A Random Person's Thoughts

A Positive Moment.

2010-10-30T12:10:00.002-04:00

A twenty minute walk got me to a friend's place where we sat in her living room, looking out at her view of the city while listening to a New Zealand Indie band. From there, another twenty minute walk brought us to another province, and switched the official language from English to French.

Booze and conversation about movies, including one called "Fingersmith" (apparently meaning "seamstress", however it has a double meaning which I will allow you, my hypothetical non-existent reader to figure out for yourself) from BBC, and it was time for food.

Later that night, while stepping out to find a place to dance, the snow began to fall, large wet flakes which cooled on our faces.

Growing up, I always meant to leave this place. High school, I had plans; I'd move to another country. I'd go somewhere with a language so different than any of the ones I knew just so I could experience culture shock, and the appealing challenge of learning another language while surrounded by it, rather than learning it in a class room. Things rarely work out the way you mean them to and I am still here.

If I hadn't been, I never would have had the opportunity for a night like last night. Over time, I've learnt that my hatred and boredom of this city were manufactured out of all the things I knew about it, and really, all the things I didn't. I lived in a place that fit me poorly, the suburbs, and then later, more suburbs as my boyfriend-then-husband-then-ex, insisted on his hatred of the city, even of the places where we finally chose, which frankly: oh honey, you weren't in the city at all.

Now, living in a heritage building with high ceilings in the middle of one of the yuppiest neighbourhoods, I love this city. The diner on my block has waiters who know my name, and remember that I went on vacation and ask me how it was. I sometimes go to a restaurant and have a drink bought for me by the owner of a business I frequent. I am surrounded by high, old trees and unique buildings and people who look out for each other and businesses run locally. I can walk everywhere I need except for work.

Lately, I've been spending a lot of time feeling downtrodden. I hate my job (sorry, job!), I hate my lack of options, my lack of upward mobility. I hate the way it feels relentless, just one moment after another after another, with only brief breaks in between where I try desperately to rest up and prepare myself for the next five days.

(slightly dramatic: but dude, my blog, I get to be dramatic. Also: IT REALLY IS KIND OF CRAPPY, k?)

Sometimes, I have trouble appreciating what I've got, and this is it: I live in a place I love in a neighbourhood I love. I have friends who care for me, for whom I care. I have music, the opportunity to play it, and the chance to get feedback on it.

It's probably a good thing for me to remember that from time to time. This is me, sharing that moment with (the non-existent) you.

A Particular Type of Attention.

2010-09-12T23:57:00.003-04:00

In every bar I go to, there always seems to be a certain type of man.

Let me add more details: The bars to which I refer are generally pubs, completely music oriented and I am there with my guitar to sing and play with a group of likeminded people.

They are always pushing 50 or maybe even sixty. They are always a little too touchy. Never actually offensive, they are simply men who put their hands on my shoulder, who touch my hand or my arm when they speak, who put their hand on my knee. Or in one particular case, while I am eating a quick dinner, they put a napkin across my lap.

(????)

They're always very complimentary. Polite, sometimes a little drunk. Sometimes a lot drunk, sometimes just admiring and of a particular personality type.

There always seems to be at least one at every bar.

Once or twice, it's been the worst. There will be me, two or three of this particular brand of man, and perhaps a single friend who whenever they mention going for a smoke or to the loo get a stricken glance from me over the heads of my erstwhile admirers. They always return quickly.

This particular brand of attention is not flattering. It's not insulting either. It's merely a weight on the evening. Something with which I must deal, something which appears inevitable. It's difficult to be rude as they are not rude. Mostly, it is thirty, forty minutes, maybe an hour of saying thank you to compliments, to holding slightly circular conversations. To having my drinks bought for me without my permission.

I imagine I have some complicity in this. I could surround myself with other friends, refuse the drinks when bought, but somehow, the attention, while not welcome is not unwelcome either, and the effort of actually actively, pro-actively rebuffing something which happens for musicians playing in bars ALL the time seems unnecessarily cruel.

So, this post is not a rant, not a complaint - I have, after all, accepted this position by not railing against it. It is instead more of a rumination; a consideration of the way things are, right now.

(though that one guy did put his hand on my left just a LITTLE too long. Which would be when I left. FLEEE!)

Migraine Day 3

2010-08-05T14:13:00.002-04:00

Cats have abandoned ship. None have been sighted for at least an hour. Send help, fuzzy stuffed animals or maybe a really heavy hammer which I can use to slam my head into sweet unconsciousness.

Plans for tonight: cancelled.
Food eaten so far today: none.

Work done: 2 hours before abandoning it for the sweet oblivion of a darkened room.

(despite that, apparently, my laptop and writing blog posts appears to be OKAY. whatever.)

The Timeline of a Migraine

2010-08-04T18:32:00.002-04:00

Day 1 - Hour 1 - This is not a migraine! no way, no halo, no how! just a headache! a really... really bad headache. With light and sound sensitivity. And naus...fuck.
Hour 1.00003 - This is totally a migraine.
Hour 1.00031 - lay prostrate on couch and hate the world.
Hour 6 - Man, I should go to bed so I can get a lot of sleep and then get up for work tomorrow.
Hour 8 - ... I am not working tomorrow.
Hour 9 - FEND FOR YOURSELVES, COLLEAGUES. (or at least that's what I said in my head. I don't actually remember what I wrote. It may have been: me no workee tomorrow migrayne snuhbuhguhgglezzzzz....)
Hour 9 - cats are ecstatic that I am in my bed and poised for cuddles, which is to say curled up and not moving a lot.
Hour 11 - oh god oh god, why did I throw out my migraine medication?
Hour 12 - maybe I didn't. I should check the medicine cabinet.
Hour 12.05 - AUGH BRIGHT LIGHTS.
Hour 12.06 - ... mediiiiicaaaaate.
Hour 12.30 - sleeeeeeeep

10 hours pass.

Day 2 Hour 1 - wake up sleeeeep.
Hour 5 - starving. The only thing that will do is spanokapitas. Greek place probably traumatized by the crumpled looking woman in her pink ice cream pyjamas who opens the door.
Hour 6 - sleeeeeeeeeeep.
Hour 11 - wake bleary eyed and hungry again. Love the warmth of my bed. The cats! they are so happy I am here. There are cuddles and pets and paws on face and snuggles. Find myself not quite so light sensitive, though still very sound sensitive. Read approximately 1 million blogs. order spanakopitas again.
Hour 16 - sleeeeeeeeeep.

Day 3 Hour 1 - wake up. sleeeeeep.
Hour 4 - wake up hungry. Eat pizza.
Hour 5 - cancel guitar lessons.
Hour 7 - sleeeeeeeeeeeeeep.
Hour 9 - write subpar and uninteresting blog post because the cats are no longer interested in me in my bed unless I am getting out of it to give them food.

If People Could Hear My Thoughts They Might Hear...

2010-07-22T18:53:00.003-04:00

The opening riff to REM's Losing My Religion in C#Minor.
A mental vent about certain work aspects which gnaw at me.
It's a Small World After All (which, simply by writing out the title is now stuck in my head)
My millionth reminder of when my next workout will be.
The minor plot points of a story I am working on.
And possibly this

Ow.

2010-07-04T22:30:00.004-04:00

Yesterday, I forgot how to walk.

It was actually rather embarrassing. I was moving along, heading for yoga, not a care in the world - well, except for avoiding the sprinkler which caused me to walk out on the street rather than say, on the sidewalk.

Did you know that picking up your feet is necessary for day to day walking? Yeah. Well, sometimes I forget.

I caught my foot on an uneven part of the pavement and pitched forward. Some people looked at me with very concerned gazes, but did not actually help me up as I staggered back to my feet, checked my knees for gushing blood and found only two very large and unpleasant looking welts.

And then I went to yoga.

A towel on my mat made for a more comfortable cushion, but also! helpfully showed the blood seeping gently from my open sores. This is probably the only time yoga's been a blood sport.

About ten minutes from the end of the class, my hip seized. I could no longer lift my leg, which including lifting it to bend my knee. The remainder of the class was spent in corpse pose, waiting for it to be finished so oh god, I could go home. Dreams of ice danced in my head.

--

Today, I woke up with my hamstrings complaining, an aching hip, sore skin on my knees and a rather sore toe. Also, sore abs from yoga, sore shoulder from ... hm. Yoga and falling and just general achiness.

So I went for a run.

...

If I had been smart, I would have replaced that last word with "long bath" or something equally pleasant.

I have a massage tomorrow. Dreams of THAT are currently dancing in my head.

Is This Thing Still On? (Pithy, I know)

2010-06-27T18:30:00.003-04:00

I composed this post in my head, and at the time, the stream of consciousness seemed to fit. I was filled with the need to write something! reopen the blog! Give it another try!

Well, why not.

hi.
--

I'm teaching myself to be a runner. Until this year, I sort of thought that I should just be able to throw on my running shoes, wander on outside and off I went! Following this brilliant idea was three weeks (if I was lucky) of relatively ineffective attempts at jogging, all the time, thinking about how much I hate running. The running shoes were tossed into the closet and ignored, and I went back to ... whatever it was I decided to do to keep in shape instead. I promised myself that I would REMEMBER this time that I hate running.

Cue next spring. Cue dusting off the running shoes yet another attempt. Cue sore hips, and every stride, thinking 'I hate this, I hate this, I hate this'.

I read a lot of random blogs, and of course, the wave of people finding ways to learn to run always kind of made me wonder if I just had it wrong (what do you mean, I can't just ... go out and run?!). I found the couch to 5k, but couldn't figure out how I'd get the timing right. I'm obsessed with minutes and seconds and hours on a clock. I cannot just "guess". But with that obsession would mean repeated checking of a timer, and that would just never do.

