michael was hurting because he did two hours of hills yesterday, so he wasn't exactly racing. I calculated that, after our one mile warm up, I ran a sub 8 minute mile for the remaining ten miles, so I ran 16 kilometres in an 1:17 hours. Not too shabby! A guy from my regular group caught up with us (he tends to break away towards the end of the run) and he asked me what it was like running with the fast group. I said it was alright. He said, "Are they funny?" and I said, "Not as funny as our group" and we both laughed. Our group leader sporadically bursts into (Broadway) songs: he's awesome.
Visited with Big D at Granville Island. Great to see all the people with their Sun Run shirts downtown! It was such a positive experience the few times I did it: it's what got me into running in the first place.
Came home. Um, napped and was rudely interrupted by C who felt the need to text me and tell me how much fun he had watching the UFC match in... Montreal.
Then Michael came over. Hubba hubba. He is looking good. Yeah. So. Uh huh. Boom chicka wah wah. He also brought with him... guess? Whipping cream? Flowers? Lingerie? Chocolate? No! He brought a PowerPoint presentation which I reviewed with him after we... yeah. He has to give a presentation at a user conference in Phoenix in a week. Poor guy. He's like me as far as public speaking goes: I hate it. Hate. It. He and I had coffee with another guy after the run today and I could feel my face getting red after I spoke for more than 30 seconds. It's weird. I can rant and rave to my friends like it's going out of style, but if I have to speak for a prolonged period of time to someone I don't know too well I end up with my foot in my mouth.
But basically? I think he came over and seduced me so I would critique his presentation. I just wanted to have a cigarette and go back to bed, but no, I had to review a presentation about the application upgrade to a Citrix environment.
It was so worth it.
And? Citrix sounds kind of like a citrus juice with lots of antioxidants added to it.
I'm just saying.
I'm in a good mood.
So, uh, this girl ran with the fast group today. I'm so stoked. They kept on looking back at me, waiting for me to fall back into my old group, but I would not relent! Michael was hurting because he did two hours of hills yesterday, so he wasn't exactly racing. I calculated that, after our one mile warm up, I ran a sub 8 minute mile for the remaining ten miles, so I ran 16 kilometres in an 1:17 hours. Not too shabby! A guy from my regular group caught up with us (he tends to break away towards the end of the run) and he asked me what it was like running with the fast group. I said it was alright. He said, "Are they funny?" and I said, "Not as funny as our group" and we both laughed. Our group leader sporadically bursts into (Broadway) songs: he's awesome.
Visited with Big D at Granville Island. Great to see all the people with their Sun Run shirts downtown! It was such a positive experience the few times I did it: it's what got me into running in the first place.
Came home. Um, napped and was rudely interrupted by C who felt the need to text me and tell me how much fun he had watching the UFC match in... Montreal.
Then Michael came over. Hubba hubba. He is looking good. Yeah. So. Uh huh. Boom chicka wah wah. He also brought with him... guess? Whipping cream? Flowers? Lingerie? Chocolate? No! He brought a PowerPoint presentation which I reviewed with him after we... yeah. He has to give a presentation at a user conference in Phoenix in a week. Poor guy. He's like me as far as public speaking goes: I hate it. Hate. It. He and I had coffee with another guy after the run today and I could feel my face getting red after I spoke for more than 30 seconds. It's weird. I can rant and rave to my friends like it's going out of style, but if I have to speak for a prolonged period of time to someone I don't know too well I end up with my foot in my mouth.
But basically? I think he came over and seduced me so I would critique his presentation. I just wanted to have a cigarette and go back to bed, but no, I had to review a presentation about the application upgrade to a Citrix environment.
It was so worth it.
And? Citrix sounds kind of like a citrus juice with lots of antioxidants added to it.
I'm just saying.
I'm in a good mood.
The sun + running
What a great day for the Sun Run. When I went to bed last night the forecast was calling for possible flurries. I woke up at 6am this morning because the sun was beating into my bedroom. It's gorgeous out, just gorgeous. I hope all 50,000 Sun Run participants have a great morning.
Our running clinic is doing 11 miles this morning because we're tapering. Only two weeks until the marathon - gasp! We've been so lucky with the weather on our Sunday runs and I hope the trend 
continues on race day.
continues on race day.Man. I just can't get over what a beautiful morning it is and how lucky am I to be here to enjoy it.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Stinging Nettles - Part III (fiction)
The weekend passed. Daniel came away from his time at Sunrise feeling as he always did: glad that he put in the effort which was pretty minimal on his part, though he knew it was likely the highlight of the week for the residents that he took out; frustrated when a couple of them mentioned that it had been ages since their kids had paid them a visit (he tried to tell himself that perhaps their children had in fact visited, but that maybe the visits had been forgotten as a result of Alzheimer's or dementia); sad about some of the indignities that are endured by the elderly at the end of their lives; and happy and appreciative of his own life.
On Saturday night he met up with some friends to see a movie, and afterwards they went to a nearby pub for drinks. Some friends of his friends were there and he ultimately ended up at a larger table of people, three of whom he hadn't met before. One was a young woman who had clearly had too much to drink and had taken a shine to him. Her name was Kate.
"So what do you do?" she asked him for the second time in an hour.
"I'm a veterinarian," he answered. Studying her face to see if she would remember that she had already asked him this question and that he had already answered it.
"Oh my god!" she exalted. "So do you ever have to euthanize any of the animals?"
Daniel felt another pair of eyes on him and looked slightly to his left to see his friend, Scott, encouraging him with arched eyebrows. Daniel felt compelled to roll his eyes to indicate that yes, while Kate was a vision of loveliness and was all but spilling out of her low cut top, she really didn't warrant the age old "you're in" eyebrow waggle, but he did not because lying about his job to an inebriated girl was one thing, but performing an eye roll under her purview was definitely another.
"No, I don't euthanize them myself: my assistant does it-" he began.
"I saw this thing on t.v. the other day about this dog - I think it was a golden retriever - that was hit by a car. Anyways, his legs were so badly mangled that they had to amputate them so they rigged him up with, like, this kind of trolley thing. Like a little wagon, do you know what I mean?" she implored.
He nodded.
"Anyways, it was really kind of amazing. Like, how the animals adapt and everything," she finished.
He nodded again and decided he wanted to go home.
She leaned towards him and said in a low voice, as though conspiring with him, "Sometimes I prefer animals to humans, if you get my drift".
He nodded a third time and his eyes wandered over her face, so close to his. She was quite attractive, with flawless, slightly tanned (and slightly flushed) skin. Her long blond hair was tucked neatly behind her ears. She was slim and exuded the kind of healthy vibe that he often noticed with people that spent their summers skim boarding at the beach and snowboarding throughout the winter. And her breasts were quite prominently on display.
He knew, too, that this wasn't who she was. He was quite sure that over coffee at 2pm in the afternoon she would be a lovely individual with whom to chat and that she was likely significantly more articulate than she was at the present moment. And he saw in her (or projected on to her) the loneliness that comes - sometimes overwhelmingly - that drives people to perform intimate acts with strangers, to welcome the unknown into their apartments, their bedrooms.
He fast forwarded through all the paces. He would lean towards her, display attentive and interested body language, pay her a couple of compliments, suggest that they leave this place and go grab a coffee, he would tell her that she was beautiful and that he knew it was sudden but would she like to come home with him and she would coyly agree, as though she had ensnared him in some way. They would sleep together and it would be adequate and then in the morning she would be ashamed and maybe wouldn't remember his name and one or both of them might try and validate the prior night's events by telling the other that they would like to see the other again for coffee and, after some more awkwardness and explanations like "I'm sorry, I don't normally drink that much" and reassurances that the prior night's behaviour was in no way a reflection of their personality, they would exchange a chaste kiss (cause how could they not, given the various places they had placed their urgent mouths the night before) and would go their separate ways.
And perhaps on another night he might engage in this age old dance, but it wouldn't be tonight. He looked at Kate and he felt a strange sort of protectiveness towards her. If he didn't go home with her, she would very easily find someone else. That someone else might not be as nice or thoughtful, and either way she would likely regret her actions in the morning.
He suggested to Kate that they leave and go for a coffee.
She readily agreed.
On Saturday night he met up with some friends to see a movie, and afterwards they went to a nearby pub for drinks. Some friends of his friends were there and he ultimately ended up at a larger table of people, three of whom he hadn't met before. One was a young woman who had clearly had too much to drink and had taken a shine to him. Her name was Kate.
"So what do you do?" she asked him for the second time in an hour.
"I'm a veterinarian," he answered. Studying her face to see if she would remember that she had already asked him this question and that he had already answered it.
"Oh my god!" she exalted. "So do you ever have to euthanize any of the animals?"
Daniel felt another pair of eyes on him and looked slightly to his left to see his friend, Scott, encouraging him with arched eyebrows. Daniel felt compelled to roll his eyes to indicate that yes, while Kate was a vision of loveliness and was all but spilling out of her low cut top, she really didn't warrant the age old "you're in" eyebrow waggle, but he did not because lying about his job to an inebriated girl was one thing, but performing an eye roll under her purview was definitely another.
"No, I don't euthanize them myself: my assistant does it-" he began.
"I saw this thing on t.v. the other day about this dog - I think it was a golden retriever - that was hit by a car. Anyways, his legs were so badly mangled that they had to amputate them so they rigged him up with, like, this kind of trolley thing. Like a little wagon, do you know what I mean?" she implored.
He nodded.
"Anyways, it was really kind of amazing. Like, how the animals adapt and everything," she finished.
He nodded again and decided he wanted to go home.
She leaned towards him and said in a low voice, as though conspiring with him, "Sometimes I prefer animals to humans, if you get my drift".
He nodded a third time and his eyes wandered over her face, so close to his. She was quite attractive, with flawless, slightly tanned (and slightly flushed) skin. Her long blond hair was tucked neatly behind her ears. She was slim and exuded the kind of healthy vibe that he often noticed with people that spent their summers skim boarding at the beach and snowboarding throughout the winter. And her breasts were quite prominently on display.
He knew, too, that this wasn't who she was. He was quite sure that over coffee at 2pm in the afternoon she would be a lovely individual with whom to chat and that she was likely significantly more articulate than she was at the present moment. And he saw in her (or projected on to her) the loneliness that comes - sometimes overwhelmingly - that drives people to perform intimate acts with strangers, to welcome the unknown into their apartments, their bedrooms.
He fast forwarded through all the paces. He would lean towards her, display attentive and interested body language, pay her a couple of compliments, suggest that they leave this place and go grab a coffee, he would tell her that she was beautiful and that he knew it was sudden but would she like to come home with him and she would coyly agree, as though she had ensnared him in some way. They would sleep together and it would be adequate and then in the morning she would be ashamed and maybe wouldn't remember his name and one or both of them might try and validate the prior night's events by telling the other that they would like to see the other again for coffee and, after some more awkwardness and explanations like "I'm sorry, I don't normally drink that much" and reassurances that the prior night's behaviour was in no way a reflection of their personality, they would exchange a chaste kiss (cause how could they not, given the various places they had placed their urgent mouths the night before) and would go their separate ways.
And perhaps on another night he might engage in this age old dance, but it wouldn't be tonight. He looked at Kate and he felt a strange sort of protectiveness towards her. If he didn't go home with her, she would very easily find someone else. That someone else might not be as nice or thoughtful, and either way she would likely regret her actions in the morning.
He suggested to Kate that they leave and go for a coffee.
She readily agreed.
I went
And now I am back.
Oh, I forgot to tell you some odd things that happened to me.
Yesterday, when I was heading over to Moose's for farewell drinks with a coworker a homeless guy asked me for change. I have given this fellow a lot of change over the past couple of years: he usually hangs around outside the Tim Horton's at Pacific Centre. He typically says, "God bless you" when I give him something. Anyways, I bumped into him near the pub and he simply would not take no for answer and he became rather aggressive. And then he said to me, "Maybe God will rebuke you one day". Yes, I guess that's a possibility, and I may have to take that into consideration.
