The RCMP just called back. The goddamn kids were smoking goddamn Colt cigarettes or something. Why'd they have to look so shifty doing it? They made it look like they were shooting heroine or some effing thing.
I feel bad. It's raining out and they're smoking a legal (though ethically corrupt) substance in a crappy parking garage on a Thursday night. I dunno. What amenities are available to these kids - maybe there's no place for them to go. They weren't hurting anyone.
Maybe they were getting ready to, though. Yeah. They were all like, "Let's go smoke some Colts and then... fuckin'... knock over some garbage cans and light some cars on fire". Phew. I'm glad I called it in. People could've died.
I'm not saying I'm a hero, but if you insist...
The true kicker will come when I get busted for a drunk and disorderly in the near future. "Oh... you're that uptight bitch that rags on kids that aren't doing anything wrong. Sorry. Are those cuffs on too tight? Watch your head getting into the car."
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Men are not from Mars
I don't know where they're from, but I'm pretty sure I could rationalize and use logic on a male Martian.
Fact: men and women communicate differently.
Fact: often, the message that the sender is trying to convey is not received by the receiver, resulting in miscommunication.
Fact: crying doesn't help. Even I got bored of it after two minutes.
Fact: cool down periods are extremely helpful. By the time I actually arrived in order to suss this issue face to face I was tired and it didn't really seem that important anymore.
Fact: Red Burrito makes the world's best burrito.
Last fact: I called the (non-emergency) police because some shifty looking kids were huddled in a stairwell in my underground parking (the unsecured part) when I came home just now.
I lied. One more fact: wasabi peas have a lot of fibre.
I realize that I am getting 'older' because I'm just too tired to fight about stuff anymore, and I'm calling the cops on teenagers and talking about the fibre content in snack foods.
Fact: men and women communicate differently.
Fact: often, the message that the sender is trying to convey is not received by the receiver, resulting in miscommunication.
Fact: crying doesn't help. Even I got bored of it after two minutes.
Fact: cool down periods are extremely helpful. By the time I actually arrived in order to suss this issue face to face I was tired and it didn't really seem that important anymore.
Fact: Red Burrito makes the world's best burrito.
Last fact: I called the (non-emergency) police because some shifty looking kids were huddled in a stairwell in my underground parking (the unsecured part) when I came home just now.
I lied. One more fact: wasabi peas have a lot of fibre.
I realize that I am getting 'older' because I'm just too tired to fight about stuff anymore, and I'm calling the cops on teenagers and talking about the fibre content in snack foods.
It never fails
Anticipation: a precursor to a fantastic disappointment.
Hunch shoulders, cast eyes to ground.
Why am I so unlikable?
Hunch shoulders, cast eyes to ground.
Why am I so unlikable?
I may go to the gym before I go to my clinic tonight (must tone arms!)
One more day and then I’m on vacation! Yippee!!!!!!!! I can’t hardly wait. And I’ll be kicking it off with a super great gathering of super cool people at Coco’s celebrate her birthday. Gonna. Be. Awesome. Must remember camera.
Also bringing the camera to the Okanagan. As well as my laptop because I think I’m going to blog whilst there because I’m that much of a huge dork.
Check out God’s related blog on this topic of… blogging: http://nonosejob.blogspot.com/2008/07/blogging-evil.html
Also bringing the camera to the Okanagan. As well as my laptop because I think I’m going to blog whilst there because I’m that much of a huge dork.
Check out God’s related blog on this topic of… blogging: http://nonosejob.blogspot.com/2008/07/blogging-evil.html
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Please, Jebus, don't let my mom read this
She checks my blogs occasionally (when I've gone too long without calling).
The "happy" people are still on their balconies. Hello! The fireworks ended over an hour ago: don't you have to work in the morning?
I have ravenous desires. Involving skirts being hiked up, being pinned against walls, much tongue and grinding and no small amount of hickeys.
One day. One day I am going to set aside 24 hours for this. We will break for showers and eating and napping.
I wonder, on days like today where I quaff beer, pay down my mortgage, work out hard and am flirted with by random men, why it is that I'm unmarried. Then I think: why do I want to be married?
Oh, the thing I forgot to blog about earlier was that another toenail fell off. Except it was one that recently fell off, so.... I might have leprosy.
Running rocks!
Go. To. Bed. Balcony dwellers.
The "happy" people are still on their balconies. Hello! The fireworks ended over an hour ago: don't you have to work in the morning?
I have ravenous desires. Involving skirts being hiked up, being pinned against walls, much tongue and grinding and no small amount of hickeys.
One day. One day I am going to set aside 24 hours for this. We will break for showers and eating and napping.
I wonder, on days like today where I quaff beer, pay down my mortgage, work out hard and am flirted with by random men, why it is that I'm unmarried. Then I think: why do I want to be married?
Oh, the thing I forgot to blog about earlier was that another toenail fell off. Except it was one that recently fell off, so.... I might have leprosy.
Running rocks!
Go. To. Bed. Balcony dwellers.
Those cool things in life I was talking about the other day
Sitting here, reading blogs because blogs can sometimes be more fun than books, and listening to the roar of the fireworks. Sounds like thunder. I saw flashing out of the corner of my eye and looked to the building kitty-corner to me and at first I thought I was seeing the flashes of many cameras go off. Turns out I was seeing the reflection of tonight's luminary spectacle reflected in their windowpanes. Cool, eh?
I can hear a lot of people (those that are south/south west facing) out on their balconies having fun and enjoying the display. It's nice.
Kind of a funky experience to be involved in, albeit in a solitaire and east-facing way.
I ate too many wasabi peas.
I can hear a lot of people (those that are south/south west facing) out on their balconies having fun and enjoying the display. It's nice.
Kind of a funky experience to be involved in, albeit in a solitaire and east-facing way.
I ate too many wasabi peas.
Mania rocks
Went for dinner and drinks with my ex-boss tonight. The Robot Liberator joined us about halfway in. I hugged him at the end. And then I got a sandwich hug, mashed between him and my ex-boss. I informed them that my therapy has been extended indefinitely thanks to this flagrant bout of touching.
Two beers to the wind I caught the seabus home and decided to multi-task. I'm such an efficient drunk. On the way up Lonsdale I: had a nice conversation with my father; stole a sweetpea from the park because they are my namesake and they smell so damn good; and paid a goodly sum down on my mortgage.
Upon arriving home I thought two things. Damn I'm thirsty. Let's go to the gym.
50 minutes on the bike later, here I am.
It occurs to me, as I contemplate running home from work tomorrow (must be home by 6pm to make tomorrow's clinic at 6:30!), that I'm pushing it pretty hard. One might say I'm turning it up a notch. To eleven.
Not sure where this burst of energy is coming from.
I'm going to go eat wasabi peas now.
Two beers to the wind I caught the seabus home and decided to multi-task. I'm such an efficient drunk. On the way up Lonsdale I: had a nice conversation with my father; stole a sweetpea from the park because they are my namesake and they smell so damn good; and paid a goodly sum down on my mortgage.
Upon arriving home I thought two things. Damn I'm thirsty. Let's go to the gym.
50 minutes on the bike later, here I am.
It occurs to me, as I contemplate running home from work tomorrow (must be home by 6pm to make tomorrow's clinic at 6:30!), that I'm pushing it pretty hard. One might say I'm turning it up a notch. To eleven.
Not sure where this burst of energy is coming from.
I'm going to go eat wasabi peas now.
Whoa!
I just re-read last night's blog and I would like to make the following statement: I realize that I was really in my head when I wrote that. I understand that the vast majority of people that read that were probably bored, perplexed or made angry/apathetic by it.
In news that doesn't take place entirely in my pea-head: my new boss cracks his knuckles and it drives me nuts. Also? I think a girl in marketing was just talking to her dog on the phone.
Lunch time!
In news that doesn't take place entirely in my pea-head: my new boss cracks his knuckles and it drives me nuts. Also? I think a girl in marketing was just talking to her dog on the phone.
Lunch time!
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
We have a winner!
If any of you wonder about my mindset and my view on life, watch "13 Conversations About One Thing". I know you will because you're just dying to understand and analyse and get close to me. You lie awake thinking, "What makes Duder tick?" and "Why is she the way she is? It's clear that she's been dropped on her head... and yet it's more than that".
Why do I not look forward to things? Why am I so hard on myself? Why do I feel it necessary to work out for 80 minutes so that I can appropriately appreciate my dinner? I should revel more, I should be proud more, I should anticipate and be excited about things more often.
Right.
Here's how this works: I am an extremely lucky person. I have always believed this, and then I thought that it wasn't luck and that I'd done something to deserve the things that I have, but I change my mind back: it's luck. It's always been luck and it always will be luck. It was luck that I was born in Vancouver. It's luck that I landed good jobs. It was bad luck that I've been in a couple of car accidents. Luck that I got a condo. Bad luck that I met Typewriter. I couldn't control any of these things.
I do take credit for certain aspects: I didn't qualify for Boston by being lazy. I haven't kept all my jobs for as long as I have because I'm inept. You might say I "manage" my luck pretty well.
But when it comes to being anticipatory, to looking forward to something.... it just doesn't work with me.
Perfect case in point: I finally tracked down a wily and elusive bottle of Baco Noir that didn't cost the moon. I was so excited: I discovered this wine when I was visiting Ontario about four years ago, and was disappointed to discover that the varietal is quite rare here. So tonight, after working out for 80 minutes to earn my dinner I decided to get into the Baco. Hell, I even decanted the goddamn thing. And? Meh. That's what. Anticipation sucks. When I anticipate, I am let down. I anticipated 3:35 for the Vancouver Marathon. I anticipated some other things that I won't wade into at this point, and they didn't materialize either.
But I'm not morose. Quite the contrary. I'm content, and oft times I'm quite happy (though I don't display it like most regular people do: I see a myriad of amazing things that please me and renew my appreciation of life on a daily basis, but it's more fun to appear crabby and pissed off).
What was it about the Baco Noir? It was the anticipation of it. What was the reality of the Baco Noir? The reality was that I was holed up for several days in a hotel in Mississauga, visiting our satellite and head offices, getting trained, meeting people and.... working out and watching cable t.v. I was there over a long weekend (I think Labour Day) and I thought, "Who knows when I'll be back this way" so I hooked up with Pez and his fiance one day, and the other day I took a tour of Niagara Falls which included a wine tasting in the Niagara region. That's where I met the Baco.
So what was the Baco, really? It was bad luck putting me in Mississauga over the long weekend, and me managing it so that I could get out and have a good time. It was the woman I met because we bumped into each other at the gym and at breakfast a few times. It was Michael calling me at midnight because it was only nine o'clock his time and I know he knew this, but he missed me and wanted to hear my voice. It was one of the high-ups in management being impressed by me even though I drank too much wine at dinner and wore dumpy clothes, while another middle management woman was all but taking her top off to make some headway with him (and she totally ignored me at the airport too, which was fine cause I bought some shitty chick flick book and had a couple of glasses of wine at a lounge before boarding, and was hoping to drink more on the flight so that I could hopefully fall asleep but was unable to because a girl came and joined me - even though I had the whole frickin' row to myself! - but that was okay because she was into kayaking so we talked about that for ages). Niagara Falls (the falls themselves, not the shitty tourist trap that presses up against them). Great weather. Friendly people. Beautiful countryside.
I'm not doing a very good job explaining this. It's probably something like this: I'm not big on getting excited about the prospect of things for a few reasons: a) it's never the same the second time; b) the greater the expectation, the greater the scrutiny, and the more biting the disappointment; c) the unexpected things on the day to day are the best; and d) it might not even happen.
And on a really "out there" level (and yes, I do believe this): I think that the more I look forward to something the more it is likely to be taken from me. This is based on 31 years of experience. I understand that this is because I already have an inordinate amount of luck and that it is quite audacious for me to be expectant about anything. I heard the term "every day above ground is a good day" a few years ago and that's my mantra (as dismal as it sounds) a lot of the time.
Ah! See, now that I've unloaded and disbursed all my expectations, this Baco's tasting pretty good.
Why do I not look forward to things? Why am I so hard on myself? Why do I feel it necessary to work out for 80 minutes so that I can appropriately appreciate my dinner? I should revel more, I should be proud more, I should anticipate and be excited about things more often.
Right.
Here's how this works: I am an extremely lucky person. I have always believed this, and then I thought that it wasn't luck and that I'd done something to deserve the things that I have, but I change my mind back: it's luck. It's always been luck and it always will be luck. It was luck that I was born in Vancouver. It's luck that I landed good jobs. It was bad luck that I've been in a couple of car accidents. Luck that I got a condo. Bad luck that I met Typewriter. I couldn't control any of these things.
I do take credit for certain aspects: I didn't qualify for Boston by being lazy. I haven't kept all my jobs for as long as I have because I'm inept. You might say I "manage" my luck pretty well.
But when it comes to being anticipatory, to looking forward to something.... it just doesn't work with me.
Perfect case in point: I finally tracked down a wily and elusive bottle of Baco Noir that didn't cost the moon. I was so excited: I discovered this wine when I was visiting Ontario about four years ago, and was disappointed to discover that the varietal is quite rare here. So tonight, after working out for 80 minutes to earn my dinner I decided to get into the Baco. Hell, I even decanted the goddamn thing. And? Meh. That's what. Anticipation sucks. When I anticipate, I am let down. I anticipated 3:35 for the Vancouver Marathon. I anticipated some other things that I won't wade into at this point, and they didn't materialize either.
But I'm not morose. Quite the contrary. I'm content, and oft times I'm quite happy (though I don't display it like most regular people do: I see a myriad of amazing things that please me and renew my appreciation of life on a daily basis, but it's more fun to appear crabby and pissed off).
What was it about the Baco Noir? It was the anticipation of it. What was the reality of the Baco Noir? The reality was that I was holed up for several days in a hotel in Mississauga, visiting our satellite and head offices, getting trained, meeting people and.... working out and watching cable t.v. I was there over a long weekend (I think Labour Day) and I thought, "Who knows when I'll be back this way" so I hooked up with Pez and his fiance one day, and the other day I took a tour of Niagara Falls which included a wine tasting in the Niagara region. That's where I met the Baco.
So what was the Baco, really? It was bad luck putting me in Mississauga over the long weekend, and me managing it so that I could get out and have a good time. It was the woman I met because we bumped into each other at the gym and at breakfast a few times. It was Michael calling me at midnight because it was only nine o'clock his time and I know he knew this, but he missed me and wanted to hear my voice. It was one of the high-ups in management being impressed by me even though I drank too much wine at dinner and wore dumpy clothes, while another middle management woman was all but taking her top off to make some headway with him (and she totally ignored me at the airport too, which was fine cause I bought some shitty chick flick book and had a couple of glasses of wine at a lounge before boarding, and was hoping to drink more on the flight so that I could hopefully fall asleep but was unable to because a girl came and joined me - even though I had the whole frickin' row to myself! - but that was okay because she was into kayaking so we talked about that for ages). Niagara Falls (the falls themselves, not the shitty tourist trap that presses up against them). Great weather. Friendly people. Beautiful countryside.