The iPhone solves all. (Steve Jobs, I still hate you for your most recent 'technical advice' to iPhone 4 users. 'Just don't hold it that way', my ass.) That cheesy line 'There's an app for that' is actually true. An application! which will tell me when to run and when to walk. An application which already has the Couch to 5K loaded, so all I have to do is pick the week and the day of the run, and off I go. They even check off the runs when they're done! My goal oriented brain is appeased.

A few hitches: Forgetting to do certain stretches results in a week of knee pain, resulting in a stop of all running until a conversation with an occupational therapist reminds a certain random person that she needs to stretch her quadriceps. A problem with the schedule of working running in with everything else I do.

But you know, I'm not thinking 'I hate running' with every stride.

--

Ironically, this was not the post I composed in my head. Perhaps the rest will come out another day, eh?

The Length of My Attention Span

2007-05-01T20:13:00.000-04:00

# of posts: 196 (not including this one)
# of days: 355
First Post Date: May 12th, 2006
Last Post Date: May 01, 2007

To be fair, this lasted longer than most of my journals

(watch this - now I'll come up with eleventy-five post ideas)

Goodbye, reader. :)

Mostly, This is a Message to a Future Monday Me.

2007-04-28T23:09:00.000-04:00

For those who may be having a bad day:

Smile, damnit!

Gott Sei Dank', Es Ist Freitag!

2007-04-27T13:15:00.000-04:00

Driving into work today, which is an obscenely hour long production involving two bridges, several traffic jams and two highways, I happened to see a hitchhiker on a nearby on-ramp (going opposite of the direction that I was headed).

Seeing hitchhikers are not precisely uncommon for me, however, I have a feeling that this particular hitchhiker may stick out in my head for a while. He was dressed in a devil's suit, complete with horns, and was carrying a pitchfork.

It is perhaps a good thing that I wasn't going in that direction. I probably would have stopped and let him in just to have the opportunity to go ask him "what on EARTH?"

--

Clearly my posting skills have gone to pot. I find it incredibly ironic that just three posts after I had said "I'm TOTALLY gonna post more! you can hold me to that!" I went away for a month, and then have had nothing but babble, etc, to say. I am starting to think that, just shy of 200 posts, I am cured of the blogging bug.

But we'll give it a wee try, at least. Lessee if I can post again by next Friday.

Inventions.

2007-04-22T00:27:00.000-04:00

What possesses humanity to make certain things?

For example, a music instrument with six strings (when the human hand has five fingers) that requires the stretching of the fingers to properly create chords and requires time and energy to create the callouses on the fingertips? (not to mention dooming the player to short-short-short nails forever? okay, that one's maybe just me). Or even an instrument caused by striking a key (white or black, respectively) that in turn strikes a string inside a box that must be tuned just so?

Or how about a vehicle that is powered by your own strength, but more importantly requires balance and practice to even operate?

I mean, some things just seem almost too random to have ever occured.

but of course, they did. We know this because there are guitars, pianos and bicycles.

Invention amazes me. I'm not an inventor. I don't make things that are new. I'm much more likely to improve a process than make up one all by myself. If it's not there, I tend to work around it. I need a springboard to get anywhere, something to start the creative process.

Not that I'm against such things, obviously, since I play guitar, piano, and I am the proud new owner of a bike. But still, as I remember my balance, or I try to coax the callouses in my fingertips, or I try to remember old piano lessons from 15 years ago, I still have to wonder.

What on earth were they thinking?

Pathetic Excuse for a Post

2007-04-08T06:10:00.000-04:00

You know you love it.

All I have to say today is: cold chicken wings are possibly the best thing to eat EVER when you've been up all night and are kinda peckish. (haaaaaaaaaah. Chicken wings. Peckish! Get it? No? It's 6am, LEMME 'LONE.)

Love,
RP

Three Days! In a Row!

2007-03-16T09:30:00.000-04:00

HAH!

... if that's all I have to say, does this still count as a post?

No?

...crap.

I suppose I can fall onto old faithful.

PEOPLE, I am SO TIRED.

I'm not sure why I thought I should go out on a Thursday night to a play where I know the castmembers, and actually considered that I might be in bed by ten thirty (which, by the way, would have required me to leave precisely 5 minutes after the show ended, which would have happened, uh, never). I don't know why I decided on a Thursday instead of a Saturday.

but I did. and at 10:30pm, when someone said "Hey, let's all go to a pub!" my first thought was not "I should really get home so I can get as much sleep as possible," it was "aw, hell, I'm not going to get a full night's rest anyway. Screw it!"

At 1am, when I finally curled up into bed, my thoughts were "ngh," and maybe "rgh."

This morning, my thoughts are too many curse words for me to adequately display on this blog without getting an "inappropriate comment" label. Which I do think would be rather cool, but I think might put a damper on my stunning posting streak, and I really don't want to ruin that just yet.

Wah. Ow.

2007-03-15T09:33:00.000-04:00

I'm not entirely sure what I've done, but my back feels like a big ole ball o' pain. It's not really all that pleasant and it makes me want to curl up in a big ole ball of pain.

Sadly, my co-worker glanced at me beneath my desk and informed me this was not an appropriate action to take, so I am sitting very gingerly in my chair, trying not to slide back toward the sweet, sweet floor, all the while moaning and pining for my chiropractor. Who is on vacation. Until next week.

It is really all I have today, this little whine. Be glad I'm writing it now in the morning, as opposed to later tonight after I go see a play and sit in perfectly uncomfortable chairs that make my back ache on a good day.

I can't wait to see how it is on a bad!

(sarcasm intended.)

(maybe I'll just go home. Or invite someone to put me on one of those medieval torture devices. The rack? Whatever. That would be sure to crack my back. Any takers?)

--

Edited to add: anti-inflammatories are my friends.

Thoughts That I Shouldn't Have While At The Gym

2007-03-14T16:29:00.000-04:00

...but do anyway.

1. Man, maybe I could do six minutes instead of ten. (on the elliptical)
2. I hate my life! (A melodramatic response to realizing I had two more reps to go)
3. I need to ask my trainer to stop giving me exercises that remind me of beetles stuck on their backs. (... no, I really do.)
4. Man, I bet she's watching me. (she isn't)
5. And thinks I suck! (she might, but who cares?)
6. Am I done yet? (no.)

That said, I feel better afterward. I just need to stop watching my technique in the mirror when I do the flipped over beetle moves.

(I am stating here my attempt to post more frequently this week. Look! I am even posting from work. If I do not post, the two people who read my blog have my permission to email me angrily, or egg my apartment or something.)

In Memoriam.

2007-03-08T20:54:00.000-05:00

Anyone who knows my mother and sees me, says that I look like her. It's more pronounced now that I have dyed my hair black, my mother's hair colour. The streaks are not withstanding. It's the dark colours that draw the eye.

But even when my hair was platinum blonde, or red or brown, I was always told by people who have seen my mother how much I look like her. My brother and I are both alike in that way, the bones beneath our skin echo our mother's, her cheekbones, her mouth, her eyebrows. My colouring is actually like my father's - at least when it is not dyed to oblivion. My brother has the dark hair of my mother.

But there are other things that come from past generations that unfortunately, I never seem to realize until too late. A picture of my grandmother when she was in her early twenties, a half smile that echoes mine so perfectly that my father mentioned it to nearly every person who came to her viewing. I hadn't heard it until then. I suppose that no one had thought of it. In other features, I am entirely unlike my grandmother - I am tall where she was not - my facial features aren't the same; it's only small bits, like a smile, a way of turning my head. And when you are comparing a woman of twenty-something to a woman in her eighties, the similarities are no longer obvious until you look at the grainy black and white photographs.

What is in me of my grandfather is even less apparent. I have hands similar to his - the long, slender fingers. We shared some of the same personality traits. He painted - and I used to, in high school, and drew as well. I think I get my art from him, my music, my singing voice. He and I both participated in amateur acting groups at some point in our lives.

Some of these things are only things I know because of his funeral this week. I wish I'd known sooner, but there's something about my family, or maybe about myself that precludes talking about histories. Part of it was my grandfather. As everyone said: he didn't like a fuss.

It's sad. I'll be fine.

Somethings, I wish I had known before, so I could hear it from him, rather than second hand. Some things I wish I had asked, or someone had told me. I painted landscapes all my life, drew them a hundred times, trees and skies. I found so many canvases of his, going through the house over the last few days.

I took home a small wooden case filled with his paints and brushes. When the house is sold, I am getting a pair of his paintings. Everything will be divided and I can't help but feel it's morbid to do it, but of course it's not, it's natural, just as it's natural for me to feel that it's morbid.

My grandfather was a veteran of World War II.
My grandfather was a skier.
My grandfather was a banker.
My grandfather always wore a bow tie.
My grandfather was an excellent cook.
My grandfather always stood in the background.
My grandfather's favourite restaurant was a pub.
His favourite dish was the salmon platter.
My grandfather was born in 1911.
My grandfather died in 2007.

This Ain't a Scene - It's a Goddamned Arms Race

2007-02-24T12:32:00.000-05:00

I am in love with live music. There's something about being able to stand there and watch the band, see them smile, watch them play (hear the feedback, even) that is so much more enjoyable than anything canned. It is to my eternal dismay that one of the better alternative venues for live music has an indie night on Thursdays, when I am required to go to work on Fridays. I have yet to go, though I'm sure I will.

Last night, I went out for "a pint" which turned into, uh, about eight drinks, a live band and leaving the pub at around 2:30am. The band was excellent, a female singer who played guitar, a bass player, another guitar player and a drummer. They played mostly cover songs, all of the rock genre, ranging from Beastie Boys to Nirvana. I spent most of the time standing right beside the stage, watching and dancing in place, because none of my colleagues were inclined to get on the dance floor, and the truth is that I am too chicken to go dance by myself. I prefer to say "too smart." Wingmen (or women) are essential to the dance floor.