Later, at the pub, one of the tech team said that it was unfortunate that I wasn't having children, because they would be very good looking. I was on my second or third glass of wine and I stared at her dumbly: how did she know what my children would look like? And more importantly, what was she talking about? Then she explained that she thought that I was very pretty, hence the kids would be good looking. Ah. So I was incredibly flattered, and am also happy that my company hires people who are visually impaired.
When I got on the elevator today there was this really cute little kid that demanded to know my name so I told him. He was very chatty. He had a piece of paper and a pen and pretended to spell out my name (which adults can't even do correctly) letter by letter while also pretending to write it down. All the letters that he called out as he transcribed my name sounded like a mixture between "m" and "r" (neither of which are actually in my name). And when I glanced at his pad it looked like it was covered in the musings of a 106 year old man who was trying to write with his left hand while on a trampoline.
Then he told me his name. I think it's spelled with an "m"... maybe an "r"....
Oh, I forgot to tell you some odd things that happened to me.
Yesterday, when I was heading over to Moose's for farewell drinks with a coworker a homeless guy asked me for change. I have given this fellow a lot of change over the past couple of years: he usually hangs around outside the Tim Horton's at Pacific Centre. He typically says, "God bless you" when I give him something. Anyways, I bumped into him near the pub and he simply would not take no for answer and he became rather aggressive. And then he said to me, "Maybe God will rebuke you one day". Yes, I guess that's a possibility, and I may have to take that into consideration.
Later, at the pub, one of the tech team said that it was unfortunate that I wasn't having children, because they would be very good looking. I was on my second or third glass of wine and I stared at her dumbly: how did she know what my children would look like? And more importantly, what was she talking about? Then she explained that she thought that I was very pretty, hence the kids would be good looking. Ah. So I was incredibly flattered, and am also happy that my company hires people who are visually impaired.
When I got on the elevator today there was this really cute little kid that demanded to know my name so I told him. He was very chatty. He had a piece of paper and a pen and pretended to spell out my name (which adults can't even do correctly) letter by letter while also pretending to write it down. All the letters that he called out as he transcribed my name sounded like a mixture between "m" and "r" (neither of which are actually in my name). And when I glanced at his pad it looked like it was covered in the musings of a 106 year old man who was trying to write with his left hand while on a trampoline.
Then he told me his name. I think it's spelled with an "m"... maybe an "r"....
The gym
I promised myself I would go to the gym today. I don't want to go to the gym today. But I will go. And probably fall asleep on the bench between bench presses.
Had an interesting sequence of dreams about an ex-boyfriend last night. It's really intriguing how one's mind works through problems in the dead of night. What's also intriguing is why the fuck my upstairs neighbour decided to start vacuuming at 8:45 this morning. Bastard.
The snow on the mountains is purdy.
Had an interesting sequence of dreams about an ex-boyfriend last night. It's really intriguing how one's mind works through problems in the dead of night. What's also intriguing is why the fuck my upstairs neighbour decided to start vacuuming at 8:45 this morning. Bastard.
The snow on the mountains is purdy.
Friday, April 18, 2008
The snow is pretty
Cause yeah, it's snowing. WTF? The robot liberator texted me that it sucked. I don't know that it sucks, because it's dark and it's snowing so it's kind of romantic. A perfect evening to rent a movie, curl up with a glass of zinfandel, maybe wear those french cut panties for later on.
Right. Who am I kidding: it sucks. Sitting here, with a glass of wine and a Cadbury Thins, listening to Bowie's "Young Americans". Fucking A. I'm not even wearing underwear. I do what I want. Look at me go.
Here's the closest I've come to "being intimate" in the last month (possibly six weeks, but who's counting?):
-my boss's husband kissed me
-a coworker brushed his leg against mine in the elevator... twice
-I hugged another coworker twice, and I'm sure the second time was against his will
-I got a high five from a fellow runner yesterday
Alright. I'm done.
Maybe tomorrow will be the day.
I'll live to shave my legs another day.
God I hate shaving my legs.
Right. Who am I kidding: it sucks. Sitting here, with a glass of wine and a Cadbury Thins, listening to Bowie's "Young Americans". Fucking A. I'm not even wearing underwear. I do what I want. Look at me go.
Here's the closest I've come to "being intimate" in the last month (possibly six weeks, but who's counting?):
-my boss's husband kissed me
-a coworker brushed his leg against mine in the elevator... twice
-I hugged another coworker twice, and I'm sure the second time was against his will
-I got a high five from a fellow runner yesterday
Alright. I'm done.
Maybe tomorrow will be the day.
I'll live to shave my legs another day.
God I hate shaving my legs.
Things you can eat
Had lunch with a coworker today. The topic was fundamentalist organizations to which he ascribed PETA. I made the mistake of later looking up PETA on Wikipedia, and let me just advise you now: if you don't have to look it up, don't. I was nauseous for about an hour afterwards (but yes, I do believe PETA is too hardcore given that the president said that even if animal testing led to a cure for AIDS she would still be against it).
The conversation that prefaced the PETA conversation was about edible animals. There are a few things I try and avoid: lamb; veal; crab; and lobster. I just think it's cruel. I also paid through the nose and bought free range chicken eggs the other day. It turns out my coworker will eat anything. This is our email exchange later in the day:
A: The hatemail alone is worth a trip to this site.
http://www.mtd.com/tasty/
Duder: I can’t read the PETA wiki page. I’m feeling nauseous. They may be fundamentalist and I don’t agree with what the president said (she would still be against animal testing even if it produced a cure for aids), but oh my god, some of it is just simple cruelty. Horrible. Horrible.
A: The scary thing is that the meatpacking industry isn’t much better. A lot of industries are cruel to maximize profit and that issue definitely needs addressing. PETA are so extreme that they shoot themselves in the foot. Fundamentalists of all stripes are completely mental.
Duder: If I get you a Shetland pony for your birthday, will you eat it?
A: Yeah, but I’d ride it first.
The conversation that prefaced the PETA conversation was about edible animals. There are a few things I try and avoid: lamb; veal; crab; and lobster. I just think it's cruel. I also paid through the nose and bought free range chicken eggs the other day. It turns out my coworker will eat anything. This is our email exchange later in the day:
A: The hatemail alone is worth a trip to this site.
http://www.mtd.com/tasty/
Duder: I can’t read the PETA wiki page. I’m feeling nauseous. They may be fundamentalist and I don’t agree with what the president said (she would still be against animal testing even if it produced a cure for aids), but oh my god, some of it is just simple cruelty. Horrible. Horrible.
A: The scary thing is that the meatpacking industry isn’t much better. A lot of industries are cruel to maximize profit and that issue definitely needs addressing. PETA are so extreme that they shoot themselves in the foot. Fundamentalists of all stripes are completely mental.
Duder: If I get you a Shetland pony for your birthday, will you eat it?
A: Yeah, but I’d ride it first.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Drinking makes you run faster
Almost didn't go to the clinic. Seriously. I ate too much at lunch and had two drinks. I got home and really wanted to go to bed, but instead I did five one mile repeats. We were supposed to go at our marathon race pace, which for me would be around 8.15 or 8.20 miles. Yeah. I was coming in at 7.30. I have no idea. It was awesome. I love when stuff like that happens. I'm very curious to see how I fare on race day.
In other news, it was my boss's last day today, so it was sad. She got me some gifts. Now I'm sitting here, relaxing in my swank pad and enjoying the vanilla incense she got me. But it's not over. We're all meeting for drinks after work tomorrow and it's going to be a debacle. If you see me stumbling around downtown tomorrow night, please be kind enough to guide me in the general direction of the seabus. My boss recommended that I hydrate well all day tomorrow. Of all the things any of my bosses have ever told me, that's a new one.
In other news, it was my boss's last day today, so it was sad. She got me some gifts. Now I'm sitting here, relaxing in my swank pad and enjoying the vanilla incense she got me. But it's not over. We're all meeting for drinks after work tomorrow and it's going to be a debacle. If you see me stumbling around downtown tomorrow night, please be kind enough to guide me in the general direction of the seabus. My boss recommended that I hydrate well all day tomorrow. Of all the things any of my bosses have ever told me, that's a new one.
Wheeee!
Don't drink at lunch. Today's two hour lunch was fun. I had an Oatmeal Stout and a glass of Viognier. I am now drinking coffee and trying to remember how I act when I've not got two drinks in me. So... more neurotic.
I have mile repeats tonight at 6.30.
Oh. What have I done?
I have mile repeats tonight at 6.30.
Oh. What have I done?
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Oh! Oh! One more thing...
It's actually really tiring being as neurotic as me. Having the same thoughts cycling ceaselessly in your mind? Waking up at all hours of the night? Anxiety attacks? Constantly judging myself and deeming that I've fallen short of some high in the sky objective yet again? Really. Exhausting.
I do need to let go, so I'm really going to re-commit to that whole process.
So, this weekend? Drinking some beers. Gonna take the whole necking thing to another level. May watch the UFC on Saturday night. Am only running 11 miles on Sunday (oh, thank you sweet merciful allah). Coffee with Big D.
No thinking. Just fun.
Fun is happy making.
I do need to let go, so I'm really going to re-commit to that whole process.
So, this weekend? Drinking some beers. Gonna take the whole necking thing to another level. May watch the UFC on Saturday night. Am only running 11 miles on Sunday (oh, thank you sweet merciful allah). Coffee with Big D.
No thinking. Just fun.
Fun is happy making.
I'm slightly imbalanced
Let's just get that out there and in the open. I realize how utterly insane I am when sitting next to N and listening to her normalcy. I said, "Um, I'm in my head a lot". What's so good in my head, anyways (besides the whole myriad of alternate realities that I've created based on various "what if" scenarios)? I expressed to Michael (who did not disagree) that perhaps my thought processes are a bit off kilter, but that simply being aware of this was enough. It makes me unique. If you ever need to have a lengthy conversation about any big topic issue: I'm your girl. If you ever want to scrutinize something so hard that you actually lose track of what it was that you were scrutinizing to begin with, give me a call. Not sure how many shades of grey there are? Call me! I'm an expert.
Anyways. I've said it before and I shall say it again. My friends rock. They listen, they don't judge, they make gentle suggestions, they suggest that maybe spending time outside of my apartment is a good thing.
You know what else is good? Michael. He had to drop off my spare set of keys to me tonight (kind of a long story). Anyways, I totally love him. Like, head over heels, there is no one else, he is perfect and I want to retire with him immediately to the countryside and grow apples or some damn thing. I have relationship ADD. I need to be constantly stimulated and told that I am loved and pandered to which is totally unreasonable. No one else would or could put up with my shit. I'm actually not sure why he does it. He came over tonight and was touchy and he's never touchy so it was rather interesting. He kept kissing my neck, and he held my hand a lot. I think he can tell that I'm somewhat forlorn. And he loves me endlessly like I love him, so I just need to accept that because everything that he does indicates that he loves me like crazy so, you know, I should just roll with that.
I got my Boston Marathon information today (you know, for the race that I'm NOT running in Boston in four days) and we looked through it. There are a lot of clothing items you can buy. One is a t-shirt that says, "I love Baastin". I thought it was freakin' hilarious. We both agreed that when we go to Boston (because, goddamnit, we are going to Boston) we are going to buy so much stuff. Then, whenever some clinic leader is like, "and do you know why we do tempo runs, boys and girls?" we can just point to the Boston logo on our shirt and smile politely. Chowdah.
Alright, kids. Tomorrow will be a new day of trying to be outward facing and to forgive myself for my transgressions against... myself. Life is good.
Like, really quite good.
Anyways. I've said it before and I shall say it again. My friends rock. They listen, they don't judge, they make gentle suggestions, they suggest that maybe spending time outside of my apartment is a good thing.