I'm not doing a very good job explaining this. It's probably something like this: I'm not big on getting excited about the prospect of things for a few reasons: a) it's never the same the second time; b) the greater the expectation, the greater the scrutiny, and the more biting the disappointment; c) the unexpected things on the day to day are the best; and d) it might not even happen.
And on a really "out there" level (and yes, I do believe this): I think that the more I look forward to something the more it is likely to be taken from me. This is based on 31 years of experience. I understand that this is because I already have an inordinate amount of luck and that it is quite audacious for me to be expectant about anything. I heard the term "every day above ground is a good day" a few years ago and that's my mantra (as dismal as it sounds) a lot of the time.
Ah! See, now that I've unloaded and disbursed all my expectations, this Baco's tasting pretty good.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Mystic Pizza... sigh
Did anything good come out of the eighties? Jesus Keyrist. If you haven't seen this movie and you don't want me to give away key components of the plot, don't read on.
Where to begin. Okay, the clothes threw me. It's hard to take anyone seriously when they're wearing black nylons and a black cocktail dress with a big white bow on it and freaking patent black leather pumps. I think I saw a banana clip. And what's with all the hair? Oh! How about a t-shirt that fits, and jeans that don't go up to your tits?
Wow. Sorry about that. As I said: the clothes threw me. But I kept thinking, "the stellar acting will carry it". Julia Roberts and Vincent D'Onofrio did a good job (though I will admit that D'Onofrio is on my top ten list), but the rest was really overacted. I don't get it. Like, were these problems that were showcased in the movie quite groundbreaking back in the eighties? Intriguing... as I start to rail against it I'm starting to find a couple of good points. Okay, Julia Roberts' character seeing through her rich boyfriend's facade and calling him on it: that was actually good. And Lili Taylor's relationship with D'Onofrio was a little atypical because he was the one pushing for marriage, whereas she just seemed to be into it for the sex.
The rest was trite! The dinner scene where the serving girl knows Julia Roberts and starts chatting her up? Come on! No serving girl would be like, "hey, how in the hell are ya?" to a guest that she knew. And why did Vincent D'Onofrio have to marry Lili Taylor so badly? Couldn't they just have shacked up, snorted coke and worn really bad clothing for a couple of years like everyone else was doing?
The best part was the other girl who was trying to save money to go to Yale. So, besides slinging slices, she takes a job babysitting. Um, how much does babysitting pay? Take a job slinging drinks and get some tips, honey. Whatever. So she babysits and then oh! fucks the dad and is devastated when the wife returns from her travels in England and the dad doesn't acknowledge her. How did this girl get into Yale? She's stupid! Give me the scholarship: I can figure shit like that out right quick!
Right. It did make me want to have pizza, though. Not sure if that's a good thing.
Here are some good things: Michael, my blessed lover, ran the three bridges today. I say boo-yah for not letting the man keep you down and he is currently my A Number One Hero. He said The Killers' "All These Things That I've Done" came on while he was on the final leg up Keith Road and the song propelled him up the hill. I vaguely knew the song so I downloaded it, played it like five times while dancing around my kitchen. That song rocks. I understand that it rocked like two years ago, but clearly I was saving it for tonight. So I could dance around in my kitchen. By myself. On a Sunday night. Hey! I should get some cats.
I realize I'm blogging too much lately, but it's because I have verbal diarrhea and I'm just that irritating.
I think I might go dance around my kitchen some more.
Where to begin. Okay, the clothes threw me. It's hard to take anyone seriously when they're wearing black nylons and a black cocktail dress with a big white bow on it and freaking patent black leather pumps. I think I saw a banana clip. And what's with all the hair? Oh! How about a t-shirt that fits, and jeans that don't go up to your tits?
Wow. Sorry about that. As I said: the clothes threw me. But I kept thinking, "the stellar acting will carry it". Julia Roberts and Vincent D'Onofrio did a good job (though I will admit that D'Onofrio is on my top ten list), but the rest was really overacted. I don't get it. Like, were these problems that were showcased in the movie quite groundbreaking back in the eighties? Intriguing... as I start to rail against it I'm starting to find a couple of good points. Okay, Julia Roberts' character seeing through her rich boyfriend's facade and calling him on it: that was actually good. And Lili Taylor's relationship with D'Onofrio was a little atypical because he was the one pushing for marriage, whereas she just seemed to be into it for the sex.
The rest was trite! The dinner scene where the serving girl knows Julia Roberts and starts chatting her up? Come on! No serving girl would be like, "hey, how in the hell are ya?" to a guest that she knew. And why did Vincent D'Onofrio have to marry Lili Taylor so badly? Couldn't they just have shacked up, snorted coke and worn really bad clothing for a couple of years like everyone else was doing?
The best part was the other girl who was trying to save money to go to Yale. So, besides slinging slices, she takes a job babysitting. Um, how much does babysitting pay? Take a job slinging drinks and get some tips, honey. Whatever. So she babysits and then oh! fucks the dad and is devastated when the wife returns from her travels in England and the dad doesn't acknowledge her. How did this girl get into Yale? She's stupid! Give me the scholarship: I can figure shit like that out right quick!
Right. It did make me want to have pizza, though. Not sure if that's a good thing.
Here are some good things: Michael, my blessed lover, ran the three bridges today. I say boo-yah for not letting the man keep you down and he is currently my A Number One Hero. He said The Killers' "All These Things That I've Done" came on while he was on the final leg up Keith Road and the song propelled him up the hill. I vaguely knew the song so I downloaded it, played it like five times while dancing around my kitchen. That song rocks. I understand that it rocked like two years ago, but clearly I was saving it for tonight. So I could dance around in my kitchen. By myself. On a Sunday night. Hey! I should get some cats.
I realize I'm blogging too much lately, but it's because I have verbal diarrhea and I'm just that irritating.
I think I might go dance around my kitchen some more.
My running clinic is messing with me
There was a run a couple of weeks ago that I didn't do (I hadn't yet re-committed to this whole marathon idea - sleep seeming like a better idea at the time), and some of the people that talked about it indicated that there was no way the run was 12 miles as they were under the impression it was, surely it was thirteen.
The same thing happened today. When this run was talked about at the clinic last week the term "fifteen miles" was bandied about. I looked at the route this morning and it said sixteen miles on it. And it turned out to be closer to seventeen miles. I know two miles doesn't seem like a lot, but after you've run fifteen miles and you still have to run along the seawall, over the Burrard Street bridge and back to Kits Beach when you thought you were supposed to done, it is far.
I'm not complaining: I did close to 17 miles today. That kicks ass. It was wet when I woke up, but it didn't rain on our run and we got to run from Kits to Science World, then along the seawall, around Stanley Park and back. Vancouver's a beautiful city and it was great to see so, so many groups of runners out today. I think we saw more runners than walkers! And almost everyone that came out today wore their clinic shirts which was cool (only I did feel a bit bad because I didn't want to infer that we had run from the North Shore, cause we ran from Kits, but then I don't feel too bad about it since in a month or more we will be running the infamous "three bridges" which takes us over the Ironworkers, Burrard and Lionsgate bridges).
Am I boring you with my running talk? Likely. Here's an update: my banana was touching my cookie and so when I ate the cookie it tasted like banana which pissed me off because I don't want my tasty cookies to taste like something healthy.
Now I'm really tired so I'm going to watch "Mystic Pizza" because I've never seen it, while waiting for Michael to call me from a pay phone, asking me to come and pick it up. He worked last night and got to bed at 4am, so he just left for his run about an hour ago. He tried to call me once from a pay phone and because I didn't recognize the number I didn't answer it. I'm still living that one down.
Oh, best ever wine news? Went to the new wine store on Marine called "Everything Wine" and it's basically like a grocery store, but with wine. Anyways, I thought to myself, "if this place can't help me, no one can" and I marched up to a perky employee and said, "Do you have any wines from Ontario?" to which she wrinkled up her nose as to say, "why ever would we have wines from Ontario?" (um, because they're tasty and we should promote Canadian wines, that's why??) and she's like, "I think we have a couple of wineries" and with baited breath I followed her, fingers crossed, hoping against hope to see the thing that I haven't had since I went to Mississauga when I worked for Hudd a million years ago and visited Niagara Falls and then did a wine tasting and fell in love with a certain wine only to find that pretty much one goddamn winery in the Okanagan produces it and it's like $28 a bottle when they're practically giving it away for free in the Niagara Region and there it was! A bottle of Baco Noir for $14.99! Miracles do happen.
I'm so excited I could nap!
The same thing happened today. When this run was talked about at the clinic last week the term "fifteen miles" was bandied about. I looked at the route this morning and it said sixteen miles on it. And it turned out to be closer to seventeen miles. I know two miles doesn't seem like a lot, but after you've run fifteen miles and you still have to run along the seawall, over the Burrard Street bridge and back to Kits Beach when you thought you were supposed to done, it is far.
I'm not complaining: I did close to 17 miles today. That kicks ass. It was wet when I woke up, but it didn't rain on our run and we got to run from Kits to Science World, then along the seawall, around Stanley Park and back. Vancouver's a beautiful city and it was great to see so, so many groups of runners out today. I think we saw more runners than walkers! And almost everyone that came out today wore their clinic shirts which was cool (only I did feel a bit bad because I didn't want to infer that we had run from the North Shore, cause we ran from Kits, but then I don't feel too bad about it since in a month or more we will be running the infamous "three bridges" which takes us over the Ironworkers, Burrard and Lionsgate bridges).
Am I boring you with my running talk? Likely. Here's an update: my banana was touching my cookie and so when I ate the cookie it tasted like banana which pissed me off because I don't want my tasty cookies to taste like something healthy.
Now I'm really tired so I'm going to watch "Mystic Pizza" because I've never seen it, while waiting for Michael to call me from a pay phone, asking me to come and pick it up. He worked last night and got to bed at 4am, so he just left for his run about an hour ago. He tried to call me once from a pay phone and because I didn't recognize the number I didn't answer it. I'm still living that one down.
Oh, best ever wine news? Went to the new wine store on Marine called "Everything Wine" and it's basically like a grocery store, but with wine. Anyways, I thought to myself, "if this place can't help me, no one can" and I marched up to a perky employee and said, "Do you have any wines from Ontario?" to which she wrinkled up her nose as to say, "why ever would we have wines from Ontario?" (um, because they're tasty and we should promote Canadian wines, that's why??) and she's like, "I think we have a couple of wineries" and with baited breath I followed her, fingers crossed, hoping against hope to see the thing that I haven't had since I went to Mississauga when I worked for Hudd a million years ago and visited Niagara Falls and then did a wine tasting and fell in love with a certain wine only to find that pretty much one goddamn winery in the Okanagan produces it and it's like $28 a bottle when they're practically giving it away for free in the Niagara Region and there it was! A bottle of Baco Noir for $14.99! Miracles do happen.
I'm so excited I could nap!
Bed now?
So tempting to go back to bed. It's raining and a bit foggy and I still have to drive out to Kits just to get to my run. Yawn. Don't wanna do it, though once I get there I know everyone will be joking around and happy to see me. It'll be over in between two hours and two hours and fifteen minutes.
Kits. I wonder if we'll go for coffee afterwards in Kits, or if my fellow North Shore residents are like me, and can hardly wait to get over the Lionsgate to the magical 'other side'. When Kits people start moving to Lonsdale, I am moving to Edgemont. Or maybe Deep Cove.
Kits. I wonder if we'll go for coffee afterwards in Kits, or if my fellow North Shore residents are like me, and can hardly wait to get over the Lionsgate to the magical 'other side'. When Kits people start moving to Lonsdale, I am moving to Edgemont. Or maybe Deep Cove.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
I don't want to run 15 miles tomorrow
I just want to continue sitting here on my couch, reading Ferroever's blog, drinking wine and listening to KCSM.
I don't like when ambulances pull in to the hospital with sirens on: it means they're in a hurry to get back to the hospital because it's bad news. Bad news sucks.
I appreciate my life very much. I've been having a lot of fun lately. Didn't accomplish much of anything today which, if you know me, is groundbreaking.
Haven't seen Michael since Thursday. The poor guy is currently working (they started at 8pm). He won't be at the run tomorrow morning obviously, so hopefully I will see him later on in the day.
Hope Coco's interview went well today. Can't wait to see her and the gang on Friday.
Love my life!
I don't like when ambulances pull in to the hospital with sirens on: it means they're in a hurry to get back to the hospital because it's bad news. Bad news sucks.
I appreciate my life very much. I've been having a lot of fun lately. Didn't accomplish much of anything today which, if you know me, is groundbreaking.
Haven't seen Michael since Thursday. The poor guy is currently working (they started at 8pm). He won't be at the run tomorrow morning obviously, so hopefully I will see him later on in the day.
Hope Coco's interview went well today. Can't wait to see her and the gang on Friday.
Love my life!
Watching movies. Er, reading books, I mean.
I just watched "Vanity Fair". I'm about halfway done the book and, though it's a bit hard to follow, I'm greatly enjoying the trials and travels of Becky Sharp. I do recommend the movie too, though one does get more of the subtleties and nuances from the written word.
Here is the question: do I finish the book? I know how it all ends, so nothing will come as any sort of surprise. Ah, of course I will finish it: it's a good read.
Started Dune a couple of days ago for book club. I realize I've read the book before. And I think that a movie was made of it...
Here is the question: do I finish the book? I know how it all ends, so nothing will come as any sort of surprise. Ah, of course I will finish it: it's a good read.
Started Dune a couple of days ago for book club. I realize I've read the book before. And I think that a movie was made of it...
Access
Here's a blog posting from la old blog. If anyone wants access to the old blog lemme know and I'll ad ya. It was lame, yet bitter.
Grind, grind!
One of the perks (hmm, I may have to revisit the use of the word "perk" in this particular instance) of leaving work at 4pm these days is that I can now make the Wednesday night running clinic. This is the clinic that deals with such running nuances as speed and hills. Both are best avoided. In fact, I strongly discourage everyone from ever running a marathon. The only reason I'm still doing this is because I paid for it, and I'm cheap and I will not back out. Today we did hills. The concept is that you run up a 500 or 600 metre hill as hard as you can, then run down, and then do it four more times. We're working up to ten. I will simply say that the first one was easy. The subsequent ones, not so much. I bought a dorky water belt (since the only thing dorkier is bonking and ending up in the hospital with dehydration) and I was quite glad that I brought it along with me tonight. I tried to look cool as I rapidly depleted two of the little bottles and then stuck my tongue inside them to scrape out the last vestiges of moisture. Some guy gave me his phone number. I said, "Do you work for Canadian Springs?" and he said, "Uh, no" so I said, "Beat it then. And put your goddamn shirt back on: it's not that hot and neither are you".I also got a new cell phone today. It's something new and shiny to entertain me and distract me from the lack of romance, sex and affection in my life. So I'm playing with it on the bus ride home, adjusting the volume and what not and I get a call from work. Of course at this point I had the volume right cranked and no one on the bus is talking so it's like RING RING RING and everyone looks at me as I try to answer it while maintaining some semblance of coolness.And I downloaded the Scissor Sisters' "I Don't Feel Like Dancing" recently, and I totally dance in my apartment and crank it, even though it sounds like the BeeGees and there are handclaps and what sounds like rayguns being fired sporadically. Or what I think rayguns might sound like. I wish I had a raygun. That would distract me. I could shoot my fellow running mates and take their water. Pew pew!