I will not discuss my hangover except to say that it blows my mind that I continue to drink alcohol despite all evidence that my body rejects it. The title of this post has nothing to do with anything except that the song is stuck in my head.

That's It. Really.

2007-02-20T19:53:00.000-05:00

I am insanely, insanely tired.

Did I Mention That I Ruined a Pot Boiling Water Just Last Week?

2007-02-16T18:30:00.000-05:00

Nothing starts a day off right by waking up, and wandering blearily into the washroom and starting the shower and hearing an ominous noise and seeing very little water come from the tap. Nothing makes it EVEN better by realizing that water is coming from NO taps, and there is basically no options at all to get clean, unless I want to wash from the water in my brita filter.

Which by the way? So not a cool idea. Though I did brush my teeth that way. A shower at the gym at my office made my hair bearable, as opposed to looking a bit like a dead racoon (with red and blonde streaks), and through my day I went!

Nothing is more comforting than to come home and discover a bright red advisory on my door knob. Boil Your Water, Lest You Die, said the advisory*.

I drink a lotta water, people. Like... five litres a day? I don't DRINK anything else. It's part of my "eat healthy, less sugar, less blah blah blah" schtick. In fact, all I have in the house to drink is water and milk (for my morning shakes) and ... vodka. Oh! and tomato juice. But the tomato juice is suspect. How long does tomato juice last, anyway? I think this one came from before Christmas.

So... if anyone sees me and I'm incoherent you may blame it on one of the following:

RP forgot and drank the tap water and is now dying of some deadly disease and is delirious.
RP drank old tomato juice and has food poisoning and is delirious.
RP drank the vodka and is now completely sloshed, and will likely soon forget about the reasons why she did neither step one or step two, do them and probably die.

If I make it through the weekend, it will be a blessing. What'm I going to do if this lasts all WEEK?

* May not be the exact wording.

So.... like...

2007-02-13T20:12:00.000-05:00

Wanna know something?

'Round Here by Counting Crows is bleedin' HARD to sing. Wah.

Also: Green Sleeves? is bleedin' HARD to play on guitar. (well, okay, it's hard when you've been playing for a month, and are still LABOURING over, oh, playing the notes properly, and ... you know, getting your finger on the right string, and then PLAYING the right string simultaneously, with the right pressure, and .... yeah. It's COMPLICATED.)

Wanna know something else? ('course you do)

These are both songs I suggested to my teachers in response to "what do you want to play/sing, next?"

I have no one to blame but myself.

Sigh.

Through All The Rambling, It's Point "10" That Matters Most

2007-02-12T11:29:00.000-05:00

I have been boring lately. I'm sorry! It's not deliberate. I don't think people like reading boring things. I don't think I like writing boring things. In fact, the day after my last post, after finally, FINALLY getting a full night's sleep, while standing in my first shower in a week (don't worry, this sentence finishes better than you think it will) that didn't involve me going "rush rush, am late, slept too late, slept too little HURRY!" (see?), I had a revelation that yes, I really did post that snippet. And yes, it really was that lame.

That is okay, though. I've accepted that, we're moving on. (if you disagree, I can accept that, too, though I may think you're a little crazy, and then, once again, move on!)

The lull isn't even that nothing is happening. Things are happening. They're happening quite happily, even. It's just ... I don't think that anyone except for me will CARE. Oh and maybe my Mum. My Mum'll probably care.

--

You know, whenever someone asks me "So what's new with you?" I'm left foundering. "Oh, same old, same old," I mutter, "work, blah blah blah. You know how it is." And then I realize I maybe should have told this person that I was getting a divorce, or that work was going WELL, and not as busy, or ... something. It's not like my life stagnates. I'm too in need of change to ever allow such a thing as stagnation. It's just that when I'm asked to qualify what is new, or to verbalize it, I can't. Again, it comes down to "who would CARE?"

This blog feels a bit like a "So what's new with you?" I have things that have happened, nothing big, just little things, little things that make my day, or my month, or have made 2007 feel open with possibilities. Except, that writing them down or saying them outloud, at least when put on the spot by a question, or a blank post (okay, let's be fair, I NAVIGATE to the page, so it's not really like I get put on the spot by a empty white window. It does not ambush me. Though that would be hilarious. just imagine it. Ambusing blog posts.).

--

This post sounds kinda egotistic. "Oh woe, am so BORING. My millions of readers must be so BORED. But I don't think you CARE about what's happening in my life. You just don't CARE!" I don't mean it that way. I can't . . . verbalize it without digging it deeper, but! know that I don't mean it that way.

--

However, in the spirit of sharing here are the things that have happened to me recently that I think that no one cares about, in no particular order:

1. This point was to say that my lawyer passed away on New Year's Eve, and connect that with my divorce, but it feels cheap and heartless. So: My lawyer has passed away, and my thoughts go out to his family and co-workers.

2. The red in my hair is starting to fade and I currently have a lovely sunset motif going on in my bangs.

3. I can now successfully play "Scarborough Fair" on my guitar. Next up: Green Sleeves, and Nirvana.

4. Work has been made infinitely more tolerable by management changes.

5. I'm having a hard time bringing myself to go to the gym lately, but I'm eating better than I have probably since ... forever*. So, at least I'm getting somewhere.

6. I bought a painting for my living room which has basically completed it. I love sitting in there now. I turn my head and I look at the finished wall - the one that was unfinished up until yesterday, and it pleases me. Having the room complete pleases me in ways that are maybe a little sad. Next up: bedroom.

7. There are few things better than waking up to a purring cat in the morning that do not involve someone of the opposite sex being in my bed.

8. I love to sing (duh), and cannot wait until I'm past the "labouriously playing one note at a time" stage with my guitar, so I can accompany myself. I'm incredibly pleased with my rendition of "You're Beautiful" by James Blunt, though also equally pleased that we're at the point where I can put it away in my lessons and work. on. something. else. My. GOD.

9. Iron & Wine is an awesome group. I particularly recommend "Evening Ground (Lillith's Song)".

10. I am really, really happy lately.

* - we're going to ignore the fact I had McDonald's for lunch on Saturday. I MEANT to have a healthy sandwich and tea place, but I couldn't get there before my voice lesson. It's the thought that counts!

Tee Gee Eye Effin' Eff III

2007-02-09T10:53:00.000-05:00

The picture of my cat sucking on a beer bottle like a veteran alcoholic amuses me so much that I've been loathe to post again and take it away. I came over here once, with the vague beginnings of a post in my head, and then was instead cheered by the sight of a fuzzy cat who obviously takes after someone other than me, if she likes beer.

I don't like beer. I can't even stomach a swallow. I'm not necessarily sure Temi would like beer (let's break the illusion. The bottle was empty because I freaked out to T., whose sweater and leg make an appearance in this picture that she was corrupting my sweet kitten, and she had better not DARE feed my cat alcohol, or I would kick her out into the snow, and I live in the boonies, and didn't she know the cows would eat her, if I did that?) if she swallowed it, but she was certainly interested in the taste and smell.

Strange.

(where I get derailed: Man, I want to go out and drink tonight. Perhaps I can arrange some post work boozing. They can have beer and I will drink my girly drinks. That sounds like a good plan. I need to get on that.)

But, I suppose I should maybe stop showing what a bad cat owner I am, and at least drop the photo of Temi, the alkie down to second level.

There. Second level.

And oh look, it's Friday again. So much for breaking old habits. At least it makes the post name a snap.

Melodrama

2007-02-04T23:33:00.000-05:00

It is official, I have terrible news. This weekend brought on the end of an era, and the beginning of a new one.

Wait, that's not true. But it did bring the end of my denial, and what a painful end it was.

My cat, my sweet and cuddly cat .... has become ....
a teenager.

Temi pictured here with one of her enabling friends.

After wild party she stumbles home to fight with her siblings about who gets the papasan chair and who gets to sleep on the bed. She's moody, she sleeps all day and is up all night. She keeps me up with her thoughtless needs and endless demands. When I do dare to sleep, she slams the door of the second bedroom locking herself and sometimes Max in with her, and then when she discovers the door is catproof, she yowls angrily until I come and retrieve her.

I'm not ready for this.

The Econo-Post

2007-01-31T08:49:00.000-05:00

This is a particularly amazing post because it is not the weekend. There has been a month of posts on either a Friday or a Saturday, which means I am starting to become predictable and the last thing I would ever want to be is predictable.

So, I am going crazy and posting on a Wednesday. Yeah. It's so exciting I might need to sit down for a while and have a little nap.

If you want to know, really, I don't much feel like I have anything to post. Almost a year after I've started babbling on what is basically a diary with no lock left out on a bus bench for everyone to read, I am boggled. I am intrigued.

What the hell do people write about for so long?

I suppose it's obvious. For the daily blogs, it's day to day life. For the political blogs, it is ... politics! Which is constantly full of things to be appalled at, or to mock. For music blogs, it is music, and for pet blogs it is pets.

I refuse to be defined by this, so I bring you the multi-subject post! Are you ready? Here goes:

My hair has recently been dyed black with flaming red highlights. I am totally rocking the punk rock look.

Apparently my prime minister feels that the Kyoto agreement is a "socialist scheme". Also, his party is showing that they have the maturity of a high school prima donna by creating news ads that diss the opposition, and talk about how the leader of said opposition would make a Bad Leader. And it's not even election time yet. Not that anyone knows when election time will be. Not that it's not possible for the government to be overthrown at any moment.

"The Beautiful Unknown", a Toronto based band has a great song called "Spinning in my Grave", and if you're an alternative fan, I greatly recommend it.