You know what else is good? Michael. He had to drop off my spare set of keys to me tonight (kind of a long story). Anyways, I totally love him. Like, head over heels, there is no one else, he is perfect and I want to retire with him immediately to the countryside and grow apples or some damn thing. I have relationship ADD. I need to be constantly stimulated and told that I am loved and pandered to which is totally unreasonable. No one else would or could put up with my shit. I'm actually not sure why he does it. He came over tonight and was touchy and he's never touchy so it was rather interesting. He kept kissing my neck, and he held my hand a lot. I think he can tell that I'm somewhat forlorn. And he loves me endlessly like I love him, so I just need to accept that because everything that he does indicates that he loves me like crazy so, you know, I should just roll with that.
I got my Boston Marathon information today (you know, for the race that I'm NOT running in Boston in four days) and we looked through it. There are a lot of clothing items you can buy. One is a t-shirt that says, "I love Baastin". I thought it was freakin' hilarious. We both agreed that when we go to Boston (because, goddamnit, we are going to Boston) we are going to buy so much stuff. Then, whenever some clinic leader is like, "and do you know why we do tempo runs, boys and girls?" we can just point to the Boston logo on our shirt and smile politely. Chowdah.
Alright, kids. Tomorrow will be a new day of trying to be outward facing and to forgive myself for my transgressions against... myself. Life is good.
Like, really quite good.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Roar!
I took a personality test a while ago and it said that closure is important to people like me. That may be an understatement. I notice it at work as well: I really like to close off one task before moving to another. It's probably why I was so good at collections - it had relatively nothing to do with cash flow or with getting customers to comply to the terms of their contracts - I would just hammer these people until their balance was current, and then move on to the next thing.
My indecisiveness and flakiness over the last few days stems from the closure that I've been lacking on both the personal and the professional front. It's hard for me to function when things (whatever those things may be) are unresolved.
The work related one was, for the most part, alleviated today. It was causing me a lot of stress and anxiety and if you had the misfortune of having to speak with me over the last few days you would have noticed how I kept dwelling on it in my conversations (cause the other thing I do is dwell and stew, which is fun and healthy).
The personal issues. Well, there are a few of them. One of them has been outstanding for a few years now and the likelihood of me solving it in the next month, or even in the next year is probably very slim. In this regard I have to remember that actions speak louder than words and it is the day to day that is important.
The second issue, like my coworker said to me today, is either going to happen or it's not and what's the point in worrying about it. Yeah, he inadvertently became my confessor today. Some things you just don't want to divulge to the members of your "inner sanctum". I just wanted to get it off my chest. I said, "Do you think I'm a bad person?" and he reckoned that the good in me outweighed the bad. I hope so.
The last issue is stupid and I brought it upon myself. It's not worth mentioning even, but to say that it's the perfect culmination of my desire to liked by all, even if it means sacrificing my self-worth. I'm not entirely sure why I do this. It's like an addiction, but I never really have the highs that go with an addiction. Instead I have periods where I get low and beat myself up. What a shitty addiction, eh? I should really shake this particular monkey off my back and smoke more pot.
So. I apologize to all my friends for weirding them out as of late. A lot of shit things seemed to happen at once and I'm still working through some of them. And yes, in the grand scheme of things? Pretty fucking minuscule. Welcome to my hyper analytic life. It probably doesn't help that I had three coffees today, either.
Okay, enough of the whinging, mental shit. In other news that is frickin' awesome, we had was is called a "Prediction Run" today. What is a prediction run, you ask? Well, oddly, it is a run where you predict how fast you will be. We had the choice of a 5k or a 10k loop and since most everyone is still bagged from Sunday's 23 miler, the majority chose the 5k. Before I moved to marathons and halfs I used to run a lot of 10 kilometre races. I was always trying to get a sub-fifty minute time, but I never made it. For my 5k time I estimated it would take me 25 minutes. That would be a 50 minute 10k. I'm tired and sore from Sunday and the lactic acid buildup in my quads is something to behold. We were told to leave our watches at the store and it was really bizarre being out there and not knowing exactly how long I'd been out there for. I ran hard. There was a guy calling out the times as we came into the store and, as I passed him, he said "Twenty two twenty six". 22:26. Two and a half minutes faster than I thought I would be! That would give me a 45 minute 10k. I was pretty stoked, and I didn't have any knee pain. Michael came in at an amazing 20 and a half minutes.
And I need to update my other blog. It's interesting, the downward spiral once I fell off the good karma bandwagon. Obviously I haven't had anything positive or illuminating to say, but hopefully that will change shortly and I can post something with a little substance in the next few days.
Oh, wait. I got it! Um, yeah. What did I learn from all of this??
My indecisiveness and flakiness over the last few days stems from the closure that I've been lacking on both the personal and the professional front. It's hard for me to function when things (whatever those things may be) are unresolved.
The work related one was, for the most part, alleviated today. It was causing me a lot of stress and anxiety and if you had the misfortune of having to speak with me over the last few days you would have noticed how I kept dwelling on it in my conversations (cause the other thing I do is dwell and stew, which is fun and healthy).
The personal issues. Well, there are a few of them. One of them has been outstanding for a few years now and the likelihood of me solving it in the next month, or even in the next year is probably very slim. In this regard I have to remember that actions speak louder than words and it is the day to day that is important.
The second issue, like my coworker said to me today, is either going to happen or it's not and what's the point in worrying about it. Yeah, he inadvertently became my confessor today. Some things you just don't want to divulge to the members of your "inner sanctum". I just wanted to get it off my chest. I said, "Do you think I'm a bad person?" and he reckoned that the good in me outweighed the bad. I hope so.
The last issue is stupid and I brought it upon myself. It's not worth mentioning even, but to say that it's the perfect culmination of my desire to liked by all, even if it means sacrificing my self-worth. I'm not entirely sure why I do this. It's like an addiction, but I never really have the highs that go with an addiction. Instead I have periods where I get low and beat myself up. What a shitty addiction, eh? I should really shake this particular monkey off my back and smoke more pot.
So. I apologize to all my friends for weirding them out as of late. A lot of shit things seemed to happen at once and I'm still working through some of them. And yes, in the grand scheme of things? Pretty fucking minuscule. Welcome to my hyper analytic life. It probably doesn't help that I had three coffees today, either.
Okay, enough of the whinging, mental shit. In other news that is frickin' awesome, we had was is called a "Prediction Run" today. What is a prediction run, you ask? Well, oddly, it is a run where you predict how fast you will be. We had the choice of a 5k or a 10k loop and since most everyone is still bagged from Sunday's 23 miler, the majority chose the 5k. Before I moved to marathons and halfs I used to run a lot of 10 kilometre races. I was always trying to get a sub-fifty minute time, but I never made it. For my 5k time I estimated it would take me 25 minutes. That would be a 50 minute 10k. I'm tired and sore from Sunday and the lactic acid buildup in my quads is something to behold. We were told to leave our watches at the store and it was really bizarre being out there and not knowing exactly how long I'd been out there for. I ran hard. There was a guy calling out the times as we came into the store and, as I passed him, he said "Twenty two twenty six". 22:26. Two and a half minutes faster than I thought I would be! That would give me a 45 minute 10k. I was pretty stoked, and I didn't have any knee pain. Michael came in at an amazing 20 and a half minutes.
And I need to update my other blog. It's interesting, the downward spiral once I fell off the good karma bandwagon. Obviously I haven't had anything positive or illuminating to say, but hopefully that will change shortly and I can post something with a little substance in the next few days.
Oh, wait. I got it! Um, yeah. What did I learn from all of this??
Monday, April 14, 2008
The funk continues
What to say. We all have funks. We're all funky. Won't you take me to funky town? I don't know what I'm doing. If I was an animal, I would be a sad, fat bear that some kid with cotton-candy-sticky-hands would heckle in an annoyingly pitched voice because I wasn't providing him with enough enthusiastic antics. Then again, when do bears ever engage in enthusiastic antics, anyways?
Something needs to happen. I just hope it's not car-related. It's always car related with me. I've had my bumper replaced twice. What's with that?
I'm touched that Po is concerned for my mental health. I bet this blog about bears isn't going to alleviate any of her fears, either. But she has her own funk to deal with.
We all have our funks to bear. Get it?
If the kid could get me to dance by putting hot coals under my paws he would. I hate that kid.
Something needs to happen. I just hope it's not car-related. It's always car related with me. I've had my bumper replaced twice. What's with that?
I'm touched that Po is concerned for my mental health. I bet this blog about bears isn't going to alleviate any of her fears, either. But she has her own funk to deal with.
We all have our funks to bear. Get it?
If the kid could get me to dance by putting hot coals under my paws he would. I hate that kid.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
The running, and the running... and the running
Over three hours later, we make it back to the store. We ran from North Van over the Second Narrows, Burrard and Lionsgate Bridges today. My knee is messed and it's anyone's guess as to whether it will be in good shape before the marathon or not.
Highlights of the run (besides running three bridges)? Some of the people that are running the Boston Marathon next week came out to cheer us on: that was totally motivational. The different pace groups wore different colors and everyone (bar one) in our group was wearing red today so we were like this roving, running gang flitting through different parts of Vancouver this morning. The weather was awesome. I had to duck in and use the washroom near Granville Island and I told my group I would catch up with them, but when I came out my group leader was waiting for me. It was really unexpected and nice because it was - obviously - quite a bit of work to rejoin our group and we were starting to flag a little because at that point we'd run about ten miles. I made our group laugh a few times. When we were grinding up the endless, curving road up to Prospect Point one of the guys said, "Alright guys: be strong. Be proud" and I said, "A-, I can do one, but I don't have it in me to do both". I went with strong. It was also great to pass so many other running clinics and share the road with other fellow runners. And, as always, running a ridiculous distance with a bunch of fabulous, encouraging and like minded people tends to make you feel better about yourself and the human race overall. It puts things in perspective.
Michael and I went for coffee afterwards, then I went home, read and started to fall asleep. I napped for about an hour but the searing leg pain made it a bit hard to doze off. Got up, Michael called (yes, this was the weekend of Michael but I don't care because I think he's the only that can deal with me when I'm having "issues", and it has been an "issue" laden few days for this kid) and we grabbed some sushi. And then...
... we rented the best movie. It did not do well in theatres and critics panned it. I loved it. I recommend it totally and encourage you to go and rent it. It's called "Lions for Lambs" and it has Robert Redford, Meryl Streep and Tom Cruise in it. It deals with war in the Middle East, value systems, complacency, political ambition and integrity in journalism. I almost didn't get it, but fuck am I glad I did. It was just an excellent and timely movie. I really tried to to keep it together at the end because I'm not a big cryer, but then when Michael saw me take off my glasses and pinch the bridge of my nose and said, "How are you doing, potpie?" I lost it. I just started crying and crying and I cried for quite a while. Michael mentioned that the movie touched on a lot of points that he and I had discussed in the past, and it opened up another dialogue about the future of humanity and apathy and just what in the hell we're supposed to do. I stated that I was glad that I wasn't having children and he said that made him sad. It boils down to Michael being a little more positive about the direction that humanity is taking and he said that he has to believe that things are changing and that people will start to change for the better, otherwise why get out of bed in the mornings? I don't know, man. People blow my fucking mind every day. I won't even get into how wasteful and ignorant I think the majority of the population is (myself included) and I said I felt that it was like a race between the end of oil and the turmoil that would ensue (increased food and transportation costs, more fighting, more poverty) and humanity's realization that the rate at which we consume cannot be sustained therefore we need to all give up a little.
Then the argument moved to war. This isn't the first war, nor will it be the last and I expressed my regret that we don't seem to be learning anything. I thought the last Vietnam was the last one. You know what I mean? We're supposed to learn from our mistakes and I just feel like we're getting a failing grade. Ah. This blog is going on far, far too long. Let's just say that this movie got me crying and ranting and talking and it takes quite a lot for me to get there.