Grind, grind!
One of the perks (hmm, I may have to revisit the use of the word "perk" in this particular instance) of leaving work at 4pm these days is that I can now make the Wednesday night running clinic. This is the clinic that deals with such running nuances as speed and hills. Both are best avoided. In fact, I strongly discourage everyone from ever running a marathon. The only reason I'm still doing this is because I paid for it, and I'm cheap and I will not back out. Today we did hills. The concept is that you run up a 500 or 600 metre hill as hard as you can, then run down, and then do it four more times. We're working up to ten. I will simply say that the first one was easy. The subsequent ones, not so much. I bought a dorky water belt (since the only thing dorkier is bonking and ending up in the hospital with dehydration) and I was quite glad that I brought it along with me tonight. I tried to look cool as I rapidly depleted two of the little bottles and then stuck my tongue inside them to scrape out the last vestiges of moisture. Some guy gave me his phone number. I said, "Do you work for Canadian Springs?" and he said, "Uh, no" so I said, "Beat it then. And put your goddamn shirt back on: it's not that hot and neither are you".I also got a new cell phone today. It's something new and shiny to entertain me and distract me from the lack of romance, sex and affection in my life. So I'm playing with it on the bus ride home, adjusting the volume and what not and I get a call from work. Of course at this point I had the volume right cranked and no one on the bus is talking so it's like RING RING RING and everyone looks at me as I try to answer it while maintaining some semblance of coolness.And I downloaded the Scissor Sisters' "I Don't Feel Like Dancing" recently, and I totally dance in my apartment and crank it, even though it sounds like the BeeGees and there are handclaps and what sounds like rayguns being fired sporadically. Or what I think rayguns might sound like. I wish I had a raygun. That would distract me. I could shoot my fellow running mates and take their water. Pew pew!
Friday, July 25, 2008
Mean Girls/I'm drunk/Reminiscing
I just finished watching "Mean Girls". I'm a little late cause Michael called and we talked for almost an hour. Who does that? Allow me a brief tangent: there isn't anyone on this planet that gets me and that accepts me and that (for whatever incorrect reason) loves me as much as Michael. I know my family loves me, but I don't think they get me. Actually, I'm pretty sure no one gets me entirely but Michael's as close as it comes. He's more than a boyfriend or partner or husband or friend or lover. I don't know what he is, but I would be very forlorn if we no longer had random hour long conversations. I've never been so comfortable with someone in my entire life. Are you puking yet? Cause I'm feeling a bit queasy. I may randomly go outside and punch someone on Lonsdale to assert my overall manliness. I'm. Not. Gay.
Okay, back to "Mean Girls". Holy fuck. I hated high school something fierce and I hope to never re-live that whole fucking horrid scenario ever again. So, allow me to drunkenly blog about my adolescence cause I've got nothing better to do and I don't want to go to sleep like my last posting indicated because on a fundamental level sleep equals death or some damn thing. Rage, rage, against the dying of the light... and all that.
I recall being in Grade 1 and taking apart my watch and putting it back together, much to the dismay of my first grade teacher, Mrs. Kraft. I met Supermommy. I have known Supermommy for about 25 years. Ohmygod. I remember Mrs. Buckley playing CCR's "Looking Out My Backdoor" and thinking about it in the most innocent terms because I was only 8 or something. At some point a Commodore 64 was introduced into Mrs. Martin and Mrs. Wang's split class. I was in Grade 3 but I was reading Grade 4 books. I was bullied on more than one occasion: in one instance I lost a loose tooth; in another I was haphazardly beaten up and ended up cowering under a desk, half-crying. I wrote a nasty note to Tom Willie and had to write lines and remit them to the principal. In Grade 6 my teacher was Mr. Strauss and he would say to us, "If I told you you had a nice body would you hold it against me?" and would hug his students. I don't think he was a sexual pervert, but I do think he was mildly retarded. I remember telling my parents about the hugging when I was in my twenties and my dad hit the roof. I guess I just thought it was normal (why would adults want to do anything weird or unkind to kids?), but had I told my parents what the deal was when it was actually happening I'm pretty sure my dad would've knocked Mr. Strauss unconscious, which was fine, because he was a racist, sexist son of a bitch anyways. I saw him a few years ago and I remembered how ex-students used to come in to see him when they went on to high school and I thought that was so cool. When I saw Mr. Strauss at Minter Gardens with Michael I ignored him (he didn't see me). He wasn't cool: he was a narrow-minded bigot that was likely cheating on his wife. But he did encourage my creative writing abilities, so... there's that.
Let's see. Grade 8. High school. I wish I had a scanner so I could upload some of the heinous photos of me at that time. A boy asked me out in French Class in Grade 9 and I thought that he was teasing me, becuse I couldn't understand why anyone would want to date me. I fought back against a couple of girls that were chapping my ass. I was caught badmouthing another girl in our class and she marched resolutely into my Western Civilization class and backhanded me (I think Supermommy was there). I was totally stunned (I think everyone was). My parents were utterly perplexed and were like, "Uh... do you want to press charges?". No. I had badmouthed this girl and I deserved what I got. Don't badmouth people: it's pathetic and lame and I am sorry for it, to this day.
Nothing else of any great import happened in high school except that I developed an eating disorder (the remnants of which are still with me). I used to chew the food that I liked to eat (mainly Costco muffins) and then spit it out for my dog to eat. Yeah, I'm sure that every fourteen year old girl does that. I stole my parents car and got busted by my parents. I threatened to commit suicide because I was too fat. I graduated with honours. I was a virgin that didn't drink or do drugs (I wasn't corrupted until I was 18).
Um, so I pretty much hated my life in high school. The ironic thing was that I lost a lot of weight and started hanging out with a fast crowd (and I mean fast) when I graduated. One of the gentlemen - let's call him Bubba - told me that he assumed I had been on the cheer leading squad when I was in high school given the change in my physical appearance. And, given the crowd that I was running with, I remember Supermommy (though definitely not a super mom at the time) telling me that she was pretty sure that I had been caught up in the shit because of the crowd I was in with. I wasn't. I was such a fucking newbie. The only drug I've ever done is pot, and I'm really happy about that.
At work I'm quite popular. I seem to have attained the status that I likely always hankered for in high school, but I'm the same goddamn person. It's a bit of a fucking kicker, when you get down to it.
That's why, when I see the person that's out there, that's doing something different, I really try to appreciate what it is that they're trying to do. It's a fucking boring existence if we all look and act the same. I'm fundamentally the same as I was ten years ago, but people like me more now because I'm skinny (even though I weigh myself once a day, sometimes twice) and more ribald. Weird, eh?
This is where you shower me with compliments so I feel worthy enough to eat solid meal at breakfast tomorrow. THANK YOU MAINSTREAM MEDIA: this shit did not come from my parents.
Ah fuck, look at me whinging. Best life ever, babes. I've a great group of friends, the gents seem inclined to want to see me naked (even though I weight 124lbs today), what else could one want?
Okay, back to "Mean Girls". Holy fuck. I hated high school something fierce and I hope to never re-live that whole fucking horrid scenario ever again. So, allow me to drunkenly blog about my adolescence cause I've got nothing better to do and I don't want to go to sleep like my last posting indicated because on a fundamental level sleep equals death or some damn thing. Rage, rage, against the dying of the light... and all that.
I recall being in Grade 1 and taking apart my watch and putting it back together, much to the dismay of my first grade teacher, Mrs. Kraft. I met Supermommy. I have known Supermommy for about 25 years. Ohmygod. I remember Mrs. Buckley playing CCR's "Looking Out My Backdoor" and thinking about it in the most innocent terms because I was only 8 or something. At some point a Commodore 64 was introduced into Mrs. Martin and Mrs. Wang's split class. I was in Grade 3 but I was reading Grade 4 books. I was bullied on more than one occasion: in one instance I lost a loose tooth; in another I was haphazardly beaten up and ended up cowering under a desk, half-crying. I wrote a nasty note to Tom Willie and had to write lines and remit them to the principal. In Grade 6 my teacher was Mr. Strauss and he would say to us, "If I told you you had a nice body would you hold it against me?" and would hug his students. I don't think he was a sexual pervert, but I do think he was mildly retarded. I remember telling my parents about the hugging when I was in my twenties and my dad hit the roof. I guess I just thought it was normal (why would adults want to do anything weird or unkind to kids?), but had I told my parents what the deal was when it was actually happening I'm pretty sure my dad would've knocked Mr. Strauss unconscious, which was fine, because he was a racist, sexist son of a bitch anyways. I saw him a few years ago and I remembered how ex-students used to come in to see him when they went on to high school and I thought that was so cool. When I saw Mr. Strauss at Minter Gardens with Michael I ignored him (he didn't see me). He wasn't cool: he was a narrow-minded bigot that was likely cheating on his wife. But he did encourage my creative writing abilities, so... there's that.
Let's see. Grade 8. High school. I wish I had a scanner so I could upload some of the heinous photos of me at that time. A boy asked me out in French Class in Grade 9 and I thought that he was teasing me, becuse I couldn't understand why anyone would want to date me. I fought back against a couple of girls that were chapping my ass. I was caught badmouthing another girl in our class and she marched resolutely into my Western Civilization class and backhanded me (I think Supermommy was there). I was totally stunned (I think everyone was). My parents were utterly perplexed and were like, "Uh... do you want to press charges?". No. I had badmouthed this girl and I deserved what I got. Don't badmouth people: it's pathetic and lame and I am sorry for it, to this day.
Nothing else of any great import happened in high school except that I developed an eating disorder (the remnants of which are still with me). I used to chew the food that I liked to eat (mainly Costco muffins) and then spit it out for my dog to eat. Yeah, I'm sure that every fourteen year old girl does that. I stole my parents car and got busted by my parents. I threatened to commit suicide because I was too fat. I graduated with honours. I was a virgin that didn't drink or do drugs (I wasn't corrupted until I was 18).
Um, so I pretty much hated my life in high school. The ironic thing was that I lost a lot of weight and started hanging out with a fast crowd (and I mean fast) when I graduated. One of the gentlemen - let's call him Bubba - told me that he assumed I had been on the cheer leading squad when I was in high school given the change in my physical appearance. And, given the crowd that I was running with, I remember Supermommy (though definitely not a super mom at the time) telling me that she was pretty sure that I had been caught up in the shit because of the crowd I was in with. I wasn't. I was such a fucking newbie. The only drug I've ever done is pot, and I'm really happy about that.
At work I'm quite popular. I seem to have attained the status that I likely always hankered for in high school, but I'm the same goddamn person. It's a bit of a fucking kicker, when you get down to it.
That's why, when I see the person that's out there, that's doing something different, I really try to appreciate what it is that they're trying to do. It's a fucking boring existence if we all look and act the same. I'm fundamentally the same as I was ten years ago, but people like me more now because I'm skinny (even though I weigh myself once a day, sometimes twice) and more ribald. Weird, eh?
This is where you shower me with compliments so I feel worthy enough to eat solid meal at breakfast tomorrow. THANK YOU MAINSTREAM MEDIA: this shit did not come from my parents.
Ah fuck, look at me whinging. Best life ever, babes. I've a great group of friends, the gents seem inclined to want to see me naked (even though I weight 124lbs today), what else could one want?
Hairdresser, thy name is Sarita
After being on the North Shore for eight months I have finally found my hairdresser. The other two were but red herrings, our relationships starting out promising, and then being defiled with missed appointments (hey, I showed up) and language barriers a la "Seinfeld" where I was pretty sure I was being spoken about in a foreign language (surely they were discussing my acerbic wit and ethereal beauty).
Today I met Sarita. She has a nose piercing, isn't too much older than me, asked a lot of questions as to what exactly I wanted done to my hair (the little bit that I have), gave me a bit of a head rub, laughed at my jokes, stowed my wine (which, upon purchasing, I was ID'd!!!), did I mention laughed at my jokes? And, because all hairdressers seem to do this, sent me out into the scary world looking like a dazed lesbian. What's with that? Hairdressers need to look at their patrons' hairstyles when they come in - because that's obviously how their clientele wishes to look - and then try and replicate it on their way out. I all but ran home because it was sticking up and I felt like a huge dork, but having been through this scads of times I knew it would be okay once I washed the product out and tried to make myself look like more of a boy, and less like a lot of the women that stroll Commercial Drive.
So, with my cool coif and floating on cloud nine because I was ID'd (though in retrospect I think the guy was hitting on me because he winked at me while I was standing in line) I decided to really live it up by renting 4 videos from Rogers and drinking alone (Prospect Point Pinot Blanc is very good). I. Am. So. Happy.
Well. Must hop to it. These movies aren't going to watch themselves. I am so unbelievably exhausted from this week. I'm secretly hoping that I fall asleep on the couch because for some reason this has become an objective of mine of late: it means that I have pushed it so hard that I can't even make it to bed. Normal people would maybe try not to push it so hard, but I've never indicated that I'm normal and I seem to have inordinate fear of missing something (I know not what) by going to bed.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
A Rat's Ass for inspiration
Until 6:30 today I was uninspired.
At 6:30 I ran the fastest one mile repeats I have ever run (clocked in at 7:08 for mile 2). After the run I was inspired by the accomplishments, enthusiasm and genuine friendliness of some of the people I run with. I came home feeling invincible (on the running front).
Then I watched K-PAX. I wanted Kevin Spacey to be a K-PAXian. I believed he was. I am not a Sci-Fi person, and it takes a lot to suspend my belief, but I believed. More importantly, there ought to be more K-PAXians. I will definitely wear sunglasses in on tomorrow's commute.
A few minutes ago I checked to see what was worth a Rat's Ass and I was happy to see that Po had posted something.
I read an article in the paper the other day about the media, and how horrible, disastrous stories sell more than happy ones. That's why I don't read papers or have cable. I want to check out what people give a rat's ass about. One Rat's Ass blog makes me immeasurably happy because that's the nature of the blog, man.
I just wish we didn't have to slog through eight or ten hours of mundane bullshit to get that 7:08 mile, do you know what I mean?
The other two random things that I would like to talk about are likely to be deemed non-sensical and I can't be bothered to come out with a witty segue way to introduce them to the two people that read my blog (hi guys!).