My cat has taken to curling up on my FACE and kneading my eyeball at four am. As you can understand, this is detrimental to my sleeping habits. However, it is so cute for her to lean up against me, all snuggly and curled up that I can't bring myself to try and get her to stop. Though, I would appreciate it if she would leave my eyeball alone.

Whew. There. How was that?

Tee Gee Eye Effin' Eff Two!

2007-01-27T00:51:00.000-05:00

I have got exactly eleventy-five bruises (really!), mostly around my thigh and upper arm region. I have pulled a muscle in my shoulder, and I am not sure, but I think my hip may be broken.

Some of these statements may be exaggerations or even outright falsehoods. Mostly, exaggerations.

What has RP been doing? You may ask. And then, you may have to get your mind out of the gutter, because dude, I mentioned bruised thighs and that only leads to one place: the gutter.

However, I must inform you that you have sullied your mind for no good reason. I was playing paintball this afternoon. Yes. This afternoon, I logged out of my computer at work at noon, got changed into ratty clothing and went to a basement of a local mall with five of my (male) co-workers to go and shoot paintballs at each other and basically work out our aggression.

It was AWESOME. Even if I was given extra equipment because I am a GURL with a U and all capital letters. However, since they gave me a chest guard? I cannot really complain, because I can only imagine: ow. One of the guys on my team got hit in the nipple (his words!) and he hit the ground.

So thank you, Mister Paintball Guy for the chest guard. Though, I have a bruise on my hand the size of my ... well, hand, that says that the gloves you insisted I wear did me NO good.

Also, to the co-worker responsible for the bruise on my back, because, well, you were on my team, and shot me by accident: I will never stop bringing this up.
And finally, to the co-workers I completely nailed (WITH PAINTBALLS) with my elite skills: you totally deserved it.

Tee. Gee. Eye. Effin'. Eff.

2007-01-19T18:28:00.000-05:00

Man. You wanna know what Americans miss out on? I think? Actually, I'm not sure. So I'm trusting that an American will enlighten me.

Do you guys have Just For Laughs? What's more, do you have Just For Laughs' gags?

Oh man. Best show ever. Best. Show. Ever. Not like in the sense that it is tittilating and mind blowing, just that it is so light hearted and fun and enjoyable. It's a half an hour of laughing.

It's what it sounds like gags played on people. However, none of them are really MEAN. Or gross. They're just funny, generally putting people into difficult and unbelieveable situations. They are based in Montreal, and are all done mostly without sound. It's all fairly explanatory, and the gag is shown at the beginning.

Example: Man walks up to a woman and asks for her opinion. He shows her a picture of his girlfriend, and then shows two rings. Which one is better? When the woman shows it, he wants to see what it looks like, so! gets on one knee, and places the ring on the woman's finger.

Cue girl friend. She comes over, angry, and yells at both the man and the unsuspecting woman. Then storms forward and slaps the man, and hits him with her purse for good measure. Then storms away, and storms back, yelling again. Generally, the poor woman tries to explain, or stop the woman. Sometimes they just stand there looking shocked.

I dunno - maybe you had to be there. So, if you can get it somehow, watch Just For Laughs Gags. It is french. You cannot go wrong with french.

Sigh. It's been a busy week, folks. My toilet has broken (don't worry, it still flushes. I just have to stand on my head, and spin around in circles, and the moon must be full for me to make it work). I got home after 9pm three nights out of five (and consider that one of the days, I worked from home, so getting home on time was a given). I bought a guitar tuner which doesn't seem to work. This means, by the way, that the average amount of time I need to tune my guitar is half a day.

Then I play my three chords three times, and put my guitar away. It's very productive! I am totally the Mozart of the guitar world.

Just you wait.

--

Also!
Also!
Also!

"British reality television star Jade Goody, accused of racism and bullying a fellow contestant from India, was voted off "Celebrity Big Brother" on Friday. A public vote saw Indian actress Shilpa Shetty stay in the house and Goody, her main tormentor, evicted."

Can someone please explain to me why this is breaking news on CNN? Please? I am confused.

Can Somebody Hold Me?

2007-01-13T17:53:00.000-05:00

I am traumatized. (other appropriate verb: melodramatic) And also elated. (other appropriate verb: fickle)

I had my first guitar lesson today, which went well, as in I did not cause my fingers to bleed, which, I consider to be a major plus. I also learned how to play four chords, which are apparently instrumental in many songs, and more importantly, instrumental in a song I wish to learn how to play. I am very pleased I've convinced myself to do this. What's more, I am pleased that I chose the teacher I did, and that I convinced myself to go in on Saturday's to see him. He's awesome, cheerful, great personality, and while I have a feeling I will never be an expert at guitar theory, based on his methods, I will definitely be able to play, which is pretty much my goal here.

So: huzzah.

So that is the elation. Due to the guitar lesson.

Sadly, the trauma is also due to the guitar lesson.

I have to cut my nails. They have to be short. At least on my left hand. And at first, I originally thought they meant like... just short. Still slightly there, but manicured close to the finger. I'm okay with that. That's manageable. But no. See, to press the string against the frets, you must be able to press with your fingertip. Not your nail. Your nail cannot be in the way.

It turns out, I must cut my fingernails to the quick.

Wah.

I don't think I've done that since I was nine. I've always had long nails. I take pride in my nails! I paint them pretty colours. Pink, red. Black. Purple, blue. Whatever. Nothing pleases me more than spending money for a manicure and getting my hand massaged and my nails painted pretty. It doesn't matter that my job requires my hands, and I thus chip my nailpolish within a day and have to reapply it constantly. I like nailpolish and I am girly.

Tomorrow I will clip my nails incredibly short, and I will try not to look at that hand, because really, I have long fingers, and short nails on long fingers looks bad, especially when your hand is teeny tiny like mine.

On the other hand? While I am moping, my new melodramatic phrase can be: "I am suffering for my art."

Which will also apply for every day I play the guitar until I get some callouses going on. And until I can stretch my fingers super far. Because ow.

This Post is Mostly Brought To You By My Geeky Side

2007-01-10T08:31:00.000-05:00

(Alternate Title: The Post With Really Annoying, Random Capitilization For Emphasis.)

I am being kind to myself to consider it a "geeky side". Rather than "geeky permeation", because, you know? I am a geek. I do web coding, I fix computers, I have read star wars books, I have read star trek books (I WAS TWELVE!!!!) and I used to watch ST:TNG on TV.

and I will admit that I probably would still do it, if only I had a channel that played them. But I do not, so instead, I am cool and hip with it, and I watch House instead.

Hi! I am tired. Because I watched House last night. Actually, I blame it on the fact I turned on the TV at all. Because see, I have an inevitable downspiral when I start to watch TV. It starts out watching House at eight pm. And then, there's a new episode of House at nine! and I must watch that, because, hello, new episode. This brings me to ten, which is my bed time. Only now that it's ten pm, maybe I should watch a little Law and Order SVU, but only if I am Strong and have great Willpower, so I can go to bed in Ten Minutes, because seriously, I need to be up in eight hours, and I haven't been sleeping all that well lately.

But I am not strong and I do not have willpower, and man, that SVU was really good and oh my god, it kinda made my skin crawl a little bit. Which makes it eleven pm, and at that point I was Cut Off. Because eleven brings the news. And the news is followed by the Daily Show. Which leads to one am.

The road to sleep deprivation is paved with prime time TV.

Anyway. What was my point? Oh yeah.

This!

Wanna know a secret? I don't think I have lurkers. But this button was just too cool to pass up. Because I am a geek. And thank you, Paper Napkin, for helping me fulfill my geekiness. It made me a little warmer on the inside.

But, yeah. It is apparently national de-lurking week. So, I am going to try and delurk on some blogs that I read this week, and actually post, and I think you should do the same. And if one of those blogs is mine - well, you can make me feel guilty for thinking you didn't exist. And if you make me guilty enough, I might send you cookies. After I get someone to bake them for me, or buy them, first.

In the mean time, I'm going to have a nap right here beneath my desk.

zzzz.

My Super Power: Weather Control

2007-01-08T08:45:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was gorgeous. Blue skies! Sun! Slight breeze! Balmy 39 degrees Fahrenheit. So beautiful that I felt the need to gloat. "It's like spring!" I declaimed with glee.

With those fateful words, I set into motion a calamity. I really should have known better. At night, it dropped below freezing - and snow fell. This morning, it crept to a degree above freezing, turning the snow into freezing rain. The sky is pewter grey and the roads, a perilous slippery slope. I trudged to work today wishing I'd brought my gloves, and moreover, wishing I'd kept my big fat mouth shut.

Sorry, Canada. That cold front coming our way right now? Totally my bad.

Live'n'Learn

2007-01-04T22:03:00.000-05:00

It's that time of year again (well - actually, it was that time of year about four days ago, give me a break). New Year resolutions!

I think New Year's resolutions are a great idea - but to be honest, I'm not good at them. Every year, I am asked: What's your new year resolution? And I get a deer in the headlights look, and then inevitably spout out something stupid. Or completely ... wide spread.

Last year, I think was probably the only year I had a really good one. It was a good one. I know it was. It wasn't really a good one to my friends who all went "be specific!"

Sadly, I can't remember exactly what it was. To get what I wanted? To take care of myself? Now I know why my friends were so boggled by it. It was a resolution that meant something to me, but when verbalized, it meant nothing. It was a fairly simple concept, but to put it in words, it was more complicated.

To be better to myself, maybe? Who knows. I know I did it, though. Maybe not perfectly, maybe not one hundred percent, but I was better this year than I have been in the past. It was a good year. And that kind of resolution is a hard one to live up to.

My resolution this year? No more giving guys at bars my phone number.

I think it's a good one.