I tried to see Michael's side and to have some faith in a possible positive outcome for all the shit that's currently going on. He made some good points about being optimistic, and about people that we know trying very hard to make changes in the world. And he made a good point too, that we were fortunate enough to have seen the movie, and that we were sensical enough that this movie moved us, instead of rendering us apathetic and wondering when "Dancing with the Stars" would be coming on, and that Robert Redford is even around and making movies such as these and that he created the Sundance Film Festival.
When I wrote my last blog entry I was somewhat influenced by Bowie's "Under Pressure". So after you watch "Lions for Lambs", re-listen to that song.
Then? Go out and do something about it.
Highlights of the run (besides running three bridges)? Some of the people that are running the Boston Marathon next week came out to cheer us on: that was totally motivational. The different pace groups wore different colors and everyone (bar one) in our group was wearing red today so we were like this roving, running gang flitting through different parts of Vancouver this morning. The weather was awesome. I had to duck in and use the washroom near Granville Island and I told my group I would catch up with them, but when I came out my group leader was waiting for me. It was really unexpected and nice because it was - obviously - quite a bit of work to rejoin our group and we were starting to flag a little because at that point we'd run about ten miles. I made our group laugh a few times. When we were grinding up the endless, curving road up to Prospect Point one of the guys said, "Alright guys: be strong. Be proud" and I said, "A-, I can do one, but I don't have it in me to do both". I went with strong. It was also great to pass so many other running clinics and share the road with other fellow runners. And, as always, running a ridiculous distance with a bunch of fabulous, encouraging and like minded people tends to make you feel better about yourself and the human race overall. It puts things in perspective.
Michael and I went for coffee afterwards, then I went home, read and started to fall asleep. I napped for about an hour but the searing leg pain made it a bit hard to doze off. Got up, Michael called (yes, this was the weekend of Michael but I don't care because I think he's the only that can deal with me when I'm having "issues", and it has been an "issue" laden few days for this kid) and we grabbed some sushi. And then...
... we rented the best movie. It did not do well in theatres and critics panned it. I loved it. I recommend it totally and encourage you to go and rent it. It's called "Lions for Lambs" and it has Robert Redford, Meryl Streep and Tom Cruise in it. It deals with war in the Middle East, value systems, complacency, political ambition and integrity in journalism. I almost didn't get it, but fuck am I glad I did. It was just an excellent and timely movie. I really tried to to keep it together at the end because I'm not a big cryer, but then when Michael saw me take off my glasses and pinch the bridge of my nose and said, "How are you doing, potpie?" I lost it. I just started crying and crying and I cried for quite a while. Michael mentioned that the movie touched on a lot of points that he and I had discussed in the past, and it opened up another dialogue about the future of humanity and apathy and just what in the hell we're supposed to do. I stated that I was glad that I wasn't having children and he said that made him sad. It boils down to Michael being a little more positive about the direction that humanity is taking and he said that he has to believe that things are changing and that people will start to change for the better, otherwise why get out of bed in the mornings? I don't know, man. People blow my fucking mind every day. I won't even get into how wasteful and ignorant I think the majority of the population is (myself included) and I said I felt that it was like a race between the end of oil and the turmoil that would ensue (increased food and transportation costs, more fighting, more poverty) and humanity's realization that the rate at which we consume cannot be sustained therefore we need to all give up a little.
Then the argument moved to war. This isn't the first war, nor will it be the last and I expressed my regret that we don't seem to be learning anything. I thought the last Vietnam was the last one. You know what I mean? We're supposed to learn from our mistakes and I just feel like we're getting a failing grade. Ah. This blog is going on far, far too long. Let's just say that this movie got me crying and ranting and talking and it takes quite a lot for me to get there.
I tried to see Michael's side and to have some faith in a possible positive outcome for all the shit that's currently going on. He made some good points about being optimistic, and about people that we know trying very hard to make changes in the world. And he made a good point too, that we were fortunate enough to have seen the movie, and that we were sensical enough that this movie moved us, instead of rendering us apathetic and wondering when "Dancing with the Stars" would be coming on, and that Robert Redford is even around and making movies such as these and that he created the Sundance Film Festival.
When I wrote my last blog entry I was somewhat influenced by Bowie's "Under Pressure". So after you watch "Lions for Lambs", re-listen to that song.
Then? Go out and do something about it.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
I'd give my left nut not to have to run 23 miles tomorrow
Why are we always pushing forward so? You can be faster, better, richer, thinner, more well dressed, prettier and have a nicer car. It's nonstop. Your t.v. is now too small, your laptop outdated, you're eating at the wrong restaurant and the toe of shoes are wrong: they're now supposed to be square/round/pointed. You could have a better job, earn more money, have an affair and get a boob job. What's going on here? Where is this pressure coming from?
I don't know. This is a weird weekend. I was supposed to meet up with Big D and Po today, but cancelled saying I wasn't feeling well. It's an easy catch all, this 'not feeling well'. What am I supposed to say? I'm currently feeling so indecisive that it took me fifteen minutes to pick out what I wanted for dinner tonight. In the past couple of weeks I've not exactly been on my best behaviour and have courted (and received) disaster. Thoughts that I would normally have dismissed as irrational I have allowed to seep into my subconscious.
Why? Why not leave well enough alone? I don't know where this restlessness is coming from. I don't want to do what everyone else is doing anymore. I don't want to go to work on Monday, I don't want to do the audit. There are bigger things going on, but I'm not sure entirely what they are or what I'm supposed to do about it.
It has something to do with the elderly lady that came in to White Spot for dinner tonight. I'd says she was in her eighties and she went up to the bar and was struggling to get up into the chair, so a nice couple nearby gave her a hand, which I thought was goddamn fantastic. And she was all alone, this lady. Why is someone's grandmother out, on her own, at White Spot on a Saturday night? She ordered some ice cream and ate it quietly at the bar. It killed me. I told this to Michael and he said, "T-, just come and visit my grandmother at the old age home. It makes me come close to crying just thinking about it. I think 'what is she doing now? How much fun is she having?'".
Ah. I was doing alright for a while. I was in the moment. I was zen. Then I fell off the spirituality/inner peace wagon. And landed on my head. And have a huge karmic headache. I was going with the flow and accepting everything, and now I'm back to questioning it all. It's hard to go from seeing the prostitutes with their drug ravaged faces in the alley in Lower Lonsdale this morning, to being outside Home Sense at Park Royal and seeing some bleached blonde size four soccer mom getting agitated as a stock boy tries to fit a bunch of patio furniture into the back of her Range Rover. I picked up an empty (Ruffles? Doritos?) chip bag and put it in the can because it looked so garish against all the beautiful and sunny daffodils. It's all connected somehow. The insolent confidence of the patrons at Crema versus our frantic waitress trying to keep her wits about her at dinner tonight; the sliding scale of wealth and choices and our internal ranking system of what's important.
I know what's important. I have all the things that are important. I could not conceivably ask for a single thing more than I already have.
So why do I do it?
I don't know. This is a weird weekend. I was supposed to meet up with Big D and Po today, but cancelled saying I wasn't feeling well. It's an easy catch all, this 'not feeling well'. What am I supposed to say? I'm currently feeling so indecisive that it took me fifteen minutes to pick out what I wanted for dinner tonight. In the past couple of weeks I've not exactly been on my best behaviour and have courted (and received) disaster. Thoughts that I would normally have dismissed as irrational I have allowed to seep into my subconscious.
Why? Why not leave well enough alone? I don't know where this restlessness is coming from. I don't want to do what everyone else is doing anymore. I don't want to go to work on Monday, I don't want to do the audit. There are bigger things going on, but I'm not sure entirely what they are or what I'm supposed to do about it.
It has something to do with the elderly lady that came in to White Spot for dinner tonight. I'd says she was in her eighties and she went up to the bar and was struggling to get up into the chair, so a nice couple nearby gave her a hand, which I thought was goddamn fantastic. And she was all alone, this lady. Why is someone's grandmother out, on her own, at White Spot on a Saturday night? She ordered some ice cream and ate it quietly at the bar. It killed me. I told this to Michael and he said, "T-, just come and visit my grandmother at the old age home. It makes me come close to crying just thinking about it. I think 'what is she doing now? How much fun is she having?'".
Ah. I was doing alright for a while. I was in the moment. I was zen. Then I fell off the spirituality/inner peace wagon. And landed on my head. And have a huge karmic headache. I was going with the flow and accepting everything, and now I'm back to questioning it all. It's hard to go from seeing the prostitutes with their drug ravaged faces in the alley in Lower Lonsdale this morning, to being outside Home Sense at Park Royal and seeing some bleached blonde size four soccer mom getting agitated as a stock boy tries to fit a bunch of patio furniture into the back of her Range Rover. I picked up an empty (Ruffles? Doritos?) chip bag and put it in the can because it looked so garish against all the beautiful and sunny daffodils. It's all connected somehow. The insolent confidence of the patrons at Crema versus our frantic waitress trying to keep her wits about her at dinner tonight; the sliding scale of wealth and choices and our internal ranking system of what's important.
I know what's important. I have all the things that are important. I could not conceivably ask for a single thing more than I already have.
So why do I do it?
Friday, April 11, 2008
Missing the seabus
What to say? A coworker that I really like left today. I wasn't sad because I think I'll see her again. At least I hope I'll see her again.
Today was a weird day. Yeah. Career wise, let's just say that it's all up in the air.
On other, more esoteric levels? Wow. I love people. Not like, hugging homeless people love, but love nonetheless. Went for drinks with my departing coworker, the robot liberator and and ex-colleague. As usual I had nothing witty to say and spent an inordinate amount of time feeling sorry for our waitress and wondering why her hands were shaking when she served us our drinks. Stuff like that bugs me.
Hugged my departing coworker. Hugged the robot liberator twice (hey, when you've got an opportunity you've got to take it). Then me and my ex-colleague missed the seabus by a couple of minutes so we grabbed a drink at the Transcontinental Lounge. It was quite fortuitous because I had never spent time with him one on one. Then we missed the second seabus which was no problem for me because, as usual, I have nothing to do tonight. We did end up having a pretty good conversation during the half an hour while we waited for the seabus, and more good conversation still while on the seabus. You know what I love? I love good conversation! I love new people with new ideas and new lives and new experiences. I may have even convinced him to come out to wine club (sorry, Skyhammer).
I dunno. It's corny. I wish I could just read, run, travel, blog and chat with interesting people while consistently missing the seabus. That would be ideal. The people I know are fantastic: they are such an incredible source of inspiration to me. Says the girl sitting alone in her apartment at 9:34 on a Friday night.
Ah. Perhaps I am missing more than the seabus.
Today was a weird day. Yeah. Career wise, let's just say that it's all up in the air.
On other, more esoteric levels? Wow. I love people. Not like, hugging homeless people love, but love nonetheless. Went for drinks with my departing coworker, the robot liberator and and ex-colleague. As usual I had nothing witty to say and spent an inordinate amount of time feeling sorry for our waitress and wondering why her hands were shaking when she served us our drinks. Stuff like that bugs me.
Hugged my departing coworker. Hugged the robot liberator twice (hey, when you've got an opportunity you've got to take it). Then me and my ex-colleague missed the seabus by a couple of minutes so we grabbed a drink at the Transcontinental Lounge. It was quite fortuitous because I had never spent time with him one on one. Then we missed the second seabus which was no problem for me because, as usual, I have nothing to do tonight. We did end up having a pretty good conversation during the half an hour while we waited for the seabus, and more good conversation still while on the seabus. You know what I love? I love good conversation! I love new people with new ideas and new lives and new experiences. I may have even convinced him to come out to wine club (sorry, Skyhammer).