Before heading for my run today, I noticed that one of my neighbours was talking to another guy in the building that was showing her some stamps he had collected or had been given. Both of them were in their seventies, I'm guessing, and I had a range of emotions when waiting for the elevator. First of all, they seemed really happy to see me and said hi, and then the older gentleman went back to explaining the history of the stamps and how he had come upon them and you could sense that he was into it, and wanted to share his story with this woman who was half-interested, but being a polite listener. And I thought about my grandfather because he had collected stamps, and when he passed away I think they ended up with my cousin since no one really wanted them. And I think that's sad, that someone would collect and care for something and take pleasure in it, and then no one else pays it any reverence. But moreover, the stamps were an excuse for communication, for human interaction. For this guy, the stamps were his 7:08 minute mile.
The other thing is more basic. The "rival" apartment across the street has some candles that are flickering. They've been flickering the last couple of nights and I'm too blind to discern if the candles are in or outside. Nonetheless, they are a new addition and I kind of wonder if they're in answer to the candles that I light when Michael and I sit on my balcony after it gets dark. Regardless, I find something utterly kind and human in these wavering beacons of light, as though they are some kind of show of solidarity or attempt at kinship. I understand that this past paragraph is about as groovy and far out as one is wont to get, but whatever. I dig the candles, man.
I hope you all go out and get your 7:08 miles this weekend.
At 6:30 I ran the fastest one mile repeats I have ever run (clocked in at 7:08 for mile 2). After the run I was inspired by the accomplishments, enthusiasm and genuine friendliness of some of the people I run with. I came home feeling invincible (on the running front).
Then I watched K-PAX. I wanted Kevin Spacey to be a K-PAXian. I believed he was. I am not a Sci-Fi person, and it takes a lot to suspend my belief, but I believed. More importantly, there ought to be more K-PAXians. I will definitely wear sunglasses in on tomorrow's commute.
A few minutes ago I checked to see what was worth a Rat's Ass and I was happy to see that Po had posted something.
I read an article in the paper the other day about the media, and how horrible, disastrous stories sell more than happy ones. That's why I don't read papers or have cable. I want to check out what people give a rat's ass about. One Rat's Ass blog makes me immeasurably happy because that's the nature of the blog, man.
I just wish we didn't have to slog through eight or ten hours of mundane bullshit to get that 7:08 mile, do you know what I mean?
The other two random things that I would like to talk about are likely to be deemed non-sensical and I can't be bothered to come out with a witty segue way to introduce them to the two people that read my blog (hi guys!).
Before heading for my run today, I noticed that one of my neighbours was talking to another guy in the building that was showing her some stamps he had collected or had been given. Both of them were in their seventies, I'm guessing, and I had a range of emotions when waiting for the elevator. First of all, they seemed really happy to see me and said hi, and then the older gentleman went back to explaining the history of the stamps and how he had come upon them and you could sense that he was into it, and wanted to share his story with this woman who was half-interested, but being a polite listener. And I thought about my grandfather because he had collected stamps, and when he passed away I think they ended up with my cousin since no one really wanted them. And I think that's sad, that someone would collect and care for something and take pleasure in it, and then no one else pays it any reverence. But moreover, the stamps were an excuse for communication, for human interaction. For this guy, the stamps were his 7:08 minute mile.
The other thing is more basic. The "rival" apartment across the street has some candles that are flickering. They've been flickering the last couple of nights and I'm too blind to discern if the candles are in or outside. Nonetheless, they are a new addition and I kind of wonder if they're in answer to the candles that I light when Michael and I sit on my balcony after it gets dark. Regardless, I find something utterly kind and human in these wavering beacons of light, as though they are some kind of show of solidarity or attempt at kinship. I understand that this past paragraph is about as groovy and far out as one is wont to get, but whatever. I dig the candles, man.
I hope you all go out and get your 7:08 miles this weekend.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Filing (fiction)
She arrives at 8:30 as she does every morning. She hangs her purse on the hook on the back of the door, slings her jacket over the back of the chair, checks her email for anything urgent and then heads to the kitchen to become one of the chosen few to tap into the first pot of coffee that the receptionist has so lovingly brewed.
Checking her email this morning there is a message from her boss (who comes in at 9am) that reads, “Can you please pull the PST file for me?” She re-reads the email just in case her eyes are blurry and she’s missed something. She hasn’t. She sits in her chair - the one that has a screw or a staple or some damn thing sticking up on the right, outer-edge of the seat which prevents her from being able to sit cross legged, though she has never mentioned this to anyone because she finds the price of office chairs exorbitant and she doesn’t feel that the mild inconvenience of not being able to sit cross legged from time to time justifies the purchase of a new office chair – for a bit longer than normal, before heading to the kitchen for her first cup of coffee.
As usual she is early and the receptionist, Mikaila, is there and greets her with genuine happiness. She answers Mikaila’s questions haphazardly, her mind somewhat occupied. She catches herself almost dropping a tea bag into her cup which is full of coffee and gives her head a shake. Per ritual, she deposits her coffee cup on the low, black lacquered table near the front door and exits the office to use the washroom shared by everyone on the seventh floor. Though her commute is only half an hour, she finds that her hair gets inordinately messy if it’s windy, and she often arrives with grit (no doubt brake dust) on her face from the reams of traffic that grind past her while she waits for the light to change at the pedestrian crosswalk near her office. And one time she was glad she had used the washroom straightaway because she had her t-shirt on backwards, which had definitely explained the choking sensation she was beleaguered with on the commute in. In the washroom mirror she notes that her posture is already suffering. She’s been at work for ten minutes. Those that know her well know that she is downtrodden by her sloping shoulders. She pulls them back, holds herself erect, smiles confidently at herself in the mirror and notices that the wrinkles around the corners of her eyes seem more pronounced than usual. Whatever. She’s still healthy, fit and good looking and she needs to hold herself with more confidence. This stupid email should not have rattled her, but it did.
She returns to her desk and spends some time deciding how to respond. Her mother has told her that she needs to pick her battles. Granted, this was regarding one of her ex-boyfriends from days past that had raised her ire by his continued dedication to leaving his rank and soiled socks on the bedroom floor as way of showcasing his exhaustion and overall male helplessness, which had – in the short term – resulted in her surveying the sullied room in question before leaving as quickly as she had come, much to the surprise of her boyfriend. What her mother didn’t seem to understand was that this act was the harbinger of something bigger, and she didn’t want to stick around to see what that something was.
She decides to pick this battle. She shares an office with her boss. It’s a small office. It’s smaller than her living room at home. If he wants the PST file, he can roll over (in his chair that doesn’t have something metal and pointy jutting into his flesh) to the cabinet next to her and pull it out all by himself. She writes, “The PST file, along with all the tax files, are at the front of the filing cabinet behind the bank reconciliations”. She presses send and looks at the time: he will be here in twelve minutes.
And he is. She smiles politely and tells him good morning. She can feel her neck tense as she senses him going through his emails. He says nothing to her, nor does he roll over to the cabinet next to her to remove the now-popular PST file. She’s down to the dregs of her coffee and decides she needs a cup of tea, and so heads back to the kitchen.
One of her coworkers (that she is madly infatuated with) is in the kitchen and asks her how she is doing and she gives a mundane reply. He asks her what happened to her leg, as she has a couple of deep scratches there from a somewhat technically challenging hike that she went on with her brother over the weekend. She is suddenly overwhelmingly frustrated by the lack of progress that she has made with Evan over the last few months. Granted, her idea of coming on to him is saying, “I like your shirt” and it typically takes her five minutes to get up the nerve to even say that and when she does she either mumbles it or says it so softly that he can’t even hear her correctly. But she is consistent, and she is attentive and she feels a sudden urge to kick the kitchen door closed, grab fistfuls of today’s attractive shirt in her hands, push him up against the freshly wiped counter and thrust her impudent mouth against his so that he will either rebuff her or become aroused. She instead gives an equally inane explanation as to how she managed to injure herself hiking, while inexpertly fishing her teabag out her cup and slopping tea on the counter.
En route back to her office she sees that her boss is in with his boss, and that the door is shut. She knows they are discussing her. They have been discussing her for some time. Why else would the door be perpetually closed to her in this small office? She is part of a team, is she not? And yet she cannot remember the last time when the three of them met to collaborate on an idea, a project, or simply to check in.
She sits at her desk and glances out the window. The window faces the brickwork of a building immediately next to it. One of the windows – the opaque one – is a bathroom, and she has occasionally seen women getting changed in it, with their forms blurred and distorted. She can’t see the sky or the ground.
She decides they are discussing her lack of respect. It’s true: she is disrespectful, but she’s never bought into the idea of respecting someone because of their position in whatever hierarchy they’re currently situated in. Once, she was with her family downtown when a motorcade procession went by with President Clinton in it. She had gazed down from the overpass at the limousine and the crowds lining the streets and had caught the eye of a security guard who noted her bemused look and he said to her, “Big deal, huh?”. Another time she was at a bar with her boyfriend and was being encouraged to snort Jack Daniels up her nose by a man in a suit that was worth more than the 1980 Toyota Corolla she was driving at the time and she refused, having deigned that nothing was so extravagant in life as to find its way up her nostrils, and her boyfriend was embarrassed and tried to make amends for her non-conformist ways. She reckoned that anyone could buy an expensive suit: she needed something more in order for her to become reverent.
This is not to say that she’s lazy or stupid or that she lacks ambition: on the contrary. She is adept at the things which she enjoys, which do not, predominately, include pulling PST files.
She pulls out her bank book and looks at the balance. She ruminates on the amount she has in her account, in GICs, in RRSPs, in mutual funds. She is pretty sure she can cover her mortgage payments by pumping gas or stocking shelves if she so desires. She desires not to do this anymore.
She places the one photo that hangs above her desk in an empty banking box. Next in is her plant, which she has carried with her from job to job over the past ten years. She ensures that all personal information is wiped from her computer and she scavenges through her desk drawers for any personal effects: there are none. As an act of sabotage, she deletes the file that she had containing all the user IDs and passwords for her various software logins. She has never forgotten the conversation that she had with the CFO (her boss’s boss) whereby he thought that it was mandatory that an employee give two weeks notice to their employer. She had patiently explained that an employee need not give any notice to any employer, ever. It was in that moment that she realized the CFO thought that, in some regard, the employer owned the employee to the extent that they could dictate and manipulate two weeks of that person’s time against their will.
She sees her boss’s arms flailing in the office of the CFO. It’s clearly an animated discussion. She’s surprised but not surprised by the level of animation that the conversation is obviously taking. It’s a PST file. But it’s not a PST file.
Two minutes later her boss comes back into their office and asks if she has a minute. She says of course she does, and swivels around her chair to face him.
He says – with the condescending air of the righteous – that he’s noticed a change in her attitude lately and wonders if anything is happening in her personal life that has perhaps exacerbated this.
She shakes her head resolutely. No, nothing is happening in her personal life to have affected a change in her attitude. But can he give concrete details as to this “change of attitude” of which he speaks?
He rattles off a few issues that he has obviously brainstormed with the CFO in order to get things down in writing. The last of which is the PST file.
She nods her head, attempting to look serious. She asks why, given the litany of strikes against her, it has taken this long for management to address such an issue.
She is rewarded with a blank stare.
She asks why he waits until she is gone to direct his directives at her via email, instead of speaking with her face to face.
He replies that, because she leaves at 4 o’clock, she often isn’t there to answer his questions.
She asks if her leaving at 4 o’clock is problematic for him.
He indicates that it’s not “entirely conducive” to running an efficient department.
She agrees. She extracts her personnel file from the cabinet next to him (without sending him an email first) and shows the document, signed by the CFO, which defines her wage and her working hours. She breaks down her wage to a per hour basis and extrapolates how much it will cost if he wishes her to stay until 5pm every day, and does he wish to make her an offer for this sum?
He does not.
She asks him if there is anything else that he would like to discuss or document with her, and he says there isn’t it. She pulls the PST from the cabinet next to him and hands it to him, along with her resignation letter.
At this moment he looks vaguely panicked: hasn’t expected this. He comments that she has listed her final day of work as today and she says, “You’re a smart guy, I’m sure you’ll figure it out”.
She grabs the banker’s box, only a third full, hefts it against her hip and starts towards the door. The concept of saving face prevents her boss from trailing after her.
As she waits for the elevator she promises herself that she will allow herself at least a week before she concerns herself with what she’ll do next. The elevator dings and the coworker of whom she is so enamored steps out, coffee and bagel in hand. He sees the box of personal possessions resting on her hip and arches an eyebrow.
She gently pushes him back into the elevator.
Checking her email this morning there is a message from her boss (who comes in at 9am) that reads, “Can you please pull the PST file for me?” She re-reads the email just in case her eyes are blurry and she’s missed something. She hasn’t. She sits in her chair - the one that has a screw or a staple or some damn thing sticking up on the right, outer-edge of the seat which prevents her from being able to sit cross legged, though she has never mentioned this to anyone because she finds the price of office chairs exorbitant and she doesn’t feel that the mild inconvenience of not being able to sit cross legged from time to time justifies the purchase of a new office chair – for a bit longer than normal, before heading to the kitchen for her first cup of coffee.
As usual she is early and the receptionist, Mikaila, is there and greets her with genuine happiness. She answers Mikaila’s questions haphazardly, her mind somewhat occupied. She catches herself almost dropping a tea bag into her cup which is full of coffee and gives her head a shake. Per ritual, she deposits her coffee cup on the low, black lacquered table near the front door and exits the office to use the washroom shared by everyone on the seventh floor. Though her commute is only half an hour, she finds that her hair gets inordinately messy if it’s windy, and she often arrives with grit (no doubt brake dust) on her face from the reams of traffic that grind past her while she waits for the light to change at the pedestrian crosswalk near her office. And one time she was glad she had used the washroom straightaway because she had her t-shirt on backwards, which had definitely explained the choking sensation she was beleaguered with on the commute in. In the washroom mirror she notes that her posture is already suffering. She’s been at work for ten minutes. Those that know her well know that she is downtrodden by her sloping shoulders. She pulls them back, holds herself erect, smiles confidently at herself in the mirror and notices that the wrinkles around the corners of her eyes seem more pronounced than usual. Whatever. She’s still healthy, fit and good looking and she needs to hold herself with more confidence. This stupid email should not have rattled her, but it did.
She returns to her desk and spends some time deciding how to respond. Her mother has told her that she needs to pick her battles. Granted, this was regarding one of her ex-boyfriends from days past that had raised her ire by his continued dedication to leaving his rank and soiled socks on the bedroom floor as way of showcasing his exhaustion and overall male helplessness, which had – in the short term – resulted in her surveying the sullied room in question before leaving as quickly as she had come, much to the surprise of her boyfriend. What her mother didn’t seem to understand was that this act was the harbinger of something bigger, and she didn’t want to stick around to see what that something was.
She decides to pick this battle. She shares an office with her boss. It’s a small office. It’s smaller than her living room at home. If he wants the PST file, he can roll over (in his chair that doesn’t have something metal and pointy jutting into his flesh) to the cabinet next to her and pull it out all by himself. She writes, “The PST file, along with all the tax files, are at the front of the filing cabinet behind the bank reconciliations”. She presses send and looks at the time: he will be here in twelve minutes.