Grey's Anatomy, Art.

2007-01-02T10:43:00.000-05:00

Why didn't anyone tell me about Grey's Anatomy? And it's awesome coolness?

... wait, they did? How many people told me? Oh. Uh. Almost all of them. And I scoffed? Huh.

Silly me.

I received Season 1 of Grey's Anatomy for Christmas, because my mother has been meaning to lend them to me, however, realized she never would, so purchased them for me instead. I was pleased, because I HAVE been meaning to watch it, and just never borrowed them from anyone.

and seriously - so excellent. While I'm sure that the whole scenario makes anyone in the medical profession (with the exception, perhaps of the medical advisor on the show) grit their teeth regarding unlikely scenarios (which I won't elabourate here in case you are the last person on earth to have never seen the show and yet wants to) (and on that subject, I have season 1 and 2 to lend you), if they are expecting absolute adherence to reality, to me, the uninitiated (and also, the person who does not care) the show is excellent. The characters, they are flawed, but likeable. The scenarios they are amusing, and the dialogue it is fast paced. I received money for Christmas as well, and some of that money went toward purchasing Season 2, which I finished watching yesterday while nursing a post-NYE hangover.

I haven't been in the mood to write lately - which maybe I can no longer blame on Nablopomo burn out (because seriously, it was thirty days, what am I whining about? The duration of the contest is now less than the amount of time I've been "recovering" from it), but I suppose I might blame on a combination of "sick as a dog" and also "exhausted as hell" and maybe also "generally feeling out of sorts." My general feeling towards online has been somewhat ambivalent as well. The people I chat with, I can't get into the mood to message (not through any fault of theirs, rather because I don't message people unless I have something to say, and lo, if I have nothing to say, I say nothing), I can't be bothered with forums or creativity. Things wax and wane, though I think that I use online for more creative things (beyond this blog) than as a social experience - the social comes as a side effect to my original purpose, which is writing. And the truth is that I'd like to kickstart my writing (I feel like such a follower - I can think of at least three other bloggers who have said this, and probably put it better than I did; however! just because it was true for them doesn't make it less true for me) and creativity.

So, here I am, blogging at work again, because when I get home, there are so many shiney things to distract me from blogging (including: bed, couch, and a new book).

Oddly enough, lately, the one thing I miss is writing poetry. I think that the fact I cannot write poetry lately (though whether I have ever written it "well" is a different matter altogether) is probably a good thing - I always seem to write poetry when I am most upset or feeling dark.

But on the other hand, I'd like to write some songs, and if I could maybe get to writing more than just four lines before running dry that would be great. Mmkay? Because you know, it would be somewhat difficult to do a CD with four second snippets. Though I suppose I could try it and call it art.

Where I Admit To the Internet That I Read The Superficial.

2006-12-28T15:46:00.000-05:00

Has anyone else looked at pictures of Nicole Ritchie and wanted to scream about anorexia nervosa or some other eating disorder* and that maybe people should stop photographing it and get her some help already? Like MORE help. Not the McDonald's kind of help.

No? Really? Just me? Oh. Huh.

You know, I've gotten sadly into reading trash magazines. I mean, aside from seriously wanting to shove some food down N.R.'s throat, it's kind of mindless and enjoyable fun. My biggest dilema while reading such filth is "do I really want to click that NSFW link? Do I?"

The answer is often "no", but I must admit to being compelled to clicking anyway.

It must be so bizarre to find yourself written about by various people who have no idea what they're talking about (like me!) stating opinions and opining (that's like stating your opinion) about your appearance. I always end up thinking about that right after I opine (nice word, isn't it?). Yet it does not stop me.

Opine.

* I do realize the irony of the fact that the pictures I'm posting involve Nicole Ritchie stuffing her face. But they display her boney boney wrists to best display my discomfort.

My Arguements Against Global Warmer Get Weaker By The Year

2006-12-22T18:46:00.000-05:00

So today, I walked out the front door, intending on going for some sushi to help clear my sinuses (wasabi, you know) and nearly fell flat on my ass.

Oh look. Ice.

A few more cautious steps and a glance at my ice encrusted car, I made an executive decision and turned back around and slowly shuffled back inside. What must be said is that on top of this frosty injustice that is keeping me separated from yummy sushi, the grass on the small lot surrounding my lot was still visible, and still green.

You see, other than that one time, we haven't really had much snow. That snow has melted. It has been positively balmy. (despite this, I have complained about being cold at least four times daily, because I'm a wimp who probably should not live in Canada) We may actually have a green Christmas. It will be the first Christmas in my memory that is green. And I'm not in the Bahamas. Needless to say, I'm feeling a little gyped.*

Supposedly, this is an El Nino year. Last time we had an El Nino, the city went to a state of emergency. I suspect it will be better this year, if only because, if this is any indication, it will be too warm to dump three days of freezing rain on the city, downing powerlines and trees.

I also have a cold, which has resulted in me spending all day in bed with tissues and a book on forensics anthropology. And also my laptop, because, you know, if I'm going to be home, I might as well be keeping up with the Superficial.

Ask me what colour my mucus is. Go on, ask.

C'mon, don't you want to be my friend?

No?

aw.

Happy Holidays, everyone!

* - this word is like the phrase "rule of thumb". Perfectly horrible in historical context. I twitch a little bit, when I use it. Sadly, as you can see, it has not stopped me from using it.

I Am Perhaps The Only Person Whose Back Comes with Map & Legend.

2006-12-18T19:47:00.000-05:00

Recently, I actually permitted myself to be included in photographs of the holidays. After my friends picked themselves off the floor, felt my forehead for fever and asked me repeatedly precisely how much I'd had to drink, these photographs were taken.

They were not bad.

However, as I think you are all stalkers (yes, you), these are not the posts that I will be posting.*

I did, however, mention vaguely that a photograph of my tattoo might come into light, and since the camera was out, I asked for a photograph for my purpose only. It's a pretty good picture of it. My thoughts regarding this photo went thus:

1. Damn, it looks GREAT. Score.
2. Wait, how long have I had freckles on my back?
3. Man are those my PORES?

I have a feeling that these thoughts are mine alone. Well, except for maybe the first one. You had ALL BETTER THINK THE FIRST ONE.

Without further adieu, my tattoo:

People have expressed some confusion as to what my tattoos ARE precisely, not that I can blame them, given that they are basically groups of celtic knotwork. For the aid of the reader who is not currently camped inside my head, I have provided this handy dandy image:

* I'm kidding, I love you all in a platonic way, but regardless, I think my photo will remain off the interweb.

Kind Of Like I'm Posting Every Day Again!*

2006-12-16T16:26:00.000-05:00

I like to fancy that for the rest of today, whenever someone looks into my eyes, they will know that I dared to do the impossible. I dared to be stupid. I dared to be reckless. I dared to take a stand.

I dared a shopping mall parking lot.

Chances are, when someone looks into my eyes, they won't see that, but they'll see the lingering madness that comes from such an endeavour. The twitching eyelid, the panicked, scouring glances, as if I am STILL looking for a parking spot. Or - maybe when they look into my eyes, they'll just be wondering what the hell is wrong with me, because I have a disturbing redmark in one of them that I can neither explain nor get rid of. It's been a week, and I've told at least one person that I think I have ebola. When in return I was informed that ebola doesn't actually attack the eyes, it attacks the tissue around my eyes, my logical response was "Fine, I have special Ebola." It certainly makes for a better reply than "Uh, I dunno. . . " when someone goes "Oh my god, what happened to your eye?!"

To get back on subject: I braved a shopping mall parking lot and I want everyone to know it. Actually, I braved two. One near my apartment, where a lovely store has a music book in for me, where I drove around aimlessly for a bit before deciding I'd try again later, like maybe January 2nd. And another, near where I work where my hair dresser is, because lo, I needed a hair cut, and lo, I could not get one Friday evening, because, uh, I called Friday afternoon. (idiot.)

My hair, it is trimmed and nicely layered. My present shopping is completely except for one, for whom I think I will get an online gift and lamely mutter "uh, it probably won't get there on time", because I'm out of options for her. My soul will never be the same. I'm traumatized by the angry automobilists (it's almost a word), and the clueless pedestrians. I'm mentally harmed by the crowds of people flooding shops making it IMPOSSIBLE for me to get to what I want, or even to a sales clerk to ask them. I am scarred to the very marrow of my bones.

Oh, and I also got some lip gloss.

*... only instead of thirty days in a row! (or even four or five days in a row, like I did prior to being sucked dry by nablopomo, it's ... uh. Two days in a row. Progress, shut up!)

Hindsight

2006-12-15T19:37:00.000-05:00

This time of year, more than any other time this year, I feel the need to compare where I was last year to where I am now. I'm not sure if it's because it's the holidays, or perhaps because I was simply so miserable last year, compared to where I am last year.

But I am thinking about it. It lingers in my mind as I shop forthe holidays, or as I do some baking for a Christmas party. As I contemplate for the sixty third time whether or not I should decorate and decide for the sixty third time that I shouldn't.

Last year, I couldn't get any feeling for the holiday spirit. I trudged through December with blinders on, resisting the urge to bah humbug the unfortunate soul who cried "Season's Greetings!"

I told my ex I didn't want to do gifts with him because we were short on money. I told him I wanted to go snow boarding with him instead. We didn't go. I definitely did not do any baking. I avoided going to my inlaws on the twenty-fourth, and then on the twenty-fifth I left him at home while I went to my parents. I came home to find him still in bed.

I didn't go to my company Holiday party, I didn't really do much of anything to acknowledge Christmas at all beyond lip service to the barest of family functions.

I have to say:
This time around seems much better.

And also:
Ginger short bread cookies are the best and I have to make sure I don't eat them all. I think I need to savour the first cookies EVER that I have made from scratch.