I dunno. It's corny. I wish I could just read, run, travel, blog and chat with interesting people while consistently missing the seabus. That would be ideal. The people I know are fantastic: they are such an incredible source of inspiration to me. Says the girl sitting alone in her apartment at 9:34 on a Friday night.
Ah. Perhaps I am missing more than the seabus.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
I'm a dirty bird
Macy Gray's "On How Life Is" is awesome. So, I'm sitting here listening to the lyrics of "Caligula" (like, really listening) and um, well. Raunchy. I always liked the beat, but now I appreciate it more for such lines as:
"Hush the neighbors hear you moanin and groanin
But I just can't help it 'specially when we be bonin"
-and-
"He's somethin like my 7 eleven
Beau doh doh dah
He got me open like an all night store"
Yeah. Guys are horndogs.
I think I know why I'm cranky now.
Guys were giving me high fives after our run tonight and I was getting excited. "Again. Harder. More. Faster."
Goddamnit.
"Hush the neighbors hear you moanin and groanin
But I just can't help it 'specially when we be bonin"
-and-
"He's somethin like my 7 eleven
Beau doh doh dah
He got me open like an all night store"
Yeah. Guys are horndogs.
I think I know why I'm cranky now.
Guys were giving me high fives after our run tonight and I was getting excited. "Again. Harder. More. Faster."
Goddamnit.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Indubitably, old chum
It appears this girl is lonely.
Boo hoo.
Highlights of the day: an impromptu and always enjoyable chat with the robot liberator; a funny anecdote from a coworker during which he shrieked the word "harlot" on Granville Street and I laughed rather long and hard.
This girl is now going to bed.
Boo hoo.
Highlights of the day: an impromptu and always enjoyable chat with the robot liberator; a funny anecdote from a coworker during which he shrieked the word "harlot" on Granville Street and I laughed rather long and hard.
This girl is now going to bed.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
The military as a fashion statement
I may have said this before, so please stop me if I have. No, wait. I don't know if I've said this before. Have I said this before? I don't care: it bears repeating. Just try and stop me.
Don't wear clothing that apes military fatigues. I saw some jerk wearing military cargo pants this morning, looking like a pompous shitbird and I just thought, why? There's so much wrong with it. First of all, have you seen any military action? No? Then take the stupid pants off. Yeah, it's just a big bowl of wrong and every angle that I look at it I seem to get more enraged (oh! fun note - I still have PMS).
Where to begin? Um, what are you trying to convey with your faux army duds? Are you trying to pretend that you're in the army? Cause that's pretty lame. It's like pretending to be a vegetarian while eating a hamburger. You're essentially wanting to show society that you're something that you're not, while the real deal is going through whatever rigmarole is necessary to get into the armed forces.
Maybe you're not pretending to be in the army. Maybe you just think that it makes you look cool. But, um, it doesn't. The very fact that you are such a ribald phony negates any sense of coolness that might exist. You look like a wife beater. And if you're a woman? You look like you have a diminished IQ.
Anyways, your quarter life crisis aside: what do you think the men and women that legitimately wear fatigues think about you? Seriously. Pretend you're strolling near the barracks at 4th and Alma and you come across some soldier that's just come back from Afghanistan and you pass him on the street: how do you feel? Because if you don't feel like a total knob, you need to question that.
Hey. I'm against the war in Iraq. I'm not a big supporter of the military. But I do have respect for the people that go overseas and get shot at for a living: it makes my paper cut seem just that much less painful. I don't think fatigues are any more appropriate a fashion statement than hospital scrubs. Seriously, why don't you don some of those and swagger around? Or how about a groovy pharmasist's coat?
You're having an identity crisis. Here's one clue as to who you are: NOT a soldier.
Get a life.
Don't wear clothing that apes military fatigues. I saw some jerk wearing military cargo pants this morning, looking like a pompous shitbird and I just thought, why? There's so much wrong with it. First of all, have you seen any military action? No? Then take the stupid pants off. Yeah, it's just a big bowl of wrong and every angle that I look at it I seem to get more enraged (oh! fun note - I still have PMS).
Where to begin? Um, what are you trying to convey with your faux army duds? Are you trying to pretend that you're in the army? Cause that's pretty lame. It's like pretending to be a vegetarian while eating a hamburger. You're essentially wanting to show society that you're something that you're not, while the real deal is going through whatever rigmarole is necessary to get into the armed forces.
Maybe you're not pretending to be in the army. Maybe you just think that it makes you look cool. But, um, it doesn't. The very fact that you are such a ribald phony negates any sense of coolness that might exist. You look like a wife beater. And if you're a woman? You look like you have a diminished IQ.
Anyways, your quarter life crisis aside: what do you think the men and women that legitimately wear fatigues think about you? Seriously. Pretend you're strolling near the barracks at 4th and Alma and you come across some soldier that's just come back from Afghanistan and you pass him on the street: how do you feel? Because if you don't feel like a total knob, you need to question that.
Hey. I'm against the war in Iraq. I'm not a big supporter of the military. But I do have respect for the people that go overseas and get shot at for a living: it makes my paper cut seem just that much less painful. I don't think fatigues are any more appropriate a fashion statement than hospital scrubs. Seriously, why don't you don some of those and swagger around? Or how about a groovy pharmasist's coat?
You're having an identity crisis. Here's one clue as to who you are: NOT a soldier.
Get a life.
Monday, April 7, 2008
The Hard Way (fiction)
I like to do things the hard way. Well, I must like to do things the hard way since, as far back as I can remember, I have consistently made things more difficult for myself than I needed too.
When I was six I stole some nail polish out of my mother’s bathroom and then, from the top of the stairs, dropped it onto the hardwood of our foyer below. My mother, who had been in the kitchen at the time, heard the crash, came out to see the mess on the floor (which left a permanent discoloration that my parents opted not to fix perhaps as a reminder to me) and glanced up at me, crouched between two slats of the railing upstairs. Trying to avoid anger and corporal punishment and seeing my stricken face she told me, “That’s okay, accidents happen.” Most kids would’ve taken that and run with it. I cheerfully admitted that I had nicked the nail polish from her bathroom and had purposefully and with full intent dropped it on the floor below. It hurt to sit for about an hour afterwards, I had dinner alone in my bedroom and I didn’t get dessert. My brother was kind enough to tell me as he passed by my bedroom door that they’d indulged in strawberry shortcake, which was quite possibly my favorite.
When I was eight I attempted to take on our class bully. He didn’t appear to have a problem with me, but he seemed to quite enjoy picking on Kathy Murtz, who had the unfortunate distinction of having a dorky name, stringy hair, glasses and braces. I mean really, this girl already had enough on her plate. For posterity I will admit that I thought she was a nerd as well and though I couldn’t quite commit to the chant, “Kathy Murtz: so ugly it hurts”, I didn’t exactly recommend that my classmates cut it out, either.
One lunchtime I was playing some game that involved four squares and some pebbles and a lot of hopping and Kathy was sitting in solitude (no doubt watching us forlornly and desperately hoping to be asked to join in) on some nearby steps, when the resident bully, Rodney Klassen, made an appearance. He ignored me and my handful of friends: we were neither too cool nor too uncool to appear on his radar. He stumped over to Kathy and demanded that she turn over whatever sweet treat her mother had packed in her lunch. On that particular day Kathy decided to stand up for herself. It hadn’t been the first time that Rodney had commandeered her treat from her and perhaps she felt that because she was within our general proximity that we might step in and help her out. My friends stood mutely by, their mouths slightly agape as they heard Kathy utter a meek, “No,” to Rodney’s forceful demand.
I, in all honesty, thought she would cave after he asked her a second time, but she did not. Nor did she relent when he smacked her lunch bag out of her hands. When Kathy made an effort to stand up to confront her tormentor and he roughly pushed her back down onto the concrete stairs my friends gave a collective gasp. And when Kathy leaned over to retrieve the lunch bag, so carefully and lovingly packed by her mother that morning or perhaps the night before, and Rodney landed and open handed smack across her face that resonated throughout the underground play area one of my friends muttered, “I’m going to get Mrs. Johnson” and darted quickly for the door.
It is at this point that things become blurred. I have no recollection of leaving the safety of my friends, I just remember arriving next to Rodney and saying in a very demanding voice that sounded quite unlike me, “Why don’t you leave her alone?”
This was a great source of amusement to Rodney, who heretofore had never considered me in any regard. I was rewarded with a scornful glance and a stern push on the shoulder with the admonishment that I “beat it”. With two hands I shoved him back so hard that he took two surprised steps backwards, stumbling towards the nearby bike racks. Kathy, at this point, had ceased to exist for him.
Long story short I got punched in the face and he knocked out one of my teeth (it had been loose to begin with). My friends avoided me for the next few days because of my fat lip and overall toothless appearance and Kathy would start her trend of doggedly following me around until some time in Grade 9.
When I was eleven, and not very popular and perhaps carrying more than my fair share of baby fat, I decided that the concept of Valentine’s Day was more of a popularity contest than one should have to bear at that age. After having to sit through the humiliating ordeal whereby classmates would drop Valentine’s Day cards into the handmade receptacles affixed to our individual desks (I will give kudos, though, to Amy Bernstein who was kind enough to give a card to everyone in the class, short, fat, smelly, slow or otherwise) I decided that I would come back during lunch and re-distribute the cards in more equal fashion. Unfortunately my teacher at the time had opted to take his lunch at his desk that day, so I was forced to improvise and tell him that the secretaries at the school had asked me to pass along the message that his wife had called, in the hopes that he would leave his post to make a phone call. It turns out that Mr. Addison didn’t have a wife, so my cover was blown (to this day I don’t get why we call unmarried men “Mr.” and yet unmarried women are “Miss” or the more ambiguous “Ms.”). I decided to come clean and thought that surely someone as intelligent and kind as my teacher would understand how horrible and unnecessary Valentine’s Day might appear to some of the kids who surely had only one or two cards in their little receptacles. He seemed unwilling to understand my logic and I strove to drive the point home by summarily ripping off the heart-shaped construction paper “mailboxes” from the desks all around me and dumping their contents on the floor.
Thankfully my parents agreed with my heavy handed tactics and, after a lengthy conversation with the principal, it was agreed that I would submit 500 lines of “I apologize for my disruptive behavior” to the teacher, and on a go forwards the Valentine’s Day popularity contest would cease.
I did relatively well in high school except for the following minor incidents: slamming a fellow student’s fingers in his locker door when he refused to take down a poster that indicated “AIDS cures gays”; calling my alcoholic history teacher an alcoholic; and falling in love (or as much in love as one can conceive at fourteen years of age) with someone that didn’t realize I existed. The whole falling in love thing was a bit of a debacle and might have caused a minor eating disorder, but the silver lining was that I lost the baby fat.
After graduation I worked at a succession of industry jobs that I hated. It become rapidly apparent that I had no customer service skills (culminating when I told a particularly well-heeled patron of a certain popular coffee chain to go fuck herself "and with vigor” when she condescendingly asked me if I even knew what a cappuccino was).
Cleary I was made to work in the backroom, away from the prying eyes of the public, and so I fell into accounting. Numbers didn’t hassle you, didn’t give you grief (though one of my first employers that seemed to enjoy placing his hand on my knee whenever I wore a skirt did), and I seemed to have an aptitude for it.
At twenty five, after settling into a decent accounting job I decided to do what all my friends had done seven years earlier: get some post secondary education.
At this time I was living on my own and working full time. Adding three courses a semester to my already full plate resulted in me doing funny things like: forgetting to eat; not sleeping; losing my social life; and continually forgetting where my car and apartment keys were. Most often my car keys ended up being in my car, and my apartment keys were found dangling from the lock on my apartment door.