And he is. She smiles politely and tells him good morning. She can feel her neck tense as she senses him going through his emails. He says nothing to her, nor does he roll over to the cabinet next to her to remove the now-popular PST file. She’s down to the dregs of her coffee and decides she needs a cup of tea, and so heads back to the kitchen.
One of her coworkers (that she is madly infatuated with) is in the kitchen and asks her how she is doing and she gives a mundane reply. He asks her what happened to her leg, as she has a couple of deep scratches there from a somewhat technically challenging hike that she went on with her brother over the weekend. She is suddenly overwhelmingly frustrated by the lack of progress that she has made with Evan over the last few months. Granted, her idea of coming on to him is saying, “I like your shirt” and it typically takes her five minutes to get up the nerve to even say that and when she does she either mumbles it or says it so softly that he can’t even hear her correctly. But she is consistent, and she is attentive and she feels a sudden urge to kick the kitchen door closed, grab fistfuls of today’s attractive shirt in her hands, push him up against the freshly wiped counter and thrust her impudent mouth against his so that he will either rebuff her or become aroused. She instead gives an equally inane explanation as to how she managed to injure herself hiking, while inexpertly fishing her teabag out her cup and slopping tea on the counter.
En route back to her office she sees that her boss is in with his boss, and that the door is shut. She knows they are discussing her. They have been discussing her for some time. Why else would the door be perpetually closed to her in this small office? She is part of a team, is she not? And yet she cannot remember the last time when the three of them met to collaborate on an idea, a project, or simply to check in.
She sits at her desk and glances out the window. The window faces the brickwork of a building immediately next to it. One of the windows – the opaque one – is a bathroom, and she has occasionally seen women getting changed in it, with their forms blurred and distorted. She can’t see the sky or the ground.
She decides they are discussing her lack of respect. It’s true: she is disrespectful, but she’s never bought into the idea of respecting someone because of their position in whatever hierarchy they’re currently situated in. Once, she was with her family downtown when a motorcade procession went by with President Clinton in it. She had gazed down from the overpass at the limousine and the crowds lining the streets and had caught the eye of a security guard who noted her bemused look and he said to her, “Big deal, huh?”. Another time she was at a bar with her boyfriend and was being encouraged to snort Jack Daniels up her nose by a man in a suit that was worth more than the 1980 Toyota Corolla she was driving at the time and she refused, having deigned that nothing was so extravagant in life as to find its way up her nostrils, and her boyfriend was embarrassed and tried to make amends for her non-conformist ways. She reckoned that anyone could buy an expensive suit: she needed something more in order for her to become reverent.
This is not to say that she’s lazy or stupid or that she lacks ambition: on the contrary. She is adept at the things which she enjoys, which do not, predominately, include pulling PST files.
She pulls out her bank book and looks at the balance. She ruminates on the amount she has in her account, in GICs, in RRSPs, in mutual funds. She is pretty sure she can cover her mortgage payments by pumping gas or stocking shelves if she so desires. She desires not to do this anymore.
She places the one photo that hangs above her desk in an empty banking box. Next in is her plant, which she has carried with her from job to job over the past ten years. She ensures that all personal information is wiped from her computer and she scavenges through her desk drawers for any personal effects: there are none. As an act of sabotage, she deletes the file that she had containing all the user IDs and passwords for her various software logins. She has never forgotten the conversation that she had with the CFO (her boss’s boss) whereby he thought that it was mandatory that an employee give two weeks notice to their employer. She had patiently explained that an employee need not give any notice to any employer, ever. It was in that moment that she realized the CFO thought that, in some regard, the employer owned the employee to the extent that they could dictate and manipulate two weeks of that person’s time against their will.
She sees her boss’s arms flailing in the office of the CFO. It’s clearly an animated discussion. She’s surprised but not surprised by the level of animation that the conversation is obviously taking. It’s a PST file. But it’s not a PST file.
Two minutes later her boss comes back into their office and asks if she has a minute. She says of course she does, and swivels around her chair to face him.
He says – with the condescending air of the righteous – that he’s noticed a change in her attitude lately and wonders if anything is happening in her personal life that has perhaps exacerbated this.
She shakes her head resolutely. No, nothing is happening in her personal life to have affected a change in her attitude. But can he give concrete details as to this “change of attitude” of which he speaks?
He rattles off a few issues that he has obviously brainstormed with the CFO in order to get things down in writing. The last of which is the PST file.
She nods her head, attempting to look serious. She asks why, given the litany of strikes against her, it has taken this long for management to address such an issue.
She is rewarded with a blank stare.
She asks why he waits until she is gone to direct his directives at her via email, instead of speaking with her face to face.
He replies that, because she leaves at 4 o’clock, she often isn’t there to answer his questions.
She asks if her leaving at 4 o’clock is problematic for him.
He indicates that it’s not “entirely conducive” to running an efficient department.
She agrees. She extracts her personnel file from the cabinet next to him (without sending him an email first) and shows the document, signed by the CFO, which defines her wage and her working hours. She breaks down her wage to a per hour basis and extrapolates how much it will cost if he wishes her to stay until 5pm every day, and does he wish to make her an offer for this sum?
He does not.
She asks him if there is anything else that he would like to discuss or document with her, and he says there isn’t it. She pulls the PST from the cabinet next to him and hands it to him, along with her resignation letter.
At this moment he looks vaguely panicked: hasn’t expected this. He comments that she has listed her final day of work as today and she says, “You’re a smart guy, I’m sure you’ll figure it out”.
She grabs the banker’s box, only a third full, hefts it against her hip and starts towards the door. The concept of saving face prevents her boss from trailing after her.
As she waits for the elevator she promises herself that she will allow herself at least a week before she concerns herself with what she’ll do next. The elevator dings and the coworker of whom she is so enamored steps out, coffee and bagel in hand. He sees the box of personal possessions resting on her hip and arches an eyebrow.
She gently pushes him back into the elevator.
Mood swings fucking kick ass/I'm still swearing in my blog titles
I'm so happy today that I'm on the verge of the tears. I'm not even kidding. This is the result of one day off work? Wow. I need to retire.
I don't feel the highs very often, but I'm feeling it today.
I don't feel the highs very often, but I'm feeling it today.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
ParTAY
Today. Today. I woke up at 7am which was fantastic, because it was an hour later than I had to wake up yesterday. So, um, I'm totally sleep deprived. Nonetheless, I got up to do the allotted 14 miles which is far. It's 14 miles to be exact. It was pretty hot this morning, so I chose to wear the same gear I wore for yesterday's 10k race, so I smelled really fresh. Got to the clinic and NO ONE FROM THE RED GROUP WAS THERE. What's with that?? Like, not one single person. So, um, do I over-exert myself and go with the faster group, or fall back with the slower group? Michael was hurting from the prior day's trail race and said he was going to take easy. I think he was hoping to run with my 8:30 mile group that failed to materialize, so we ended up running with his group (which, for their long slow runs, do it at an 8 minute mile pace) which was great because we were both a little tired to begin with and it was hot and the route was mostly uphill and, um, this was the most physically challenging weekend that I've had to endure for a long, long time. I actually beat Michael back to the store which never happens.
Then we started to nod off on my balcony. Then we went to Winners where I tried on hooker shoes and tried to walk around I inadvertently turned on half the men there, even though I almost fell flat on my face fifteen times. Then we started to nod off on the beach at Ambleside. Then we started to nod off on the patio at Earls. Then we tried to nap at my place but we both got happy feet so we couldn't. Then Michael went home and I had a peculiar hankering for beer and Trailer Park Boys, so I bought beer and rented Trailer Park Boys and got to witness Rita McNeil harvesting pot, which was fantastic.
To sum up: I think I have broken my body because my legs, ass, back and neck are sore since I haven't done yoga or weight training in about two weeks and when I try and touch my toes I hear pinging sounds as the sinews in my body start to snap. But I did have a PB on Saturday and I ran with the 8 minute group today, so I'm feeling pretty happy about that. Although that could be the Rickard's Red talking. When did I start drinking beer?
So, so glad to not have to work tomorrow. Am sleeping until 11. If you try and call me I will hunt you down and kill you. Steve French, the drug-addicted mountain lion, was funny. I do not remember the last time I was this totally exhausted. I am super pissed with the happy feet scenario. What the hell is with that?? I hate happy feet when I'm trying to sleep. What is the point of happy feet? What vitamin am I deficient in, that leads to me thrashing around in my bed unnecessarily? Stupid.
Um. My mom is 60 today. Age is a funny thing. I don't think that Michael looks 42 (especially given that he normally acts like he's 8). Went for coffee after the run and one guy that looks like he's about 40 said he's 48. Some runners do look young, that's for sure. Caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror at Delaney's in West Van and I thought, "Wow. I don't look like I'm in my mid-twenties anymore". I look like an adult. I thought that I looked older than I felt (though this was likely the result of being sleep deprived for the past week, and running 20 miles over the past couple of days). It's weird, this whole getting older thing.
I am totally rambling because I'm utterly exhausted, mildly drunk, and don't want to go to bed because I don't have to and I want to party because I don't have to work tomorrow, but ultimately I'm 31 and have been up at 6 and 7am this weekend to run long distances and I'm really tired.
I believe, if you took my life on a good day (or even an even-keel day) it would be better than the majority of people's lives. I just need to really remember that sometimes.
Then we started to nod off on my balcony. Then we went to Winners where I tried on hooker shoes and tried to walk around I inadvertently turned on half the men there, even though I almost fell flat on my face fifteen times. Then we started to nod off on the beach at Ambleside. Then we started to nod off on the patio at Earls. Then we tried to nap at my place but we both got happy feet so we couldn't. Then Michael went home and I had a peculiar hankering for beer and Trailer Park Boys, so I bought beer and rented Trailer Park Boys and got to witness Rita McNeil harvesting pot, which was fantastic.
To sum up: I think I have broken my body because my legs, ass, back and neck are sore since I haven't done yoga or weight training in about two weeks and when I try and touch my toes I hear pinging sounds as the sinews in my body start to snap. But I did have a PB on Saturday and I ran with the 8 minute group today, so I'm feeling pretty happy about that. Although that could be the Rickard's Red talking. When did I start drinking beer?
So, so glad to not have to work tomorrow. Am sleeping until 11. If you try and call me I will hunt you down and kill you. Steve French, the drug-addicted mountain lion, was funny. I do not remember the last time I was this totally exhausted. I am super pissed with the happy feet scenario. What the hell is with that?? I hate happy feet when I'm trying to sleep. What is the point of happy feet? What vitamin am I deficient in, that leads to me thrashing around in my bed unnecessarily? Stupid.
Um. My mom is 60 today. Age is a funny thing. I don't think that Michael looks 42 (especially given that he normally acts like he's 8). Went for coffee after the run and one guy that looks like he's about 40 said he's 48. Some runners do look young, that's for sure. Caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror at Delaney's in West Van and I thought, "Wow. I don't look like I'm in my mid-twenties anymore". I look like an adult. I thought that I looked older than I felt (though this was likely the result of being sleep deprived for the past week, and running 20 miles over the past couple of days). It's weird, this whole getting older thing.
I am totally rambling because I'm utterly exhausted, mildly drunk, and don't want to go to bed because I don't have to and I want to party because I don't have to work tomorrow, but ultimately I'm 31 and have been up at 6 and 7am this weekend to run long distances and I'm really tired.
I believe, if you took my life on a good day (or even an even-keel day) it would be better than the majority of people's lives. I just need to really remember that sometimes.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
The way the weekend is going
I think I alluded to the fact that this weekend would either be good or disastrous in one of the blogs where I was contemplating wading into the ocean with bulging pockets. So, to update the people that have expressed concern for my overall well being in the last couple of days: this weekend is going well. Really well.
That fact that things are going well (as a result of me trying to deal with these issues with a relatively level head, all the while scrambling to discern how an "adult" would deal with this situation) is a relief. Like, a really, really huge relief on many levels.
So here are a few reasons why I'm glad I didn't drown myself today:
That fact that things are going well (as a result of me trying to deal with these issues with a relatively level head, all the while scrambling to discern how an "adult" would deal with this situation) is a relief. Like, a really, really huge relief on many levels.
So here are a few reasons why I'm glad I didn't drown myself today:
- I would've botched it anyways, because I don't like the sensation of drowning too much and I'm a really strong swimmer. Basically I would've ended up with a lot of kelp in my hair and seawater in my lungs and I would've ruined my Sauconys which were pretty expensive.
- I wouldn't have been able to watch "No Country for Old Men" which was fan-fucking-tastic.
- No sushi either.
- Bye bye French wine.
- Lounging on a park bench in the sun with my super hot boyfriend that came in 4th in his age group and 9th overall in his trail race today wouldn't have been an option.
- My mom would've been pretty pissed because her birthday is tomorrow.
So thanks to everyone for their kindness and encouragement and for listening to me as I muddle my way through my latest debacle. I've been pretty debacle-free as of late, so it's always fun to mix things up and have the opportunity to use a lot of swear words and think the world is coming to an end. Which I pretty much do every day anyways.
46:51
Phew. Don't have to drown myself today. Nice, after many years of running, to finally have a sub-fifty minute 10k under my belt. Before today my fastest time was 50:14, so I was more than three minutes faster today.
Big D met me afterwards and we went for coffee and I told him about the Things I Cannot Blog About and he was like, "Huh" and then started putting rocks in my pockets and guiding me towards the ocean. Kidding. He listened, was non-judgemental and didn't let me get away with any shit. It felt good to talk to someone. Just hearing myself talk about it made it seem like less of an issue (even though it's a big issue and it's kind of kicking the shit out of me right now). I guess the point is that it's not insurmountable. Pocket rocks aren't the answer: being a grown up and dealing with things rationally is.
Fucking pocket rocks.
Big D met me afterwards and we went for coffee and I told him about the Things I Cannot Blog About and he was like, "Huh" and then started putting rocks in my pockets and guiding me towards the ocean. Kidding. He listened, was non-judgemental and didn't let me get away with any shit. It felt good to talk to someone. Just hearing myself talk about it made it seem like less of an issue (even though it's a big issue and it's kind of kicking the shit out of me right now). I guess the point is that it's not insurmountable. Pocket rocks aren't the answer: being a grown up and dealing with things rationally is.
Fucking pocket rocks.
Pocket rocks
It's gonna be a hot one. Shall I wear my running clinic t-shirt to denote that I'm representing the North Van 'hood? Shall I run with the pocket rocks, or pick them up after the run. Big D will probably be there this morning. He'll see me wading out into the ocean and be like, "This isn't a triathlon!" and then maybe, "You need more rocks!".
Ahhhh, gad. This weekend will either be very good, or quite exponentially bad.
Go go Gadget feet!
Ahhhh, gad. This weekend will either be very good, or quite exponentially bad.
Go go Gadget feet!
Friday, July 18, 2008
Today fucking sucked. And I will quite possibly kill myself tomorrow.