Be proud for me. I didn't start a fire, not even once.

In closing:
Tomorrow is the first day in five days I am not going to the gym. I am looking forward to it more than you can ever know. I am also looking forward to the idea of being able to raise my arms above shoulder height without pain.

A Post For My Benefit, Really.

2006-12-13T11:44:00.000-05:00

Oh. hi! did you miss me?

... no?

Hmph. I didn't miss you either.

Though - maybe if you LIE and say you missed me, I'll make a real update, instead of this pansy-ass list excuse for an update. This update is kind of like pinnochio. It wants to be a real boy (update), but instead keeps telling lies (using cheap excuses for a post, such as lists) and it's nose keeps growing (count keeps going up).

Anyway!

--

RP's Guide To Going To The Gym Successfully
Subtitled: For The Couch Potato

Basics:
1. Join a gym.
2. Actually go.

Ta-da! We are done. Now, pay me money.

Well, okay. Here's a bit more, anyway:

1. Set a time to go to the gym and, once more, actually go.
2. Start with cardio, pushing yourself as much as you can each time. Set attainable goals, and, you got it, attain them. Whether it's how far you walk, run, or how many strides you make on the ellipitcal machine a minute, set something for you to strive for that is difficult, but not impossible.
3. Do this 2-3 times a week for at least three weeks. In fact, make a PLAN, to go to the gym x number of times for three weeks. It's an ice achievable idea. Three weeks pass: Ta-da! according to psychologists, going to the gym is now a habit. You are stuck.*
4. Continue until you notice some weight loss and start to feel pretty good about yourself. Wait until you start to feel like the Queen (King) of the Ellipticals (Treadmill, stairmaster, whatever).
5. Put yourself at the mercy of a fitness trainer to create you a routine.
6. Begin masochism.

On the Routine:
1. Do not fret if you do not do it all properly immediately. Or if you forget something. Or if you fall off the ball TEN THOUSAND TIMES because you have an inner ear problem, and really, cannot even walk in a straight line if pressed.
2. Do as much as you possibly can, pushing yourself to do a little more each time.
3. Achieve full workout without a muscle rupturing and splitting through your skin, because that's unsanitary.
4. Admire results. (dude - you should see my biceps)

A Special Note for the Neurotics (AKA - me)
1. THEY ARE NOT WATCHING YOU.
2. THEY DO NOT CARE.
3. NO, NOT EVEN WHEN YOU FALL OFF THE BALL TEN THOUSAND TIMES.
4. JUST DO YOUR ROUTINE.

* Proof: I've been going pretty regularly for a month, and I received a new routine on Monday. I HURT, people. So last night, I decided I was not going to the gym the next day. In statement of this, I did not put new gym clothes in my gym bag, so I could not take it with me, because it wouldn't matter! I was not going. Then, this morning, I was getting ready, and I went "aw, it only takes like two minutes, I'll just grab some stuff and that way I'll have it for the next time I go to the gym!" And so I did. And then, at around 10am, I decided to go to the gym. Despite my previous decisions. Ow.

How To Medicate Your (My) Cat

2006-12-04T20:21:00.000-05:00

Editor's Note
Be warned that this post contains the word "boobs". If you are already offended, you should probably stop reading. Please also note that if boobs get involved in the medicating of my cat, that means that (most) guys probably will not be able to use my methods. So, if you are a guy who is going to scream sexism at me? Well - at least it'll be funny. If you are a guy who likes the word "boobs"? Read on.

Sincerely,
RP

PS - Boobs, boobs, boobs.
PPS - I am sorry to inform you that the editor's note contains the word "boobs" more than the post does. I am like a politician who promises huge things, and then offers a tiny, insignificant morsel when the time comes to pony up.

--

How to Medicate Your (My) Cat

While cat sits docilely nearby, get dropper syringe, fill with water.
Pick up pills, which causes them to rattle. Watch cat who is brilliant, realize what is going on, and get up and run - well, no - get up and waddle swiftly away to a hiding spot.
Place pill and syringe within easy reach, go and retrieve cat.
Find cat in the same place he always hides (hm, maybe he's not as brilliant as I thought. . . ) in the closet behind several dresses.
Forcibly remove cat and heft him to carry him back where the pill and syringe has been left.
Nearly have a hernia due to cat weight. Remind self cat is not fat, cat is big boned-ed, honest, sit down cross legged on the floor.
Quality cuddle time for thirty seconds because it makes me feel better about the once-every-three-days-abuse I inflect on Mister Itchy.
Turn cat over and cradle him like a baby. Wedge head between upper arm and boob (see?), move hind legs away from body. Hold still.
Gently insert syringe between cat's teeth, which should force him to open his mouth. If necessary, squirting a bit of water will do the trick. When cat's mouth is open, pop in pill, aiming for the back of his throat.
If you are tired/drunk/clumsy, repeat several times until your aim and cat's mouth mystically align.
When the pill is firmly in his mouth, drown the cat with water - okay, don't do that. But sometimes it feels like I'm doing that. Follow the pill with water to force the cat to swallow it and keep him from hiding it in his mouth or something. Wait for cat to swallow.
Let poor kitty go, watch him run - 'scuse me, waddle swiftly off.

Repeat as necessary, hope cat continues to always forgive you, because his habit of headbutting your cheek when he's feeling affectionate is just too precious to lose.

Winter: I Did Not Miss You At All! (Fingers & Toes: Feeling In You, However, I Miss)

2006-12-01T18:00:00.000-05:00

Look! See? Another post. I cannot stop. I am addicted.

(this may only last today. Because seriously, I went all day without posting and I did not die at all. Nor did I break into hives, which was something I was expecting)

Something said about Canadians (who says it? I do not know. Probably Canadians) is that we can always complain about the weather. I maintain that this is due to Canada giving us weather to complain about.

Like: Negative forty weather.
Or perhaps: Freezing rain.
And don't forget: Snow.

Today, I am batting two out of three.

This morning it snowed. Whoosh! Snow all on the roofs. Snow all on my car! Snow all on the ground. It was pretty and holiday-esque and I thought "hm. Just the thing to get me in the holiday spirit!" And we wandered around for a few hours saying to each other "It's starting to look a lot like Christmas!" Saying, not singing. Because my co-worker, he does not sing, and I, I do not sing Christmas carols.

Then, it began to rain. Freezing rain. Splash! Ice all over the snow. (To know precisely where the snow is, please see last paragraph. And also! READ MORE CAREFULLY!) That was this afternoon. Much of the afternoon was spent growling about the weather. Randoming shouting at each other "IT LOOKS SO BAD OUT THERE!" and then muttering about wanting to go home.

By about 3:30, people started going home. The weather! it was bad. 4pm, nearly everyone was gone, and the office, it was oh so quiet. My co-worker and I, though, we were still there. Why? We are tech people. WE STAY TO SUPPORT THE BUSINESS EVEN WHEN THE BUSINESS AS GONE HOME. 4:30pm, our manager left without telling us, or letting us go too.

My co-worker left soon afterward. I, the busy bee that I am (read: brainwashed slave) remained for another twenty minutes before leaving. My car, I found beneath a block of ice.

--

Anyone who lives in a cold climate is familiar with the drive home that's filled with icy roads and the glaring reflection of street and headlights. The lights reflecting off the black road obscures the white lines, and the headlights reflect in ice and water smeared mirrors, making side view mirrors practically useless.

The heater is on full blast, but is mostly focused on the windows to keep them from fogging up. My hands are frozen, mostly because I never got around to purchasing gloves again, though I swear I thought at least seventy million times: "I need to get new gloves before the real bad weather comes." Because of the heaters direction, it's hard to get them warmed that way. I alternate putting each hand on my neck for body heat, because really, I'm just a wimp who hates the cold.

I turn up the music quite loud, and sing along to Tool's Aenima and when I realize that no one is on the roads, I enjoy the drive.

Weather doesn't actually bother me. I don't get nervous with rain or snow - I learned to drive in the winter, which means I'm less frantic about snow or ice on the road. What I hate, though, is the traffic. I'm not patient. I will consistantly choose a longer route over a traffic blocked one, simply because it calms my seething road rage and keeps me from getting out of my car and beating someone with my purse. I spent most of the afternoon dreading the traffic and wondering what my best route would be, stuck between choosing side roads, which will be more dangerous, but less clogged, and the highway, which will be less dangerous but more clogged. I eventually chose the highway, because if it's intolerable, I can always take an earlier exit and slip on a side road.

Oddly enough, my drive home was the fastest it's been all week. No one was on the roads, presumably because they all left early. I made it home in record time. Which was very pleasing.

--

All this to say: OKAY WINTER I GET IT AND I AM IN A HOLIDAY MOOD NOW. PLEASE GO AWAY. I'LL DO MY HOLIDAY SHOPPING THIS WEEKEND. SWEAR.

All Good Things Must Come to an End.

2006-11-30T08:31:00.000-05:00

Today, five minutes past the time I needed to leave for work, I displayed a stunning ability to prioritize and Get The Job Done.

Standing in my bedroom, wearing slacks and a polo shirt (well within my company's dress code, with the possible exception of the visible tattoo on my forearm) and no socks (that's not within company's dress code), I applied my makeup.

I blended eye shadow. I put on eye liner and applied mascara. Then, I topped it off with a pretty day lipstick with just a little sparkle.

It was all very pretty and girly.

However - I may have wanted to find some socks, first.

--

Last day of Nablopomo! Ta-da!

To offer some sort of continuity and sense of completion (... or something), I went back and found my first post of the month. A post in regards to my skin, the difficulty of.