After getting my accounting degree I was wooed away from my job by a large, global transportation company and enjoyed much success there until I discovered that they had a contract with the US government to ship arms to Iraq. I expressed some measure of displeasure at this to the CFO of the company and was basically told to shut up. I didn’t. I wrote to the president of our parent company and indicated that shipping arms to fight a war that was morally and ethically suspect was just a big bowl of wrong. I was rather rapidly laid off due to “downsizing”.
At about this time I had met a man that I felt was my match intellectually and didn’t seem to view my rants as totally out of order, as most of my friends were becoming increasingly wont to do. We entered into a relationship that would rapidly become the best and most positive that I had ever experienced in my life,right up until, in our third year together, I came home from work early (at this point I had found work with a non-profit organization that paid like shit, but at least enabled me to sleep most nights) to find him in bed with his ex-girlfriend. She left – though not with as apologetic an exit as I would have liked – and my boyfriend and I sat down and had a serious chat. It seemed that between my job, my guitar lessons, and my kickboxing lessons (I still had some anger that I was trying to work out) that I wasn’t around as often as he would have liked. His ex girlfriend had appeared on the scene some months ago, one thing led to another and, evidently, to them fucking in our shared bed.
Because I loved him and because he seemed earnest when he said he would end the relationship I allowed it to continue. And certainly there was resurgence. I scrapped the guitar lessons (all I ever really got out of them was horribly calloused fingers and a mounting sense of frustration which I then alleviated at my kickboxing class) and I made more of an effort to be part of a couple, instead of being an individual within a relationship.
Though I had verbally forgiven him for his transgressions, I knew I couldn’t forget. I also knew that by allowing the relationship to continue I had to allow bygones to be bygones and to not bring up his infidelity and throw it in his face. It was my choice to continue, because I liked making the hard choices apparently.
In April 2008 he told me that he was attending a conference through work in San Francisco for a few days. He had done this before. On a Saturday when he was supposedly at the conference I called the number of the hotel that he was staying and, because a man answered, I asked if there was a woman on duty at the front desk. Perplexed, they agreed to my odd request and transferred me to a resident member of the same sex. She confirmed that indeed he was registered there and at that point I laid all my cards on the table. It was a rather expensive cell phone bill that month, as I didn't have a long distance plan. After a couple of moments of silence, and me giving a very detailed and accurate description of exactly what it was I was on the lookout for, and promising that I would not do anything to compromise her employment at this hotel, she confirmed that it did not appear that my boyfriend was spending his nights alone.
And so, lying in a tub of cooling water having finished an exorbitantly expensive bottle of Shiraz I am watching the coloration of the water change from clear to a murky red, and in addition to becoming increasingly introspective, am also becoming quite larthargic.
Perhaps I stand corrected: I don't like doing things the hard way afterall.
When I was six I stole some nail polish out of my mother’s bathroom and then, from the top of the stairs, dropped it onto the hardwood of our foyer below. My mother, who had been in the kitchen at the time, heard the crash, came out to see the mess on the floor (which left a permanent discoloration that my parents opted not to fix perhaps as a reminder to me) and glanced up at me, crouched between two slats of the railing upstairs. Trying to avoid anger and corporal punishment and seeing my stricken face she told me, “That’s okay, accidents happen.” Most kids would’ve taken that and run with it. I cheerfully admitted that I had nicked the nail polish from her bathroom and had purposefully and with full intent dropped it on the floor below. It hurt to sit for about an hour afterwards, I had dinner alone in my bedroom and I didn’t get dessert. My brother was kind enough to tell me as he passed by my bedroom door that they’d indulged in strawberry shortcake, which was quite possibly my favorite.
When I was eight I attempted to take on our class bully. He didn’t appear to have a problem with me, but he seemed to quite enjoy picking on Kathy Murtz, who had the unfortunate distinction of having a dorky name, stringy hair, glasses and braces. I mean really, this girl already had enough on her plate. For posterity I will admit that I thought she was a nerd as well and though I couldn’t quite commit to the chant, “Kathy Murtz: so ugly it hurts”, I didn’t exactly recommend that my classmates cut it out, either.
One lunchtime I was playing some game that involved four squares and some pebbles and a lot of hopping and Kathy was sitting in solitude (no doubt watching us forlornly and desperately hoping to be asked to join in) on some nearby steps, when the resident bully, Rodney Klassen, made an appearance. He ignored me and my handful of friends: we were neither too cool nor too uncool to appear on his radar. He stumped over to Kathy and demanded that she turn over whatever sweet treat her mother had packed in her lunch. On that particular day Kathy decided to stand up for herself. It hadn’t been the first time that Rodney had commandeered her treat from her and perhaps she felt that because she was within our general proximity that we might step in and help her out. My friends stood mutely by, their mouths slightly agape as they heard Kathy utter a meek, “No,” to Rodney’s forceful demand.
I, in all honesty, thought she would cave after he asked her a second time, but she did not. Nor did she relent when he smacked her lunch bag out of her hands. When Kathy made an effort to stand up to confront her tormentor and he roughly pushed her back down onto the concrete stairs my friends gave a collective gasp. And when Kathy leaned over to retrieve the lunch bag, so carefully and lovingly packed by her mother that morning or perhaps the night before, and Rodney landed and open handed smack across her face that resonated throughout the underground play area one of my friends muttered, “I’m going to get Mrs. Johnson” and darted quickly for the door.
It is at this point that things become blurred. I have no recollection of leaving the safety of my friends, I just remember arriving next to Rodney and saying in a very demanding voice that sounded quite unlike me, “Why don’t you leave her alone?”
This was a great source of amusement to Rodney, who heretofore had never considered me in any regard. I was rewarded with a scornful glance and a stern push on the shoulder with the admonishment that I “beat it”. With two hands I shoved him back so hard that he took two surprised steps backwards, stumbling towards the nearby bike racks. Kathy, at this point, had ceased to exist for him.
Long story short I got punched in the face and he knocked out one of my teeth (it had been loose to begin with). My friends avoided me for the next few days because of my fat lip and overall toothless appearance and Kathy would start her trend of doggedly following me around until some time in Grade 9.
When I was eleven, and not very popular and perhaps carrying more than my fair share of baby fat, I decided that the concept of Valentine’s Day was more of a popularity contest than one should have to bear at that age. After having to sit through the humiliating ordeal whereby classmates would drop Valentine’s Day cards into the handmade receptacles affixed to our individual desks (I will give kudos, though, to Amy Bernstein who was kind enough to give a card to everyone in the class, short, fat, smelly, slow or otherwise) I decided that I would come back during lunch and re-distribute the cards in more equal fashion. Unfortunately my teacher at the time had opted to take his lunch at his desk that day, so I was forced to improvise and tell him that the secretaries at the school had asked me to pass along the message that his wife had called, in the hopes that he would leave his post to make a phone call. It turns out that Mr. Addison didn’t have a wife, so my cover was blown (to this day I don’t get why we call unmarried men “Mr.” and yet unmarried women are “Miss” or the more ambiguous “Ms.”). I decided to come clean and thought that surely someone as intelligent and kind as my teacher would understand how horrible and unnecessary Valentine’s Day might appear to some of the kids who surely had only one or two cards in their little receptacles. He seemed unwilling to understand my logic and I strove to drive the point home by summarily ripping off the heart-shaped construction paper “mailboxes” from the desks all around me and dumping their contents on the floor.
Thankfully my parents agreed with my heavy handed tactics and, after a lengthy conversation with the principal, it was agreed that I would submit 500 lines of “I apologize for my disruptive behavior” to the teacher, and on a go forwards the Valentine’s Day popularity contest would cease.
I did relatively well in high school except for the following minor incidents: slamming a fellow student’s fingers in his locker door when he refused to take down a poster that indicated “AIDS cures gays”; calling my alcoholic history teacher an alcoholic; and falling in love (or as much in love as one can conceive at fourteen years of age) with someone that didn’t realize I existed. The whole falling in love thing was a bit of a debacle and might have caused a minor eating disorder, but the silver lining was that I lost the baby fat.
After graduation I worked at a succession of industry jobs that I hated. It become rapidly apparent that I had no customer service skills (culminating when I told a particularly well-heeled patron of a certain popular coffee chain to go fuck herself "and with vigor” when she condescendingly asked me if I even knew what a cappuccino was).
Cleary I was made to work in the backroom, away from the prying eyes of the public, and so I fell into accounting. Numbers didn’t hassle you, didn’t give you grief (though one of my first employers that seemed to enjoy placing his hand on my knee whenever I wore a skirt did), and I seemed to have an aptitude for it.
At twenty five, after settling into a decent accounting job I decided to do what all my friends had done seven years earlier: get some post secondary education.
At this time I was living on my own and working full time. Adding three courses a semester to my already full plate resulted in me doing funny things like: forgetting to eat; not sleeping; losing my social life; and continually forgetting where my car and apartment keys were. Most often my car keys ended up being in my car, and my apartment keys were found dangling from the lock on my apartment door.
After getting my accounting degree I was wooed away from my job by a large, global transportation company and enjoyed much success there until I discovered that they had a contract with the US government to ship arms to Iraq. I expressed some measure of displeasure at this to the CFO of the company and was basically told to shut up. I didn’t. I wrote to the president of our parent company and indicated that shipping arms to fight a war that was morally and ethically suspect was just a big bowl of wrong. I was rather rapidly laid off due to “downsizing”.
At about this time I had met a man that I felt was my match intellectually and didn’t seem to view my rants as totally out of order, as most of my friends were becoming increasingly wont to do. We entered into a relationship that would rapidly become the best and most positive that I had ever experienced in my life,right up until, in our third year together, I came home from work early (at this point I had found work with a non-profit organization that paid like shit, but at least enabled me to sleep most nights) to find him in bed with his ex-girlfriend. She left – though not with as apologetic an exit as I would have liked – and my boyfriend and I sat down and had a serious chat. It seemed that between my job, my guitar lessons, and my kickboxing lessons (I still had some anger that I was trying to work out) that I wasn’t around as often as he would have liked. His ex girlfriend had appeared on the scene some months ago, one thing led to another and, evidently, to them fucking in our shared bed.
Because I loved him and because he seemed earnest when he said he would end the relationship I allowed it to continue. And certainly there was resurgence. I scrapped the guitar lessons (all I ever really got out of them was horribly calloused fingers and a mounting sense of frustration which I then alleviated at my kickboxing class) and I made more of an effort to be part of a couple, instead of being an individual within a relationship.
Though I had verbally forgiven him for his transgressions, I knew I couldn’t forget. I also knew that by allowing the relationship to continue I had to allow bygones to be bygones and to not bring up his infidelity and throw it in his face. It was my choice to continue, because I liked making the hard choices apparently.
In April 2008 he told me that he was attending a conference through work in San Francisco for a few days. He had done this before. On a Saturday when he was supposedly at the conference I called the number of the hotel that he was staying and, because a man answered, I asked if there was a woman on duty at the front desk. Perplexed, they agreed to my odd request and transferred me to a resident member of the same sex. She confirmed that indeed he was registered there and at that point I laid all my cards on the table. It was a rather expensive cell phone bill that month, as I didn't have a long distance plan. After a couple of moments of silence, and me giving a very detailed and accurate description of exactly what it was I was on the lookout for, and promising that I would not do anything to compromise her employment at this hotel, she confirmed that it did not appear that my boyfriend was spending his nights alone.
And so, lying in a tub of cooling water having finished an exorbitantly expensive bottle of Shiraz I am watching the coloration of the water change from clear to a murky red, and in addition to becoming increasingly introspective, am also becoming quite larthargic.
Perhaps I stand corrected: I don't like doing things the hard way afterall.
Lack of human rights (made in China)
It would be really tremendous if the Chinese police could stop shooting Tibetan monks. This could be a really long blog entry, but I have PMS and I can definitely foresee a situation whereby I so enrage myself with my own polemic that I hurl my laptop off my balcony and burn all my clothing that is of Chinese origin. I will say this: given the Chinese government's consistent crushing and quelling of human rights; their violence towards the Tibetan monks; and their nefarious involvement in the exploitation of Africa for its oil - I will be sorely pissed if Canadian athletes participate in the Chinese Olympics.