Always fun coming up with blog titles. Oh, did I mention that today fucking sucked? Yeah. I was at book club the other day (you know, the day my car got towed?) and a couple of people commented on how I put myself out there by being so honest in my blog. I guess I am pretty honest with the things that I choose to share. There's a lot that I don't share. There's a lot that I could share that would leave you cringing in terror and passing judgement on me left right and centre because I have the ability to be this totally fucking destructive force within my own life. Today is one of those hurricane days. Today is one of the worst fucking days that I've had this year.
The good news is that if I don't run a sub-fifty ten kilometre tomorrow morning I will stuff rocks in the pockets of my running shorts (let's call them pocket rocks, shall we?) and march resolutely into the Pacific (which will be handy as my run takes me around Stanley Park) and then I won't have to worry about coming up with witty blog titles.
Ta.
The good news is that if I don't run a sub-fifty ten kilometre tomorrow morning I will stuff rocks in the pockets of my running shorts (let's call them pocket rocks, shall we?) and march resolutely into the Pacific (which will be handy as my run takes me around Stanley Park) and then I won't have to worry about coming up with witty blog titles.
Ta.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Carma II
So, perusing my bill from Buster's this morning in the elevator I noticed something was stuck to it. Yeah, a fucking $45 parking ticket from the City of Vancouver. My $62 night was ratcheted up to... whatever $45 plus $62 is (can we get an accountant over here? is there an accountant in the house?).
In other news that matters, I am not working on Monday and am going for an hour long massage because I'm as tight as a drum (we're talking musculature here, people). And I was the second fastest girl of the full and half marathon clinics tonight. And then we all went for coffee and Michael left to go to London Drugs so I went home and was chatting with my mom on the phone and my buzzer went so I buzzed him up and we chatted on my balcony, watching the luminescent, full moon rise into the evening sky until 11pm. I so heart Michael. He has the day off tomorrow and says he might bike into Vancouver so we can go for coffee or lunch. Sigh. I heart him sooooooooooo much.
In other news that matters, I am not working on Monday and am going for an hour long massage because I'm as tight as a drum (we're talking musculature here, people). And I was the second fastest girl of the full and half marathon clinics tonight. And then we all went for coffee and Michael left to go to London Drugs so I went home and was chatting with my mom on the phone and my buzzer went so I buzzed him up and we chatted on my balcony, watching the luminescent, full moon rise into the evening sky until 11pm. I so heart Michael. He has the day off tomorrow and says he might bike into Vancouver so we can go for coffee or lunch. Sigh. I heart him sooooooooooo much.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Carma
Hmm. How to write this blog? Start out nice and then descend into a scathing rage? Wait... I always do that. I think I'll just go where this glass of Muscat and these Baked Tostitos take me.
After my run I decided that it would be safe to drive to East Van for book club, because book club is at 7pm and as long as no one is jumping off the IMB at that time, it should be safe for driving. And safe it was! I was there so fast. Me, so happy tooling around in my little Civic, listening to Radiohead, thinking important, pure thoughts about enlightened things. I got a little lost, but arrived relatively unscathed at Squishy and Skyhammer's.
It was a full house for book club tonight (except Squishy cut out a little early: hope she is feeling better and her 'new' hummus kicked ass) and we had some great conversation (resplendent with many tangents) about "A Brave New World".
Wanting to get home at a reasonable time, I bid everyone a fond farewell and then exited into the balmy summer night. I noticed quite quickly that my car was not where it ought to be, but being somewhat directionally challenged I expanded the periphery of my search before returning to Squishy and Skyhammer's to mutter "Fuck me" under my breath and "I think my car has either been towed or stolen" to the general populace. Towed it was. The lesson learned, as per Po and Coco, is that if you have a bubble (a bubble being something that gives you pause and makes you question if what you're doing is a good idea) you ought not do that particular thing. I have had a lot of bubbles in my life. I'm pretty good at dealing with and appreciating the nuances of the bubble. But the giant bubble that hovered over my head as I parked my car, jumped out to determine if I was too close to the end of the block or not was emblazoned, "I ought not park here, though I'm pretty sure I'm fine and besides, how often do they enforce parking in East Van anyways". Well, allow me to impart to you that they apparently enforce parking quite often and I was (disputably) too close to the end of the block.
Skyhammer was calm as he looked up the line for idiots that have had their car impounded (I believe the website said something trite like "if you are one of the unfortunates that has had their car towed", which made me seethe all the more because it just seemed so fucking glib). I confirmed that my car had indeed been removed against its will and was languishing in some pen downtown with electrodes strapped to its genitals. "I'll be down there shortly. Praise Allah" I told Buster's Towing.
I walked outside and with my most endearing and pleading voice, with eyes brimming with tears I humbly asked Coco if she could give me a lift to the impound lot to which she replied, "That's why we're still out here, honey". Hmm. People being friendly and giving and appearing to not be put out. They call these people something. Friends? Yes, that may be it. Friends.
So, we jumped into Coco's car and she dropped C off downtown and, as she exited, she encouraged me by saying "Good luck with the Epsilons at Buster's". This comment actually works on two levels, so I am really excited to be able to break it down for you because it is rare that anything in my life works on two levels as I am mostly a boring, one-dimensional stick figure. See, her comment related back to the names for the various classes of society in "A Brave New World" (Epsilon being a derogatory label alluding to a diminished IQ and a life of drudgery, of course). The second level on which this works relates to the concept of "literary snobbery" that Po brought up during our discourse. I have just engaged in a form of literary snobbery by including (albeit through C's adept wit) the term "Epsilon" which will, no doubt, leave those readers of my blog that were in attendance tonight rolling on the floor, grasping their sides in unbridled mirth at this inside joke and literary reference, while the other reader(s) of this blog will be like, "Wow, that's totally fucking stupid and it sounds like she clearly parked to close to the end of the block and got what she deserved".
A year or two ago, I would be on some rambling diatribe (yes, this is rambling, but it's not a diatribe) and contemplating rescuing all the caged cars from the vicious confines of Buster's impound lot. Today, however, I will say that for $62 I got to spend some impromptu time with some very witty and friendly friends that gave me a hand when I needed one. For $62 I got an Epsilon joke, discovered that Coco has M&Ms on the floor of her car, learned about the bubble, and had my car valeted in prime parking near the ocean at Granville and Pacific. It wasn't raining, my glasses weren't stolen and I had my license on me (which I don't always have, and which is a necessity in order to free your vehicle from jail).
The bigger tragedy tonight was that Squishy had to cut out early because she wasn't feeling well, and that Skyhammer won't be able to drink wine when he's France.
So. Thank you to Coco for giving me a lift. To Po and C for making me laugh. To Squishy and Skyhammer for the hospitality. And to Buster's for the material for this blog.
My Civic has informed me that Buster's did not adhere to the Geneva Convention during it's internment there, and that they openly defaced its owners manual.
You sadistic bastards. I'm glad I rescued it before the waterboarding started.
Fuckers.
After my run I decided that it would be safe to drive to East Van for book club, because book club is at 7pm and as long as no one is jumping off the IMB at that time, it should be safe for driving. And safe it was! I was there so fast. Me, so happy tooling around in my little Civic, listening to Radiohead, thinking important, pure thoughts about enlightened things. I got a little lost, but arrived relatively unscathed at Squishy and Skyhammer's.
It was a full house for book club tonight (except Squishy cut out a little early: hope she is feeling better and her 'new' hummus kicked ass) and we had some great conversation (resplendent with many tangents) about "A Brave New World".
Wanting to get home at a reasonable time, I bid everyone a fond farewell and then exited into the balmy summer night. I noticed quite quickly that my car was not where it ought to be, but being somewhat directionally challenged I expanded the periphery of my search before returning to Squishy and Skyhammer's to mutter "Fuck me" under my breath and "I think my car has either been towed or stolen" to the general populace. Towed it was. The lesson learned, as per Po and Coco, is that if you have a bubble (a bubble being something that gives you pause and makes you question if what you're doing is a good idea) you ought not do that particular thing. I have had a lot of bubbles in my life. I'm pretty good at dealing with and appreciating the nuances of the bubble. But the giant bubble that hovered over my head as I parked my car, jumped out to determine if I was too close to the end of the block or not was emblazoned, "I ought not park here, though I'm pretty sure I'm fine and besides, how often do they enforce parking in East Van anyways". Well, allow me to impart to you that they apparently enforce parking quite often and I was (disputably) too close to the end of the block.
Skyhammer was calm as he looked up the line for idiots that have had their car impounded (I believe the website said something trite like "if you are one of the unfortunates that has had their car towed", which made me seethe all the more because it just seemed so fucking glib). I confirmed that my car had indeed been removed against its will and was languishing in some pen downtown with electrodes strapped to its genitals. "I'll be down there shortly. Praise Allah" I told Buster's Towing.
I walked outside and with my most endearing and pleading voice, with eyes brimming with tears I humbly asked Coco if she could give me a lift to the impound lot to which she replied, "That's why we're still out here, honey". Hmm. People being friendly and giving and appearing to not be put out. They call these people something. Friends? Yes, that may be it. Friends.
So, we jumped into Coco's car and she dropped C off downtown and, as she exited, she encouraged me by saying "Good luck with the Epsilons at Buster's". This comment actually works on two levels, so I am really excited to be able to break it down for you because it is rare that anything in my life works on two levels as I am mostly a boring, one-dimensional stick figure. See, her comment related back to the names for the various classes of society in "A Brave New World" (Epsilon being a derogatory label alluding to a diminished IQ and a life of drudgery, of course). The second level on which this works relates to the concept of "literary snobbery" that Po brought up during our discourse. I have just engaged in a form of literary snobbery by including (albeit through C's adept wit) the term "Epsilon" which will, no doubt, leave those readers of my blog that were in attendance tonight rolling on the floor, grasping their sides in unbridled mirth at this inside joke and literary reference, while the other reader(s) of this blog will be like, "Wow, that's totally fucking stupid and it sounds like she clearly parked to close to the end of the block and got what she deserved".
A year or two ago, I would be on some rambling diatribe (yes, this is rambling, but it's not a diatribe) and contemplating rescuing all the caged cars from the vicious confines of Buster's impound lot. Today, however, I will say that for $62 I got to spend some impromptu time with some very witty and friendly friends that gave me a hand when I needed one. For $62 I got an Epsilon joke, discovered that Coco has M&Ms on the floor of her car, learned about the bubble, and had my car valeted in prime parking near the ocean at Granville and Pacific. It wasn't raining, my glasses weren't stolen and I had my license on me (which I don't always have, and which is a necessity in order to free your vehicle from jail).
The bigger tragedy tonight was that Squishy had to cut out early because she wasn't feeling well, and that Skyhammer won't be able to drink wine when he's France.
So. Thank you to Coco for giving me a lift. To Po and C for making me laugh. To Squishy and Skyhammer for the hospitality. And to Buster's for the material for this blog.
My Civic has informed me that Buster's did not adhere to the Geneva Convention during it's internment there, and that they openly defaced its owners manual.
You sadistic bastards. I'm glad I rescued it before the waterboarding started.
Fuckers.
I'm not learning
Ran home. It's really hot out there. I'm quite sure I no longer have any sodium in my body. So, you know. Yeah.
Jogging over the Lionsgate bridge is such a rush. As I hit the crest a huge tanker was passing underneath and it blew it's horn, this deep resonating blast. The mountains are so unbelievably beautiful, and the water and the sunny blue skies. Just amazing. And this is my "commute" home. Love it.
LOVE IT.
Jogging over the Lionsgate bridge is such a rush. As I hit the crest a huge tanker was passing underneath and it blew it's horn, this deep resonating blast. The mountains are so unbelievably beautiful, and the water and the sunny blue skies. Just amazing. And this is my "commute" home. Love it.
LOVE IT.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Sigh... Facebook
The CEO of my company wanted me to be his friend on Facebook. He actually sent me the request yesterday and I've been in a state of mild panic ever since. See, I don't want people that have the ability to fire me to be my friends on Facebook. I think that's pretty fair. Needless to say I was put in a pretty uncomfortable position, because how exactly do you rebuff the owner of the company and the top dog that that you ultimately work for in such a way that he won't screw you when it's time for your annual raise?
So, um, this is what I wrote to him: "Thank you for adding me as a friend on facebook. Unfortunately I lead a double life as a super hero during evenings and weekends (see witty bear costume evidenced on profile picture). While it would be nice to share funny and/or amazing YouTube clips with you from time to time, I must adhere to my super hero's pledge to limit my FB friends to those that cannot cause me to become unemployed, as this would severely limit the budget that I have set aside for tights and capes (the price of which has dramatically increased due to rising fuel prices, and an unexpected resurgence in the overall fashionableness of capes)."
Here's hoping he has a good sense of humor...
So, um, this is what I wrote to him: "Thank you for adding me as a friend on facebook. Unfortunately I lead a double life as a super hero during evenings and weekends (see witty bear costume evidenced on profile picture). While it would be nice to share funny and/or amazing YouTube clips with you from time to time, I must adhere to my super hero's pledge to limit my FB friends to those that cannot cause me to become unemployed, as this would severely limit the budget that I have set aside for tights and capes (the price of which has dramatically increased due to rising fuel prices, and an unexpected resurgence in the overall fashionableness of capes)."
Here's hoping he has a good sense of humor...
Notes from a Tuesday
- Men are really bad at attempting to covertly check women out. Or maybe they just don't care if they get caught.
- Traffic stops immediately at crosswalks when I deign to cross them wearing a quasi-short skirt.
- This work issue has me experiencing a weird combination of apathy and total disbelief.
- I fucking hate Robson Street.
- There should be a "slow lane" for tourists so they can get out of my goddamn way because I have places to be.
- Never tell a friend you'd like to see them since you've "got some time to kill". Instead say: "I haven't seen you in a while and I really miss spending time with you and I would love nothing more to simply be in your beautific presence because you're a valued friend and I treasure you immensely".
- I strongly dislike it when people tell you this great theory that they heard from someone they revere (and now subscribe to it), even though you've expounded this particular theory a few times before.
- I'm being told to smell the roses again.
- I actually saw someone literally stop and smell some roses on Lonsdale tonight.
- I smelled some sweet peas.
- My nickname is Sweet pea.
- I ate two ice cream bars.
Yeah. That's pretty much it. Hopefully notes from a Wednesday will be more exciting. Though it won't include two ice cream bars. I only have one left.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Golf is more interesting, anyway
Really? A-Rod?
I admit, I may have been a bit off the beaten track with Jean Reno, but seriously: A-Rod?
If I ever become the most successful, talked about, media savvy woman in the world, and the pickings are such that I contemplate cheating on my husband for someone akin to A-Rod, please get Jean Reno on the line. Or Clive Owen. Or Mike Weir.
That's it.
Okay, I would consider Topher Grace too.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
It was really, really hot today
Here's a dumb thing to do at 3pm on a really hot day: run. Wanted to do 15 miles, did 12.4. It's okay. It's what the clinic did this morning so I can ease up on myself. Need to actually start attending the Sunday runs as people have stopped asking where I am and have written me off as a crack baby. I'm not a crack baby; I just like my sleep.