Because I know all you people are completely on pins and needles to find out how my skin is doing, I shall tell you! It will be interesting! And riveting! and do not tell me otherwise, because you may break my little tiny heart into tiny pieces, and shatter it all over the floor like a small porcelain figurine.

And nobody wants to sweep that up.

I no longer wash my face with oil. I tried! I did. I gave it my honest attempt and my honest best and the reality is that it was not making things better, and may have been making it worse. As much as I would love to have been able to say that it made my skin pure and clean like white snow, and also left it silky smooth, it did not. My difficult, combination skin (dry! no, oily! no! BOTH AT THE SAME TIME!) was painfully dry in parts and far too oily in other parts.

So I rather sadly put away my nice and cheap and affordable routine and have moved to a more expensive one. I went to Lush. I bought facial soap! I bought toner. I bought moisturizer.

And so far, pleasantly, my skin has avoided peeling off my face in horror over such a dramatic change in its routine.

Personally, I think it's plotting.

Let The Season Fall On Me.

2006-11-29T09:13:00.000-05:00

We've had a warm autumn - there's no snow on the ground yet, and we haven't had more than a few flurries. The grass, amazingly, is still green. Still, despite the green, the leaves still on the trees, today feels like winter.

I also have Sirsy's "Some Kind of Winter" stuck in my head (hence the title of this post), which may or may not have anything to do with anything.

The sky looks like winter. A flat and unending sky of clouds that nearly touch the buildings. Mist hung over the water and the sun did not really rise until quarter to eight, which meant I drove to work in a semi darkness that reminds me of the days I used to work at six am and caught a bus at four-forty just to get there on time.

I'm not a very reminiscent person. In fact, I think the only thing that instills memory in me is the change of seasons; even that, is a fleeting glimpse, stirred only when the experience is just right.

Where I Show My Artistique Skill.

2006-11-28T09:44:00.000-05:00

I have a feeling I may not be able to return to one of my favourite clubs again, because it is no longer my favourite club. It has been infested by young adults who are apparently twenty-one or older, though I frequently want to ask one of them if they're twelve. Infested by young adults who wear their hats sideways or backwards, wear their pants around their ankles and just look so utterly poseur street it's hard not to go You're just so CUUUUUUUUUTE and pinch their hairless yet unshaven cheeks, because seriously, they probably live in the 'burbs with their mom.

And do not think that the above paragraph did not make me feel ANCIENT AND OLD, because seriously, am I actually complaining about people wearing their pants too low? Or that they're wearing their hats on backwards? Do I want a walker? Am I ready for retirement? Should I go buy a house at the end of a twisty lane and about another thirty cats? Am I really doing this?

Yes. Yes, I am.

Because twelve. And because my bar, goddamnit. Get outta my bar!! (GERROFF MY LAWN!!!!!)

And if you're going to act street and cool? And you are going to dance with your hand in the air like you just don't care? Please try and make "devil's horns" and NOT the sign for "I love you". Because there is a difference.

Here, let me show you! With my ascii stylin' ways.

Devil's horns. []--[] <--- pinky finger and index finger extend.
I love you. []--[]// <--- pinky finger, index finger and thumb extended.

Okay? Good.

Just Another Manic Monday

2006-11-27T08:55:00.000-05:00

uh... Hi.

it's like ... Monday. and I'm tired. And there isn't enough coffee in the world for me.

I have so far held conversations today about whether or not when tech support helpdesk people say "I can't service you right now" if they really mean that they can service you at other times - because really, that's what I call unparalleled customer satisfaction, about Led Zeppelin and what CD "The Immigration Song" is on, without using Google (we think Three). And, uh. Not much else. I have also had two cups of coffee. It is cold! and it is rainy! and blah.

I'm feeling kinda Garfieldian. So. uh. Hi! how are you?

--

Dude, my eyes are on a revolt. They are watery, and they are drippy and this morning I went to put contacts in, and they violently rejected them. I put my finger near my eye, and my eye lid was all "OH HELL NO! *squeezes shut*" and my eye was like "yes."

I am wearing my glasses. They apparently look nice today, but I would much rather be wearing my contacts. Or better yet! have my eyes shut and be all sleeping-like.

--

I don't know why, but I have no concept of what day it is this month. I've been constantly snuck up on by things like ... I dunno. Fridays. And Mondays! and ... Tuesdays. And Wednesdays. And sometimes Thursdays, though last week, I thought every day was Thursday, including Friday, so that was like ... one long Thursday. All I really wanted was for Thursday to end, so it would be Friday already, but then it would be like ... Tuesday or something, and i'd be all disappointed.

This long paragraph (which I have written over half an hour because people keep coming by) all started because I just realized today is the twenty-seventh. Which means that after this post, I only have three left before the end of Nablopomo.

Almost enough to make one sad, isn't it?

Sunday Ramble.

2006-11-26T17:30:00.000-05:00

Downside to blogger beta: If you have more than one gmail account, and prefer one over the other, and that one is NOT the one connected to your blog, you spend a lot of time logging in and out of various google sites, because apparently having more than one account is NOT SOMETHING GOOGLE THOUGHT OF.

Not that I blame them. I'm fairly sure the average internet user is not insane with multiple google accounts. I am slightly dumb and also stubborn. But seriously? annoying. If I happen to leave Blogger sometime soon, no one be surprised.

--

May I have a hearty good review for Casino Royale, particularly for any one who might be interested in seeing a well built man in various states of undress? Because I saw it this weekend, and it was good and Daniel Craig is hot, amen.

oh and the story was good too, and there were some kinda pretty special effects and also an extremely cool chase or two. And if you're not interested in Daniel Craig, Eva Green doesn't have a third eye and I've heard she's pretty good looking, but I wasn't really paying attention because DANIEL CRAIG.

--

I had a panini with beets in it yesterday.

It was actually pretty good.

Oh, And My Back Is Still Itchy.

2006-11-25T10:12:00.000-05:00

Uh, so like... I don't really think I'm going to have time for a "real" post today (yes. Posts about my itchy back are real posts. SHUT UP!). I have to leave in an hour to go pick up a friend then go to some vegetarian place and eat paninis, then go see a movie (for free! take that movie theatre! In exchange for your non-working assistive listening devices, I will complain EACH AND EVERY TIME it happens and amass a tiny hoarde of free passes.*) and then maybe hang around the city for a bit, then drop my friend off, and wander over to ANOTHER FRIEND'S where I will eat some pizza and then put on more makeup and fix my hair again and then we will go to a club. There, I will dance, and be rather distressingly sober while my friends get hammered. Okay, "sober" may be an exaggeration. But I promise, I will get no more than buzzed. They? intend to take a taxi home.

So now that everyone knows every minute of my Saturday, as it is planned out, I am sure you can all go about your days in peace without wondering "just what is that RP up to, today?" Paninis, movie (free!), hang-out, swap friends, pizza, club, buzzed, bed. In that order.

New post tomorrow. That day I intend not to leave my house at all.**

* - also, I will spend a lot of money on renting movies after seeing them once so I can actually UNDERSTAND THEM, but you know.
** - This is a lie. I need groceries. This must be done tomorrow lest I starve on Monday, because I am trying to Save Money and make up for all the spending I did in the last two weeks that made me have a heart attack when I checked my back balance. (I, uh, somehow miscalculated. by like. A lot. Whoops.)

Hey, look!

2006-11-24T18:40:00.000-05:00

Blogger Beta!

Apparently my whining paid off.

Note to self: whine more.

(See Next Post For New Whine. Likely about needing money, or something.)

ITCHY!!!!

2006-11-24T10:09:00.000-05:00

oh my god, people.

my back? so itchy. i woke up this morning at 2 am? because of the ITCHING.

(yes, yes, I know. My fault. My tattoo. My decision. blah blah blah. do not care. AM ITCHY. wah.)

You know, I realized yesterday with a sudden epiphany that shows my intelligence and awareness of the date that [yesterday,] it was seven days before the thirtieth. Which means seven more days of posting, and then I will be able to go post free for a day or two.

aaaaaaaaaaugh. this will be a fairly [ITCHY] crappy post [ITCHY!] because my [ITCHY!!] every thought is [ITCHY!!!]overtaken by the fact that [ITCHY!!!] my back is itchy.

I cannot scratch.
I cannot scratch.
Icannotscratch IcannotscratchIcannotscratch.

Oh god, why do I have such lovely and flinty nails if NOT TO SCRATCH MY BACK. OMFGWTFBBQ!!!!

Breathe.

I cannot scratch.

I cannot scratch.

Scratching will not help anyway. I cannot scratch.

To spare you all the ensuing and repetitive war with myself, I shall hit publish now. Pity my coworker who must hear me complain. He does a good job at faking sympathy, though.

Hmph.

2006-11-23T14:27:00.000-05:00

I debated and debated and kinda mulled over changing to the new blogger and finally decided to take the plunge. With my information clutched firmly in my paws, I slowly walked up the dream-paved avenue to Blogger Headquarters and knocked.

The slot opened, a beady eye peered out. They took a look at me, standing there and as they looked at me, they looked at my blog. They saw all the posts, maybe, or maybe they saw the size. Perhaps they saw the number of people who read A Random Person's Thoughts, or maybe they saw my page hits.

Whatever it was, it was lacking.

"Not today!" A disembodied voice barks. "We can only accept so many! Check back again later!"

Woe. No Google Blogger for me.

A Post With Completely Unrelated Subjects Loosely Cobbled Together With a Skillful Segue Known As The "Double-Dash"

2006-11-23T08:48:00.000-05:00

My drive to work normally takes forty minutes during rush hour and twenty minutes during non-peak hours. It just took me an hour and a half to get to work because of construction being performed on two major streets (which I do not even take, but the ripples of slowed down traffic is having an effect that crosses the bridge and province and slows down the street I DO take) at a time that is really quite risky for construction in Canada. (Also known as "Autumn." Also known as "That time snow likes to fall.")