And don't get me started on the Olympics either. I foresee bar stools being hurled off the balcony next.
Alright. Let's try and end this on a high note. Oh, hey! Anyone find the guy that murdered his three children in Mission yet? And boy, I bet all the kids that were removed from the polygamous compound are all totally normal and well adjusted.
Okay. Attempt number one to end on a high note failed.
I'm clean. I'm warm. I'm fed (I could even say I'm well-fed - tonight's dinner didn't suck). I'm employed. I'm healthy. I have a social network that would make bacteria jealous (funny bookclub joke!). I seemingly have retained some semblance of a sense of humor, though it's jostling for position in my cerebral cortex with this uncanny desire to kick someone in the nuts.
Spellcheck just told me I spelled 'cortex' wrong. Now that's funny.
And don't get me started on the Olympics either. I foresee bar stools being hurled off the balcony next.
Alright. Let's try and end this on a high note. Oh, hey! Anyone find the guy that murdered his three children in Mission yet? And boy, I bet all the kids that were removed from the polygamous compound are all totally normal and well adjusted.
Okay. Attempt number one to end on a high note failed.
I'm clean. I'm warm. I'm fed (I could even say I'm well-fed - tonight's dinner didn't suck). I'm employed. I'm healthy. I have a social network that would make bacteria jealous (funny bookclub joke!). I seemingly have retained some semblance of a sense of humor, though it's jostling for position in my cerebral cortex with this uncanny desire to kick someone in the nuts.
Spellcheck just told me I spelled 'cortex' wrong. Now that's funny.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Things I know
I need to shape up tout de suite for the marathon.
My horseshoe is still firmly lodged up my ass.
None of us are who we would be if we could do what we wanted.
My other knee might be fucked.
India looks good. So does Vietnam. Europe? Always.
I am very frustrated, stifled, pissed off, irritated, jubilant, thankful, happy, grateful and agitated.
Not necessarily in that order.
My horseshoe is still firmly lodged up my ass.
None of us are who we would be if we could do what we wanted.
My other knee might be fucked.
India looks good. So does Vietnam. Europe? Always.
I am very frustrated, stifled, pissed off, irritated, jubilant, thankful, happy, grateful and agitated.
Not necessarily in that order.
It has to be done
Here's a video that I saw last year that is making the rounds once again. It's funny if you haven't run a marathon. If you have, then it's more of a (slow, painful and stilted) walk down memory lane.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Ergh.
I think I would like to no longer work and to try and understand reality a bit more. Vedanta seems promising. I should meditate. I think marijuana is also adventageous. What is coincidence and what is not? How much is preordained? Why do humans use such a small percentage of their brains? Is reincarnation a possibility? It makes no less sense than the concept of a person who is killed and then rises from the dead three days later. What is knowledge? What kind of knowledge are we supposed to seek? It just really seems like it's not something that can be done while working 8.30 to 4 and drinking non-fat hazelnut lattes. I'm missing something here. I think we need to question everything. Like, everything that we think that we know. How did we arrive at these particular conclusions? We need more original thought. Because we are told that something is the way it is doesn't mean that that's correct. One thing may be many things to many people. In the pursuit of... whatever it is that we're pursuing, what happens to the problems of humanity? How do they get solved? Spirituality is a high level need and I don't understand how to reconcile that with the fact that the guy that sometimes holds the door open for me when I'm heading for the seabus has open sores on his face.
What am I supposed to do?
What am I supposed to do?
Censored! And other artistic licenses.
I've been censored. Called to the mat. Made to atone and account for my rampant blogging. I am loathe to change things on my blog. In fact, I don't do it. Often I wake up and re-read a prior blog, panic, think "what was going through my head when I wrote this shit?", but I don't take it down. Mostly because it reflects poorly on me and I'm okay with that. But Po has asked that I tweak a certain comment in a prior blog and it shall be so. The price? I am going to take wicked artistic license on this blog. See if you can pick up on the rampant bullshit!
After a night of delectable lovemaking, Michael brought me breakfast in bed and asked me to marry him. I looked the Tacori ring and the rapt expression of love and devotion on his face and told him, "I'm a size two and I run a 3:10 marathon, but I can't marry you: I know it's against your belief system and I would never force someone to do something they didn't totally subscribe to. Nor would I ever finger a hummer."
Then I gave him (and his 19" Dell flatscreen monitor and jug of bleach) a lift to his place, and repeatedly advised him to see a doctor. Oddly, I did not take any artistic license there. Titillating, no? I continued on, in my Prius and listening to Shania Twain, to Kerrisdale where I met up with my good friend L. We talked of all things interesting: insane family members; Plenty of Fish; the overall idiocy of a staggeringly high proportion of men; and work. I then sauntered over to visit with my friend the Newfie who hugged me. What is with people touching me? But she was pretty busy at work (there was a strange rush on doggie sweaters all of a sudden) so we parted ways after she advised me that she would be having a farewell party for her brother who is joining the RCMP (who has indicated that he would likely arrest me if we ever meet again, given... well, let's just leave it at that). I said, "Hells yeah, I be there fo sho" and gave her the Kerrisdale gang sign, which involves taking out a money clip full of hundred dollar bills and lighting fire to them and buying a $500 baby stroller. Such a complicated and time consuming way of indicating which 'hood you're from.
Then I hooked up with Po to talk about knitting. She's taken up knitting recently, and I've been enraptured by it. I find her new knitting experiences very fresh and invigorating and would like to also knit something very soon. We went to Hell's Kitchen and had a couple of drinks and she commented that I've been drinking a lot lately, to which I grabbed an empty Stella bottle, smashed it on the table and thrust the jagged edge in her direction, screaming, "What kind of sweater are you knitting???".
I then calmed down (more Malbec) and we talked about Dogville, and how much it made us want to kill ourselves, and yet how good it was. And it was good. I expressed gratitude that someone actually followed up on one of my recommendations, given that people roll their eyes when I make suggestions. At this Po said, "Give me a break. We read the books you recommend, we drink your suggested wine, we watch your movies and we read your blog every day. What more do you want?". I indicated that it would be great if you could all give me 10% of your salaries, as well as all your knitted products.
Then a couple that were in their late fifties walked in and I said, "They're old". Which was apt.
After this we walked back to my car and I said, "that's my car" and I got into my car and drove away. I think Po was crying when I left, though I'm unsure if the tears related to the complexity of her current sweater pattern, or the feeling of emptiness that my friends are often left with once I take my radiant persona away (odd note: I once left my radiant persona behind in Mexico, and man was there a lot of bureaucracy and red tape to get it back).
Now here I am. Blogging to an audience of thousands. Wearing a red kimono and eating starfruit, having just come in from performing an amazing balance beam routine on my balcony's balustrade to the accolades of my male counterpart in the building across the way.
After a night of delectable lovemaking, Michael brought me breakfast in bed and asked me to marry him. I looked the Tacori ring and the rapt expression of love and devotion on his face and told him, "I'm a size two and I run a 3:10 marathon, but I can't marry you: I know it's against your belief system and I would never force someone to do something they didn't totally subscribe to. Nor would I ever finger a hummer."
Then I gave him (and his 19" Dell flatscreen monitor and jug of bleach) a lift to his place, and repeatedly advised him to see a doctor. Oddly, I did not take any artistic license there. Titillating, no? I continued on, in my Prius and listening to Shania Twain, to Kerrisdale where I met up with my good friend L. We talked of all things interesting: insane family members; Plenty of Fish; the overall idiocy of a staggeringly high proportion of men; and work. I then sauntered over to visit with my friend the Newfie who hugged me. What is with people touching me? But she was pretty busy at work (there was a strange rush on doggie sweaters all of a sudden) so we parted ways after she advised me that she would be having a farewell party for her brother who is joining the RCMP (who has indicated that he would likely arrest me if we ever meet again, given... well, let's just leave it at that). I said, "Hells yeah, I be there fo sho" and gave her the Kerrisdale gang sign, which involves taking out a money clip full of hundred dollar bills and lighting fire to them and buying a $500 baby stroller. Such a complicated and time consuming way of indicating which 'hood you're from.
Then I hooked up with Po to talk about knitting. She's taken up knitting recently, and I've been enraptured by it. I find her new knitting experiences very fresh and invigorating and would like to also knit something very soon. We went to Hell's Kitchen and had a couple of drinks and she commented that I've been drinking a lot lately, to which I grabbed an empty Stella bottle, smashed it on the table and thrust the jagged edge in her direction, screaming, "What kind of sweater are you knitting???".
I then calmed down (more Malbec) and we talked about Dogville, and how much it made us want to kill ourselves, and yet how good it was. And it was good. I expressed gratitude that someone actually followed up on one of my recommendations, given that people roll their eyes when I make suggestions. At this Po said, "Give me a break. We read the books you recommend, we drink your suggested wine, we watch your movies and we read your blog every day. What more do you want?". I indicated that it would be great if you could all give me 10% of your salaries, as well as all your knitted products.
Then a couple that were in their late fifties walked in and I said, "They're old". Which was apt.
After this we walked back to my car and I said, "that's my car" and I got into my car and drove away. I think Po was crying when I left, though I'm unsure if the tears related to the complexity of her current sweater pattern, or the feeling of emptiness that my friends are often left with once I take my radiant persona away (odd note: I once left my radiant persona behind in Mexico, and man was there a lot of bureaucracy and red tape to get it back).
Now here I am. Blogging to an audience of thousands. Wearing a red kimono and eating starfruit, having just come in from performing an amazing balance beam routine on my balcony's balustrade to the accolades of my male counterpart in the building across the way.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Stinging Nettles - Part II (fiction)
Daniel wondered how long she had been with her boyfriend: this was the first that she had mentioned that there was someone on the scene, and yet dinner at the parents’ house indicated somewhat of a serious relationship.
He gave his head a small shake. What did it matter? She had a boyfriend, that was that. He was likely an exemplary human being and outstanding member of society. Butterflies likely landed on his head too.
He mumbled some disjointed account of what the weekend held for him, not mentioning that this was his Saturday to take out some of the residents of the Sunrise retirement home because he often felt that he was bragging when he mentioned it, except for the time he mentioned how he volunteered every second weekend to one of his coworkers and they had responded with, “Why?” which utterly stumped Daniel for close to ten seconds.
“Ah, you’re all coy and vague about your weekend: you must have something scintillating going on,” Janine teased. “Let’s see. What could Daniel possibly be doing that he wouldn’t want to share with his ever inquisitive coworker and spunky sidekick Janine?”
She cast a sly glance in his direction as she walked over to the truck in search of a pair of shears so she could set to work on the hedges. He watched her effortless gait, the way she literally walked with a spring in her step as though her destination was something other than a cargo box in the back of a Parks truck. She walked as though she was listening to some happy, inner music.
Grabbing the apparatus she needed she turned back to him. “I think that after work you duck into the nearest telephone booth – speaking of telephone booths, there sure aren’t many of them around anymore, are there? I mean, when was the last time you were in one? And when was the last time that you actually needed to use one? I bet you our kids will look at them strangely, the way we look at… I don’t know, eight tracks.
Anyways. Once you’re in the archaic and historically significant telephone booth, you change in to green tights and a flowing green cape and you set out to save the world from ivy and milfoil, stopping only to help little old ladies across the street and to rescue kittens from trees,” she decided.
“Firemen rescue kittens from trees, they don’t need me to do that,” he told her, inwardly happy that her image of him – though cartoonish – was noble. “And due to the serious lack of telephone booths in our society I now accomplish my rapid costume change feats in Esso bathrooms, after purchasing sugar-free gum in order to be allowed use of the washroom key, which actually works out great because I have fresh breath while ridding the world of invasive, foreign flora.”