Michael and I watched "Eagle vs. Shark" tonight. It wasn't as uproariously funny as I thought it would be, but it turned into a very good (albeit painful to watch) story about the family dynamic and dysfunctional losers.
Feeling pretty mellow and a bit down. Tomorrow has the potential to be shitty, but I'm not going to dwell on it right now: there are much bigger issues in my life right now.
So we'll see.
Won't we.
Michael and I watched "Eagle vs. Shark" tonight. It wasn't as uproariously funny as I thought it would be, but it turned into a very good (albeit painful to watch) story about the family dynamic and dysfunctional losers.
Feeling pretty mellow and a bit down. Tomorrow has the potential to be shitty, but I'm not going to dwell on it right now: there are much bigger issues in my life right now.
So we'll see.
Won't we.
I'm scared of bears and sharks
Totally didn't get up to do the run this morning. Actually, I lie: I did get up at 6:35. While Michael got ready I drank orange juice from the container before going back to bed. Managed to sleep for another 4.5 hours. It was the first decent sleep I've had in over a week and though I'm still coughing today I feel much, much better. Who gets sick in July??
So yesterday was fun. What an amazing event. When Michael and I used to run 10 kilometre races all the time we noticed the same guy, Oliver, was winning them over and over. I sort of developed a crush on this guy because he was
pretty cute and obviously in great shape (crush/quasi-stalking, it's all the same). Anyways, Oliver married someone other than me and after a couple of years of intense therapy I was able to overcome it. As Michael and I were sitting in our chairs - marshaling, as it were, and fending off an incredible conflagration of gnats (what is their purpose???) - I looked up and saw a familiar looking person coming down the trail. I turned to Michael and said, "Wow, that guy looks like Oliver!". And it was and he was in the 3rd spot overall for the race, and when we looked up (stalked him) the results after the race we 
saw he came in 2nd overall. So hot.
We saw quite a few people from our running clinic grinding it out. Everyone was amazingly friendly and some people seemed to be really glad to see us. Because there was only a couple hundred runners a lot of people were running alone and I think some people were glad for a little social interaction, even if it consisted of Michael and I flailing and jerking around to avoid mosquitoes, when not pretending to
be bears.
A friend of ours was in the race and she actually stopped to chat with us a bit and let us know how she was feeling. We had told her that I was going to dress up as a bear and scare runners (jokingly), which is why Michael made up the bear masks which N didn't really find that scary. We also
told her that we would direct all the women that came before her in the wrong way, so she would hopefully place in the top three. Obviously we didn't do this, but another female runner cruised by and asked us if we wouldn't mind tripping all the people behind her (we didn't do that either).
Went to my mom's for dinner with Michael afterwards. Jay and Andrea were there so it was nice to see them. I never see Jay and then twice in two weeks! Weird. Sad that my parents will be moving out of the house in the next couple of months. Childhood home and childhood memories and all that.
Alright. I'm totally delaying the inevitable. The inevitable being a fifteen mile run that I have to do because I do one this morning. I believe I have only showed up to one Sunday run so far with my clinic. I'm such a wanker, but I'm doing two additional miles over what the clinic did. So, you know, I'm stupid.
It's so hot out there.
So yesterday was fun. What an amazing event. When Michael and I used to run 10 kilometre races all the time we noticed the same guy, Oliver, was winning them over and over. I sort of developed a crush on this guy because he was
pretty cute and obviously in great shape (crush/quasi-stalking, it's all the same). Anyways, Oliver married someone other than me and after a couple of years of intense therapy I was able to overcome it. As Michael and I were sitting in our chairs - marshaling, as it were, and fending off an incredible conflagration of gnats (what is their purpose???) - I looked up and saw a familiar looking person coming down the trail. I turned to Michael and said, "Wow, that guy looks like Oliver!". And it was and he was in the 3rd spot overall for the race, and when we looked up (stalked him) the results after the race we 
saw he came in 2nd overall. So hot.We saw quite a few people from our running clinic grinding it out. Everyone was amazingly friendly and some people seemed to be really glad to see us. Because there was only a couple hundred runners a lot of people were running alone and I think some people were glad for a little social interaction, even if it consisted of Michael and I flailing and jerking around to avoid mosquitoes, when not pretending to
be bears.A friend of ours was in the race and she actually stopped to chat with us a bit and let us know how she was feeling. We had told her that I was going to dress up as a bear and scare runners (jokingly), which is why Michael made up the bear masks which N didn't really find that scary. We also
told her that we would direct all the women that came before her in the wrong way, so she would hopefully place in the top three. Obviously we didn't do this, but another female runner cruised by and asked us if we wouldn't mind tripping all the people behind her (we didn't do that either).Went to my mom's for dinner with Michael afterwards. Jay and Andrea were there so it was nice to see them. I never see Jay and then twice in two weeks! Weird. Sad that my parents will be moving out of the house in the next couple of months. Childhood home and childhood memories and all that.
Alright. I'm totally delaying the inevitable. The inevitable being a fifteen mile run that I have to do because I do one this morning. I believe I have only showed up to one Sunday run so far with my clinic. I'm such a wanker, but I'm doing two additional miles over what the clinic did. So, you know, I'm stupid.
It's so hot out there.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
An ankle-turning good time
Was home long enough last night to have a 30 minute nap followed by a 75 minute workout. Grabbed Michael and we went to the British Properties to find the place where we were supposed to be situated to direct all 200+ of the insane runners doing the Knee Knacker (a trail run from Horseshoe Bay to goddamn Deep Cove: 30 miles starting at 6am). Went to bed at 1am. Up at at 6:30. Returned home at 1:30 for another nap and now I have to go for dinner at my mom's with Michael, Jay and Andrea. Up again at 6:30 tomorrow for a 12 miler in Stanley Park.
Oh my god. I'm so tired and I didn't even run anywhere today. Will post pics of Michael and I pretending to be bears and overall dicking around when we weren't waving and clapping and encouraging runners.
One guy thought he had a broken foot and we were like, "Oh my god" and he's like, "Yeah, I'll just Terry Fox it out" and continued down the path to the next aid station. And by path I mean steep, rocky, difficult terrain.
Insane! Congrats to everyone that ran the Knee Knacker this morning: you guys looked great and were hugely inspirational! You guys ROCK!!
Oh my god. I'm so tired and I didn't even run anywhere today. Will post pics of Michael and I pretending to be bears and overall dicking around when we weren't waving and clapping and encouraging runners.
One guy thought he had a broken foot and we were like, "Oh my god" and he's like, "Yeah, I'll just Terry Fox it out" and continued down the path to the next aid station. And by path I mean steep, rocky, difficult terrain.
Insane! Congrats to everyone that ran the Knee Knacker this morning: you guys looked great and were hugely inspirational! You guys ROCK!!
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Raison d'etre
Having one of those nostalgic, I don't wanna go to bed kinda 
nights (I'm the malnourished one in the red)...
nights (I'm the malnourished one in the red)...
Reconciling
Having a hard time reconciling what I do from 8:30 to 4pm every day with who I am as person. The thing I like the best about my job is the people. I love the people. The folks that I hang out with for coffee and for lunch are people that I would easily have as my friends in the "outside world".
This issue at work is really chapping my ass. I have several issues with this... issue. Shall we rant? Let's rant.
First of all, when did I start giving a shit about stupid, inconsequential things/people? When I was nineteen I was getting rat-faced at the bar, getting in to bar fights and having a helluva good time. Now, I'm not saying I want to get shittered and take a swing at someone that has stolen my pool table, but I do like the way I rated what was important back then. This? This current fucking stupid issue? It is not important. The person that is pushing the issue? Right. Not important. Yet I can't shake the bad vibes. I've become some whinging idiot that wants everyone to like her. Why do I care who likes me? The people that do like me (and there are more than two of them) are really great people and their opinion is all that really ought to matter. For chrissakes, I had a running mate come over to me and tell me that he had sent love and hugs and kisses my way via Michael cause we've missed each other for the last couple of weeks. Let's recap: an attractive, fit, single man is forlorn when I don't show up for a run. Okay that? That's worth digesting and pondering. That's an indicator of who am I because I am who I am when I run, when I go out for dinner, when I blog, when I read on the seabus, when I walk down the street. And any man that misses me, after seeing me sweaty, panting, red-faced and disheveled on a weekly basis is a man worth listening to!
Which leads to point number two: the majority of us aren't who we are at work. I'm an accountant. Like, what? And this is my fault, I suppose, for not taking a chance to do something that would have been more in line with my personality. I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to be a marine biologist. And in my job, which is a job versus, say, a career or a passion, I occasionally get shit on. And it's hard to get shit on when you're doing something that you have to do to pay the bills because: a) no one likes to be shit on; and b) it's doubly hard to get shit on when it's to do with something you don't give a shit about.
And when things are rolling along okay you don't hear me talk about work. Work is the thing I do until 4pm at which point I get to go lead my real life, which consists of: eating; drinking; running; yoga; weights; friends; family; sleeping; coffee; lunches; sushi; tapas; music music music; Sudoku; blogging; photography; hiking; environmentalism; drunk texting; napping; movies; chilling on my balcony; flirting; debating; walking; not paying attention while taking public transit; trying to keep my hands to myself; and convincing myself that all the "missed connections" posts on Craigslist are aimed at me. So, you see, it's a rich life.
I have nothing to complain about. Nothing. As far as lives go, I lead a really fantastic one. I just don't like when aspects of my work life spill over and taint my real life. What's important? Is it important that I was able to prove (to my boss who has important letters behind his name) that our company owes NIC on the taxable medical and dental of our UK staff by likening it to the employer portion of taxes due for MSP contributions paid on behalf of our Canadian employees? No. It's all made up and arbitrary and I have a made up and arbitrary intangible job whereby I move figures around to make people happy based on whatever the current rules are. Rules that I don't understand. What is important is that I had leftover sushi for dinner and it was awesome and I got to go for coffee after mile repeats (I was the second fastest girl) with a bunch of phenomenal people and I'm looking forward to volunteering at the Knee Knacker on Saturday morning and then going to visit my family for dinner Saturday night and then running 12 miles around Stanley Park on Sunday morning.
And Radiohead's "House of Cards" is important. And it's important that I biked the Kettle Valley trestles when I was 17. And it's important that I read "A Brave New World", smelled the sweet peas in the park as I walked home, ran two marathons, had someone come up to me in a bar and ask if I was "married married" or "going out to the bar married", jumped up and down on the pinnacle of the Lionsgate when Michael and I ran the three bridges for "fun" one weekend, got drawn into a political debate while waiting to make a deposit at the bank, chatted with my neighbour on the 10th floor, discovered David Bowie, watched "My Dinner With Andre", stayed up until 3am having great conversation more than once, cheered Ironman athletes on for the last leg of their race in Penticton, got a great deal on some new Privos (best shoes ever), ran the mile repeats way too fast and then had a decaf cappuccino. Not necessarily in that order.
Fuck Monday.
This issue at work is really chapping my ass. I have several issues with this... issue. Shall we rant? Let's rant.
First of all, when did I start giving a shit about stupid, inconsequential things/people? When I was nineteen I was getting rat-faced at the bar, getting in to bar fights and having a helluva good time. Now, I'm not saying I want to get shittered and take a swing at someone that has stolen my pool table, but I do like the way I rated what was important back then. This? This current fucking stupid issue? It is not important. The person that is pushing the issue? Right. Not important. Yet I can't shake the bad vibes. I've become some whinging idiot that wants everyone to like her. Why do I care who likes me? The people that do like me (and there are more than two of them) are really great people and their opinion is all that really ought to matter. For chrissakes, I had a running mate come over to me and tell me that he had sent love and hugs and kisses my way via Michael cause we've missed each other for the last couple of weeks. Let's recap: an attractive, fit, single man is forlorn when I don't show up for a run. Okay that? That's worth digesting and pondering. That's an indicator of who am I because I am who I am when I run, when I go out for dinner, when I blog, when I read on the seabus, when I walk down the street. And any man that misses me, after seeing me sweaty, panting, red-faced and disheveled on a weekly basis is a man worth listening to!
Which leads to point number two: the majority of us aren't who we are at work. I'm an accountant. Like, what? And this is my fault, I suppose, for not taking a chance to do something that would have been more in line with my personality. I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to be a marine biologist. And in my job, which is a job versus, say, a career or a passion, I occasionally get shit on. And it's hard to get shit on when you're doing something that you have to do to pay the bills because: a) no one likes to be shit on; and b) it's doubly hard to get shit on when it's to do with something you don't give a shit about.
And when things are rolling along okay you don't hear me talk about work. Work is the thing I do until 4pm at which point I get to go lead my real life, which consists of: eating; drinking; running; yoga; weights; friends; family; sleeping; coffee; lunches; sushi; tapas; music music music; Sudoku; blogging; photography; hiking; environmentalism; drunk texting; napping; movies; chilling on my balcony; flirting; debating; walking; not paying attention while taking public transit; trying to keep my hands to myself; and convincing myself that all the "missed connections" posts on Craigslist are aimed at me. So, you see, it's a rich life.
I have nothing to complain about. Nothing. As far as lives go, I lead a really fantastic one. I just don't like when aspects of my work life spill over and taint my real life. What's important? Is it important that I was able to prove (to my boss who has important letters behind his name) that our company owes NIC on the taxable medical and dental of our UK staff by likening it to the employer portion of taxes due for MSP contributions paid on behalf of our Canadian employees? No. It's all made up and arbitrary and I have a made up and arbitrary intangible job whereby I move figures around to make people happy based on whatever the current rules are. Rules that I don't understand. What is important is that I had leftover sushi for dinner and it was awesome and I got to go for coffee after mile repeats (I was the second fastest girl) with a bunch of phenomenal people and I'm looking forward to volunteering at the Knee Knacker on Saturday morning and then going to visit my family for dinner Saturday night and then running 12 miles around Stanley Park on Sunday morning.
And Radiohead's "House of Cards" is important. And it's important that I biked the Kettle Valley trestles when I was 17. And it's important that I read "A Brave New World", smelled the sweet peas in the park as I walked home, ran two marathons, had someone come up to me in a bar and ask if I was "married married" or "going out to the bar married", jumped up and down on the pinnacle of the Lionsgate when Michael and I ran the three bridges for "fun" one weekend, got drawn into a political debate while waiting to make a deposit at the bank, chatted with my neighbour on the 10th floor, discovered David Bowie, watched "My Dinner With Andre", stayed up until 3am having great conversation more than once, cheered Ironman athletes on for the last leg of their race in Penticton, got a great deal on some new Privos (best shoes ever), ran the mile repeats way too fast and then had a decaf cappuccino. Not necessarily in that order.
Fuck Monday.
Derpa derpa
In a bit of a better mood today as the maelstrom is scheduled for Monday. May as well enjoy the meantime and in between time. Why let this cast a pall on what is shaping up to be a kick ass weekend? I’ll kick your ass. How ya like them apples?