Laughing, Janine told him that she loved his sense of humor. He gave a wry grin in reply instead of listing off one of the many things that he loved about her. The two that came most readily to mind: the way she took forever to eat an orange because, after peeling off the rind, she insisted on picking off as much of the white skein as she could because she told him she couldn’t bear its texture on her tongue; or the way she was almost totally incapable of peeling a banana with totally mashing the end of it with her repeated attempts to break the stem.
He gave his head a small shake. What did it matter? She had a boyfriend, that was that. He was likely an exemplary human being and outstanding member of society. Butterflies likely landed on his head too.
He mumbled some disjointed account of what the weekend held for him, not mentioning that this was his Saturday to take out some of the residents of the Sunrise retirement home because he often felt that he was bragging when he mentioned it, except for the time he mentioned how he volunteered every second weekend to one of his coworkers and they had responded with, “Why?” which utterly stumped Daniel for close to ten seconds.
“Ah, you’re all coy and vague about your weekend: you must have something scintillating going on,” Janine teased. “Let’s see. What could Daniel possibly be doing that he wouldn’t want to share with his ever inquisitive coworker and spunky sidekick Janine?”
She cast a sly glance in his direction as she walked over to the truck in search of a pair of shears so she could set to work on the hedges. He watched her effortless gait, the way she literally walked with a spring in her step as though her destination was something other than a cargo box in the back of a Parks truck. She walked as though she was listening to some happy, inner music.
Grabbing the apparatus she needed she turned back to him. “I think that after work you duck into the nearest telephone booth – speaking of telephone booths, there sure aren’t many of them around anymore, are there? I mean, when was the last time you were in one? And when was the last time that you actually needed to use one? I bet you our kids will look at them strangely, the way we look at… I don’t know, eight tracks.
Anyways. Once you’re in the archaic and historically significant telephone booth, you change in to green tights and a flowing green cape and you set out to save the world from ivy and milfoil, stopping only to help little old ladies across the street and to rescue kittens from trees,” she decided.
“Firemen rescue kittens from trees, they don’t need me to do that,” he told her, inwardly happy that her image of him – though cartoonish – was noble. “And due to the serious lack of telephone booths in our society I now accomplish my rapid costume change feats in Esso bathrooms, after purchasing sugar-free gum in order to be allowed use of the washroom key, which actually works out great because I have fresh breath while ridding the world of invasive, foreign flora.”
Laughing, Janine told him that she loved his sense of humor. He gave a wry grin in reply instead of listing off one of the many things that he loved about her. The two that came most readily to mind: the way she took forever to eat an orange because, after peeling off the rind, she insisted on picking off as much of the white skein as she could because she told him she couldn’t bear its texture on her tongue; or the way she was almost totally incapable of peeling a banana with totally mashing the end of it with her repeated attempts to break the stem.
Go Canucks go! Golfing.
Aside from the closed door meetings and the hushed conversations that I knew would occur yesterday, something happened that I didn't anticipate. The CEO touched me. He does this from time to time. He had a little heartfelt chat with me to see how I was handling everything, and then as he stood to leave he did the shoulder grab "hang in there" kind of thing.
I explained this to C over one of the many, many glasses of wine I had last night. He agreed that it was strange given that I don't come across as a touchable person. And then proceeded to grab my leg, squeeze my arm and mess my hair. Funny.
Then we went to the Canucks game, which was the first one that I've seen all year. Of course they lost. What the frick? The Oilers aren't even in the playoffs and we lost to them. Their goalie was great. My theory, as the Canucks really tend to suck regardless of the roster or the coach, is that the players get to Vancouver and really like our golf courses. And they endeavor to play them. It's the only thing that really makes sense.
Great seats. Lots of women with lots of makeup and blonde hair in the washrooms. Yep. Trevor Linden wants you. A large woman stood up and did a gyrating dance and won a free gift certificate to the Keg. A halfhearted attempt to do the wave was quelled. I drank Piat D'or from a plastic cup.
Now the fridge repair guy is here. He doesn't think it's the compressor and has validated my concern by a) hearing the rattling noise and b) re-creating the rattling noise.
I just want my fridge fixed.
So I can keep my Piat D'or nicely chilled.
I explained this to C over one of the many, many glasses of wine I had last night. He agreed that it was strange given that I don't come across as a touchable person. And then proceeded to grab my leg, squeeze my arm and mess my hair. Funny.
Then we went to the Canucks game, which was the first one that I've seen all year. Of course they lost. What the frick? The Oilers aren't even in the playoffs and we lost to them. Their goalie was great. My theory, as the Canucks really tend to suck regardless of the roster or the coach, is that the players get to Vancouver and really like our golf courses. And they endeavor to play them. It's the only thing that really makes sense.
Great seats. Lots of women with lots of makeup and blonde hair in the washrooms. Yep. Trevor Linden wants you. A large woman stood up and did a gyrating dance and won a free gift certificate to the Keg. A halfhearted attempt to do the wave was quelled. I drank Piat D'or from a plastic cup.
Now the fridge repair guy is here. He doesn't think it's the compressor and has validated my concern by a) hearing the rattling noise and b) re-creating the rattling noise.
I just want my fridge fixed.
So I can keep my Piat D'or nicely chilled.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
It's go time!
I want to go back to bed. Sleepy. Today is going to be a day full of closed door meetings, coffees, whispered conversations and me not getting my work done. Corporate drama: it's the best kind.
At some point people will want to know where I see myself within the organization. Where do I want to go? What do I want to achieve? What are my feelings on all this?
I'm going to point at my mouth and say, "Food goes in here."
At some point people will want to know where I see myself within the organization. Where do I want to go? What do I want to achieve? What are my feelings on all this?
I'm going to point at my mouth and say, "Food goes in here."
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Vote for Pedro
"Symptoms of mania include rapid speech, racing thoughts, decreased need for sleep, hypersexuality, euphoria, grandiosity, and increased interest in goal-directed activities... Another symptom of mania is racing thoughts during which the sufferer is excessively distracted by unimportant stimuli. This negative experience creates an inability to function and an absentmindedness where the person with mania's thoughts totally preoccupy him or her, making him or her unable to keep track of time or be aware of anything besides the neurological pattern of thoughts." (Wikipedia)
If this sounds like someone you know, you should totally plan another wine club tasting event with them. Egg timers are helpful in curbing their distracted ramblings.
In other news, the cherry beer at the District in North Van is really good. I had three of them while Po looked on with amusement (through her new, lasered eyes). I said, "You gotta problem? Cause I can shine a flashlight in your general direction, and then we'll see who's laughing".
What else. What else. Oh. My boss quit today, so there's that. Tomorrow should be interesting. And I'm going to a Canucks game with my good friend C. I think that in order to make the playoffs they have to win the next two games, and then some other team needs to lose at least one game, and then they have to sacrifice a small goat and dance naked around a fire or something. Whatever.
Good, as always to catch up with Po. In other news, totally unrelated to anything and apropos of nothing: Must. Have. Loving. Meaningful. Intimacy. Forthwith. It's just really hard to muster up the energy for anything after running 34 kilometres. Michael and I showered and then I got irate when I tried to nap and he was having some kind of muscle spasm in his leg and was thrashing around so I drove him home and then went back to bed. Talk about eroticism. Po said, "So... you're not going to have sex until after Boston?". That's in April 2009. I said, "Uh, yeah. Pretty much".
And thus witness, as I wrap up a blog that begins with mania and ends with hypersexuality. For hyper-religiosity, please see my other blog: http://www.breakthehabitsofliving.blogspot.com/. For grandiosity, please refer to my profile where I indicate that I am creating my own religion. Increased interest in goal directed activities: refer to the abolishment of the Pitt River project and the quest for Boston. Unimportant stimuli? Where do I start?
If this sounds like someone you know, you should totally plan another wine club tasting event with them. Egg timers are helpful in curbing their distracted ramblings.
In other news, the cherry beer at the District in North Van is really good. I had three of them while Po looked on with amusement (through her new, lasered eyes). I said, "You gotta problem? Cause I can shine a flashlight in your general direction, and then we'll see who's laughing".
What else. What else. Oh. My boss quit today, so there's that. Tomorrow should be interesting. And I'm going to a Canucks game with my good friend C. I think that in order to make the playoffs they have to win the next two games, and then some other team needs to lose at least one game, and then they have to sacrifice a small goat and dance naked around a fire or something. Whatever.
Good, as always to catch up with Po. In other news, totally unrelated to anything and apropos of nothing: Must. Have. Loving. Meaningful. Intimacy. Forthwith. It's just really hard to muster up the energy for anything after running 34 kilometres. Michael and I showered and then I got irate when I tried to nap and he was having some kind of muscle spasm in his leg and was thrashing around so I drove him home and then went back to bed. Talk about eroticism. Po said, "So... you're not going to have sex until after Boston?". That's in April 2009. I said, "Uh, yeah. Pretty much".
And thus witness, as I wrap up a blog that begins with mania and ends with hypersexuality. For hyper-religiosity, please see my other blog: http://www.breakthehabitsofliving.blogspot.com/. For grandiosity, please refer to my profile where I indicate that I am creating my own religion. Increased interest in goal directed activities: refer to the abolishment of the Pitt River project and the quest for Boston. Unimportant stimuli? Where do I start?
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Notes from bootcamp
I have a problem with authority. I'm quite sure this is well documented, so the following notes from tonight's boot camp may be a bit biased.
- Whistles are for six year old children with ADD. Do not expect me to do a whole lot when you blow a whistle.
- You need to speak up. There are a lot of us, and most of us aren't listening to you.
- I'm not bunny hopping anywhere.
- When you talk about "exhaling from your glutes" as we're doing squats, it sounds like you're recommending that we break wind. While this is totally hilarious to me, you may wish to re-think how you appear to others. On second thought, please continue with your inane references to exhaling out of odd parts of our bodies: it's just more fodder for the blog.
- The numerous references to sucking our guts in as though we're pulling on a tight pair of jeans are unnecessary. A lot of us are in better shape than you are, whistles or no.
- When you're counting down the time in which we have to hold a particular position, and you go, "Seven. Six. Five. Five. Five." it markedly increases the statistical probability that I am going to disengage from plank position, walk over and knee you in the groin.
That's pretty much it. Just, you know, don't tell me to do stuff and we'll get along just fine.
Our august years
There is a new guy working in the coffee shop downstairs. I’d say he’s in his fifties. The shirt that he was wearing was reminiscent of the kind my dad has: plain, thick, durable and basic. He took a while to ring in my order and when he handed me my change it was with hands that were more accustomed to carpentry than to serving coquettishly ordered drinks to diminutive young women trying to affect some level of professionalism. He apologized for the delay and said it was his first day.
Stuff like that drives me nuts.
Stuff like that drives me nuts.
People, and their funny, human ways
Hey. Dummy. When you're on the bus? Yeah. Don't stand directly in front of the doors. I realize that leaning on the poles is really enjoyable or... something, but then when people want to get off, well, they can't because you're stupid and you're in the way. So don't stand there. How, in your twenties or thirties, this concept baffles you is worrisome.
Also, just a random note: if you say you care about someone, show them. See, I could conceivably tell you that you are the love of my life and that I would die for you. But it's when I actually step in front of the speeding car to jerk you out of the way that you will be able to differentiate between lip service and action.
I care about you. A lot. And I would swim across oceans for you. And you as well: you really float my boat! As for you? Eh, not so much. You're kind of a huge asshole.
Also, just a random note: if you say you care about someone, show them. See, I could conceivably tell you that you are the love of my life and that I would die for you. But it's when I actually step in front of the speeding car to jerk you out of the way that you will be able to differentiate between lip service and action.
I care about you. A lot. And I would swim across oceans for you. And you as well: you really float my boat! As for you? Eh, not so much. You're kind of a huge asshole.
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