As the always insightful and positively situated N (who I shall now refer to as Squishy) exclaimed to me last night as she and I languished on the patio at Earl’s on Robson, “But you’re fabulous!”. True (though this fact seems to sometimes escape people). I should take to reminding them. “Um, that’s nice and all, but you seem to have forgotten that I’m fabulous”.
The bright spots of today’s existence include: sushi with A for lunch (whereby I brought my own plate from work so they wouldn’t put it in a Styrofoam container); it appears that we only have to run 3 one mile repeats tonight; and I’m looking forward to coffee with my running buddies afterwards; and the Robot Liberator’s fantastic blue shirt which makes him appear more attractive than usual.
As the always insightful and positively situated N (who I shall now refer to as Squishy) exclaimed to me last night as she and I languished on the patio at Earl’s on Robson, “But you’re fabulous!”. True (though this fact seems to sometimes escape people). I should take to reminding them. “Um, that’s nice and all, but you seem to have forgotten that I’m fabulous”.
The bright spots of today’s existence include: sushi with A for lunch (whereby I brought my own plate from work so they wouldn’t put it in a Styrofoam container); it appears that we only have to run 3 one mile repeats tonight; and I’m looking forward to coffee with my running buddies afterwards; and the Robot Liberator’s fantastic blue shirt which makes him appear more attractive than usual.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
And?
Fuck today, too (though I am alternating between despair, anger, impotence and apathy - the apathy is new).
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Further, yet
I'm in an atrocious mood. I am not having a good day. What started out quite delectably hasn't gone horribly awry.
The silver lining? My coworker was very kind to me when I explained my embattled and beleaguered position (he's typically very sarcastic and not one for human kindness, which is why we get on so well).
I take solace in the fact that in a week or two this will be nothing more than a minor blip on the radar (one hopes). In the interim: GODDAMNIT.
The silver lining? My coworker was very kind to me when I explained my embattled and beleaguered position (he's typically very sarcastic and not one for human kindness, which is why we get on so well).
I take solace in the fact that in a week or two this will be nothing more than a minor blip on the radar (one hopes). In the interim: GODDAMNIT.
Good morning!
Have I mentioned that in the last couple years I've started having a lot of erotic dreams? This morning I dreamed that I was making passionate love with Jean Reno. 
Well done on the casting, brain!
God, I'm in a good mood.
Well done on the casting, brain!God, I'm in a good mood.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
I copped out (only did 30k today)
Slept in a little bit (up at 8:15am) given that I've had a cold for a few days now. I wasn't able to get in the fifteen miles, but I did run nine miles this morning before coming home, jumping in the shower and running over to Extra Foods to get some lunch for the hike with Jay (also nine miles).Yep. To say that I'm knackered would be a bit of an understatement. I
can't even think very straight right now. Michael came over around noon to drop off my car and to tell me about his 16k race up Grouse Mountain (he did in one hour and forty something minutes). He was muddy and smelled bad. I think he had a good time and wants me to do it next year. We'll see. He actually arrived at the same time that my brother pulled up on his Kawasaki, so that was pretty funny. I'm glad they got to see each other given that we met up with Jay so infrequently. So the three of us had a nice chat, dropped Michael off and then Jay and I went on our hike.It was so awesome to catch up with my 'little' brother. We always have great conversations - we were chatting away the entire four
plus hours that we were out there. He's such a great guy. I'm so glad I don't have a brother I don't or can't relate to. I'm touched that he made the effort to come all the way in from Abbotsford, which is about an hour away, and I'll make sure I make it out his way in the very near future. Like Michael says, I've only got one brother. I was very happy to spend an afternoon with him outdoors doing something that
we both really enjoy.Came back and he left, then Michael and I went for dinner and talked about our respective adventures. I realized that, though I was wearing a skirt, I hadn't managed to get all the mud off my legs and I had some nice scratches on my calf. Hot. You know what? You run fifteen kilometres at 9am, then hike another fifteen kilometres in the afternoon and tell me if you give a shit about anything except a decent meal and a good sleep.
On that happy note, I am going to goddamn bed because I'm tired, though happy to once again not have been attacked by bears.Bears and sharks are scary.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Ha ha ha. Oh my god.
Met up for brunch with Big D today - hadn't seen him for ages. He looks great and was in good spirits and it was nice to finally connect and catch up! Looking forward to seeing all the changes he's made to his pad the next time I'm over that way. Michael was supposed to show at noon as well, but at 12:05 when he still wasn't there I called him and... he was in bed!! He showed up half an hour later with pillow creases on his face. Hilarious. He has a 16km trail race which takes him from Ambleside in West Van to the top of Grouse Mountain tomorrow morning. Good luck with that.
Actually, I'm one to talk. Our clinic has a nine miler scheduled for tomorrow and I was like, "Nine miler? Why even get out of bed?" (kidding), but I did decide to run on my own and go fifteen miles, because that's how I roll. Then my brother emails me and wants to go for a hike tomorrow and since I haven't seen him in seventeen years I said, "Hells yeah!" so we're going to do the hike (between 14 and 16kms) that Michael and I did last weekend. Except I think I still might do the 15 mile run in the morning.
So. You know. Good luck with that. At the minimum I should shed the remaining three pounds, though the more likely scenario is that I will pass out on the trail from exhaustion and my brother will pour honey all over me and leave me for the bears. It wouldn't be the first time, either.
What else, what else. "Be Kind, Rewind" was really funny. And Michael and I ate a whole Angel Food cake last night.
Cause we're angels. Clearly.
Actually, I'm one to talk. Our clinic has a nine miler scheduled for tomorrow and I was like, "Nine miler? Why even get out of bed?" (kidding), but I did decide to run on my own and go fifteen miles, because that's how I roll. Then my brother emails me and wants to go for a hike tomorrow and since I haven't seen him in seventeen years I said, "Hells yeah!" so we're going to do the hike (between 14 and 16kms) that Michael and I did last weekend. Except I think I still might do the 15 mile run in the morning.
So. You know. Good luck with that. At the minimum I should shed the remaining three pounds, though the more likely scenario is that I will pass out on the trail from exhaustion and my brother will pour honey all over me and leave me for the bears. It wouldn't be the first time, either.
What else, what else. "Be Kind, Rewind" was really funny. And Michael and I ate a whole Angel Food cake last night.
Cause we're angels. Clearly.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Right
We were supposed to do a tempo run tonight, but because we missed hills on Tuesday (being a stat no one really showed up, I guess) we got to do hills tonight. What hill, you ask? Keith Road. Two minute intervals up that sonofabitch, six times. I was so hot coming down the last time that I was feeling dizzy. As we were doing pushups sweat was streaming off my face. If I'm not down a half a pound tomorrow morning, I'm going to Tim Horton's and having a doughnut and coffee for breakfast cause I don't know what else I'm supposed to do. Frick: I even walked down to the seabus this morning (and was sweating even at 8:15 in the morning: lovely!).
THIS. IS. OFFICIALLY. MY. MOST. BORING. BLOG. EVER.
Here is a picture of pitch from the tree in front of my dad's house that I got on my feet within 46 seconds of arriving there. The fun thing is then dirt, sand and pine needles stick to it. And cats. I actually managed to get pitch on my cell phone.
I'm going to bed.
My conundrum (it’s good to be me and have such conundrums)
I drink coffee. I like to put milk in my coffee. So does everyone else in the office. I get agitated when there is no milk to put into my coffee because a) it doesn’t taste as good and b) I know that milk in coffee helps to prevent the calcium from leaching out of your bones. Brittle bones are bad.
There is a young lady with whom I work who will pour herself a glass of milk. Every day. Keep in mind that we only buy the smallish cartons of milk. I believe that she knows I, and the ex-receptionist, frown upon this because this morning when we were both in the kitchen at the same time she made an effort to futz about endlessly, waiting for me to leave so she could pour her cup full of milk. By the end of the day I’m sure the carton will be empty, people will start bitching about there not being any milk for their coffee, the temp receptionist will come to me for more petty cash, etc.
DISCLAIMER: I realize this is all trite, but just bear with me.
The facts are these: she knows she ought not to help herself to a glass of the “coffee milk” every morning – this is evident in the furtive manner in which she does it. My company shouldn’t be providing everyone with a glass of milk every morning. My coworkers shouldn’t have to have their coffee black because one person chose to take half the milk for her personal use. The receptionist shouldn’t have to essentially grocery shop to keep the milk stock up because it’s being rapidly depleted by one person.
Given this terrible situation, which has be me overwrought and gives me night sweats, what is one supposed to do?
There is a young lady with whom I work who will pour herself a glass of milk. Every day. Keep in mind that we only buy the smallish cartons of milk. I believe that she knows I, and the ex-receptionist, frown upon this because this morning when we were both in the kitchen at the same time she made an effort to futz about endlessly, waiting for me to leave so she could pour her cup full of milk. By the end of the day I’m sure the carton will be empty, people will start bitching about there not being any milk for their coffee, the temp receptionist will come to me for more petty cash, etc.
DISCLAIMER: I realize this is all trite, but just bear with me.
The facts are these: she knows she ought not to help herself to a glass of the “coffee milk” every morning – this is evident in the furtive manner in which she does it. My company shouldn’t be providing everyone with a glass of milk every morning. My coworkers shouldn’t have to have their coffee black because one person chose to take half the milk for her personal use. The receptionist shouldn’t have to essentially grocery shop to keep the milk stock up because it’s being rapidly depleted by one person.
Given this terrible situation, which has be me overwrought and gives me night sweats, what is one supposed to do?
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
One more quick thing
Um, don't mean to bite the site that hosts my blog for free, but what the fuck, Google? A little recognition on Canada Day would've been nice! Is it because you hate Stephen Harper? Because we hate him too!!
I admit I was disappointed to get to the Google page on July 1st and not see some Canadiana emblazoned on it. The snub made the Globe and Mail for chrissakes.
My temper is somewhat tempered in that they did do something for Walter Gropius' 125th birthday.
But don't let it happen again, Google! For shame!
I admit I was disappointed to get to the Google page on July 1st and not see some Canadiana emblazoned on it. The snub made the Globe and Mail for chrissakes.
My temper is somewhat tempered in that they did do something for Walter Gropius' 125th birthday.
But don't let it happen again, Google! For shame!
The winds of change...
... and other aptly named blog titles to reference the weather. They're calling for thundershowers tonight. The sky is currently ominously obsidian. Weird. It was 27 degrees when I walked up Lonsdale today. Why did I walk up Lonsdale in 27 degree weather, you ask? Because I didn't magically lose 4.5 pounds as I had anticipated this morning. Being in my thirties is a bit different than being in my twenties. Oh shit: I just depressed myself because I'm in my thirties.
Watched "Living Out Loud" tonight. I won't recommend this movie because the delivery was botched and Siskel and Ebert were wrong to have given it two thumbs up, but I will say that it was a refreshingly atypical story showcasing a lot of human flaws and realities and for that I greatly enjoyed it. It had a good moral. And though it was rather badly done, it still rocks on most of the shit that's currently out there.
The other thing that happened to me that was really exciting and will keep me going for days is that I had a great Seinfeld moment on the bus today. I guess people are re-committing to public transit with the glorious new carbon tax (good: I hope it hits $2 a litre!) so I couldn't get a seat today and kept ramming people with my purse (I love my purse: it can fit an umbrella; a bottle of wine; a book; my cell phone; my Shuffle; wallet; makeup; and sunglasses... so basically you have all your bases covered all the time) and a seat came up and I offered it to a woman roughly my age and she said, "No, you go ahead" and so I said, "Okay" and took it. Normally I would have insisted, but I really wanted to read "A Brave New World" some more. So I did.
Aren't I a motherfucker?
Watched "Living Out Loud" tonight. I won't recommend this movie because the delivery was botched and Siskel and Ebert were wrong to have given it two thumbs up, but I will say that it was a refreshingly atypical story showcasing a lot of human flaws and realities and for that I greatly enjoyed it. It had a good moral. And though it was rather badly done, it still rocks on most of the shit that's currently out there.
The other thing that happened to me that was really exciting and will keep me going for days is that I had a great Seinfeld moment on the bus today. I guess people are re-committing to public transit with the glorious new carbon tax (good: I hope it hits $2 a litre!) so I couldn't get a seat today and kept ramming people with my purse (I love my purse: it can fit an umbrella; a bottle of wine; a book; my cell phone; my Shuffle; wallet; makeup; and sunglasses... so basically you have all your bases covered all the time) and a seat came up and I offered it to a woman roughly my age and she said, "No, you go ahead" and so I said, "Okay" and took it. Normally I would have insisted, but I really wanted to read "A Brave New World" some more. So I did.
Aren't I a motherfucker?
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Dieting sucks (so I'm not doing a very good job of it)
Michael ran the HBC 10k this morning and placed 39th OVERALL. There were over 800 runners at the event and he finished with 42:19. He placed 4th in his age group: one spot away from getting a medal!! I am so excited and proud of him. I slept in until 11am. When he came over this afternoon he kept pressuring me to look up his time and finally I said, "You've already looked up your time, why do I have to?" and he kept cajoling me so I called up the results and started to do the old "find on page" and he was like, "You don't need to do that, just scroll down a little bit". It's a huge accomplishment and I better attend any other 10k races he chooses to run because I think it's a matter of time before he gets in the top three.
Then we went for a walk and for some lunch, after which we got McFlurries. Nothing says diet like a McFlurry (mine, a small, clocked in at 520 calories and 17 grams of fat). In my defense I did work out for close to an hour and a half today.
Anyways. I haven't run a 10k for eons and I was always looking for a sub-fifty minute race and I never got it. Since then, running half and full marathons I have seen my time at the 10k mark and it has always been sub-fifty, but it's not official and I want to get that puppy in writing. So. I am going to run the Summerfast 10k on July 19th and try and get a sub-fifty minute race recorded. And it's on a Saturday so I don't have to give up my Sunday run with the clinic. Which means that I'll have to be at Stanley Park at 8am on Saturday and at the clinic at 8am the next day. Which is great because I love to get up early.
Thanks to Michael for inspiring me to run another 10k to get another personal best. And congratulations to him for such an amazing accomplishment today!
Then we went for a walk and for some lunch, after which we got McFlurries. Nothing says diet like a McFlurry (mine, a small, clocked in at 520 calories and 17 grams of fat). In my defense I did work out for close to an hour and a half today.
Anyways. I haven't run a 10k for eons and I was always looking for a sub-fifty minute race and I never got it. Since then, running half and full marathons I have seen my time at the 10k mark and it has always been sub-fifty, but it's not official and I want to get that puppy in writing. So. I am going to run the Summerfast 10k on July 19th and try and get a sub-fifty minute race recorded. And it's on a Saturday so I don't have to give up my Sunday run with the clinic. Which means that I'll have to be at Stanley Park at 8am on Saturday and at the clinic at 8am the next day. Which is great because I love to get up early.
Thanks to Michael for inspiring me to run another 10k to get another personal best. And congratulations to him for such an amazing accomplishment today!
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