--

I could use a nap. Instead, I will go to the gym. I'm trying this crazy thing lately, known as "Take care of yourself". It's nuts. I eat three meals a day, try to go to bed at a time that will guarantee me eight hours of sleep and am dragging my ass to the gym, propelling myself with glowing promises like "bikini" and "belly button piercing." Unfortunately, I have not noticed much improvement, except I am hungry less. That I've only been doing this for like four days is maybe a good explanation for that.

The blood tests I've taken have come out normal, so there really is no good explanation for my bone-deep exhaustion (or at least not one I will get from a doctor who sees me at a walk-in clinic, which is the only type of doctor I will ever see because, hello, 40 000 people in my area need a doctor and some of them are higher up in the scale of 'need'. Stuff like "I have cancer" or "I am pregnant" puts one above the whole "I'm sleepy and also hard of hearing" schtick I have going), except for maybe GETTING MORE SLEEP. I find I dislike this self diagnosis because it's a sign of me getting old. I can't survive on four hours sleep anymore, and I think that's crazy talk, I should be able to do the same things I did in high school*. Better, even! Because I've had more practice.

It also occurs to me that the fact that I am no longer a giant ball of stressed out adrenaline, might be effecting this. I am no longer the one who jumped out of bed and ran to work because it was an escape from her life at home, and the one who drove home worrying what she might find when she got there (would he be out of bed? Would he be talking to me today? Would he say hello, or would he be irritated because the fact I have come home distracts him from World of Warcraft? Will he -- and so on) and the one who really did not sleep all that well, because her mind would never shut off.

Still. I find this 'need for sleep' thing rather inconvenient. It cuts into my 'me' time. Going to the gym cuts into my "staring into space at work" time. Still, it's better than doing nothing.

I figure, the worst outcome of this theory is I will be exhausted in a bikini with a belly button ring. Which, really, isn't that bad.

--

It seems likelier and likelier by the day that my team and I will be let go at work. The worst part is how all of us have a similar response, which is "THANK GOD." And also "Please?"

Of course that means that if I see a new position opening up, in the back of my head, I wonder if I should not post for it because of the benefits of staying on and being let go. I think that this means I am jinxing and dooming myself into staying here with no opportunities whatsoever.

--

Did I mention I was tired? Right. I did. Sigh. But really. Tired. Eyes drooping.

--

To all the lovely Americans who happen to come by on this weblog, I wish to you a Happy Thanksgiving. Please know that I really really want some turkey today. And some stuffing. Yum.

* - really, I think this is a case of hindsight being blurry and rose-coloured. Because I also remember sleeping through a lot of my classes.

Unexpected LipReading Benefit

2006-11-22T20:37:00.000-05:00

Finding out the name of the anti-heroine in Kill Bill even though they beep it out.

Just thought I'd share. Don't you feel special?

One of Those Days Where I Could Really Use a Nap

2006-11-22T09:03:00.000-05:00

That "those days" is really every day? is kind of a moot point, at least I have a title for my post.

When Nablopomo is over? I AM NOT POSTING FOR A WEEK.

AT LEAST. Oh my god. Maybe December could be Nanopomo National No Posting Month.

I don't know how I would have done this without being able to post from work. In fact, I am in awe of the people who are doing this on their own time, rather than companytime (Imeanduringmybreaks,bosspleasedonotfireme). Like those people who are posting while on vacation in exotic places.

Or just those people who post from home. Because like. At home, I am oh so busy. Okay, I'm not really. When I am at home, though I am LAZY. And SLEEPY. And often trying to prepare for my next day, because my god, I have to make my lunch, and I should maybe eat something, and why am I still in my workclothes oooh beef jerky, yummy, ack, mom is on the phone, ooh, I should clean my kitchen and maybe watch Kill Bill and I could really use some more beef jerky and hello kitty, you are sure cute, okay I will rub your head and play a little and yes, yes, you will get fed and I need to make another phone call regarding plans this weekend and whew.

I wonder if there is a Guiness World Record for Longest Run-on Sentence? Because I would TOTALLY try and beat that.

Everyone's gotta have goals, yo.
(the Canadian should not try and use "yo" in a sentence, even if it does work for her carefully crafted phrasing, or some such BS. THERE IS NO EXCUSE. It's like an American saying "eh?" Destroys the natural order of things.)

Open Letter

2006-11-21T13:20:00.000-05:00

Dear Mister Creepy Guy,
I know you do not have to walk by my office several times a day. I know that the stairwell that you use to get here is not convenient to anywhere you go from just about anywhere you've been. I am already regretting that my desk layout has been moved so I am facing the window and thus can see you (and everyone else) who walks by, and what's more, people can see me.

Also, I do not need you to stop by and tell me that I am beautiful as always. It's not charming. It's actually somewhat insulting and a little creepy. I actually don't want to know how you think I look. "You look beautiful" is a phrase best used for dates, wives or girlfriends. Not the tech chick who barely remembers your name. I am the person who fixes your computer, not your eyecandy.

Oh so very sincerely,
RP

PS - I do appreciate the fodder for Nablopomo, though. I was wondering what I was going to write about today. Thanks.

Because the Masses Have Asked For It

2006-11-20T08:11:00.000-05:00

-- okay, two people asked. But that's actually a lotta people, people. (people!)

Also, when you have to post daily and are on day twenty, you're grasping for posting straws and really, what better way to kill a post than describe your tattoo?

(secret: I haven't done it yet because I was saving it for its own post. I am a NaBloPoMo whore!! I admit it. I am not even ashamed.*)

I have four tattoos, two tattoos on my back. The tattoo that was already on my back is a triskel. I cannot find a picture that precisely fits my tattoo, but if you look it up, you'll get a basic idea. It's a three point shape (also known as a triangle) made up of three interlocking knots.

It represents balance and good thoughts.

The new tattoo I got is a butterfly done in celtic knotwork. Because of the slightly tribal design, I have a feeling that I know exactly what it is, but someone else might look at it and go "uh... is it a scorpion?" I maybe should have thought of that, but seriously, I KNEW exactly what it was, so I assumed other people would. Also: Looks cool. Do not care if I have to answer "so, uh, what is it?" every day of my life, because I like it and it is pretty and even if it just looks like geometric shapes (and maybe it does), it still looks pretty good. It's positioned between my shoulder blades, framing my triskel which at the base of my neck.

I've taken a picture or two, but something's wrong with my camera so it's too fuzzy and pixelated to see properly. And I am annoyed with my camera now so I am ignoring it, and also the batteries are dead and I really don't feel like taking out the batteries from my remote control to take yet another crappy picture. (I am so cheap I'm not even buying batteries. I just swap batteries around!)

So that is why there is no picture. I might try and get one later: because really, "uh, it's supposed to be a butterfly, but uh, it's kinda geometrical, and uh, it's positioned beneath this other geometrical shape" really isn't that great of a description to go by. people probably think I have a rhombus or something on my back.

* - also: please note my amusement that I can do this, but I cannot write a story daily. No. If I were writing a story. I would have stopped around 20k. i suppose the difference between this and story writing is I'm doing this at work. and you know what? I'm not ashamed about that, either.

Because Lists Are Addictive

2006-11-19T13:48:00.000-05:00

What I Always Forget About Tattoos and Really Really Shouldn't:
Alternately: What You Should Always Know Before Getting Inked

They hurt.
One would think that out of all the things that would be scarred into my brain, it would be pain. No, no, it is not. Over time, the memory of pain fades, or maybe I just convince myself I'm a tough chick who can take tons of pain, only to have that belief fade as the needle touches the skin of my shoulder blade and then my fists are all clenched and the muscles in my legs are shaking from resisting the urge to kick my tattoo artist firmly in the groin.
They itch
Though I must admit that this one is not itching as much due to fantastic tattoo ointment, but still. I don't know why I somehow always forget that two week period of crusty/itchy/painfulness and skip straight to the calm, cool-looking tattoo that I crave. Selective memory's a bitch.
They weep ink (and other things I am not thinking about).
Seriously. I always forget this. I woke up this morning to find the perfect imprint of my tattoo on my bedsheets. I was so shocked! Partly because I'm appalled that I somehow managed to turn over on my back in the middle of the night, but mostly because: My precious fluids! they are leaking out of me! how did that happen? .... oh yeah. a needle shoving ink beneath my flesh. duh.
They require care.
Okay, I didn't really forget this. What I did not consider was that I would have to put ointment on my BACK. By MYSELF. With crazy contortionist movements that involves twisting around and switching arms, and switching directions and oh my god! Compounded by the fact I'm trying not to stretch my back TOO MUCH, because uh, I don't wanna ruin the tattoo. I don't know why I didn't think about this until he was halfway done. But jeesh.
(related, but not: The tattoo stuff they gave me is probably the best tattoo ointment I've ever used. It's called "tattoo goo", and has things like beeswax and other natural ingredients in it. It's extremely moisturizing - even my hands are smoother, from just applying it.)
I must dress for my tattoo.
Does anyone have any great ideas as to how I can get away with wearing a low backed and likely sleeveless outfit at my conservative workplace? Because I haven't got a clue. But it's either that or take my shirt off in the women's washroom to apply the tattoo goo, and I have a feeling that if my CEO (who works on the same floor as me) walked in on me in my bra as I performed my crazy arm contortions to reach all the crevices of my shoulder blade, that might be considered what we call a Career Killer Move. Sigh.

RP's How To:

2006-11-18T16:37:00.000-05:00

How to Spend A Lot Of Money in One Week:
1. Go to Montreal.
2. Go to your favourite store in Montreal.
3. Try to limit yourself at your favourite store, fail miserably.
4. Later that week, go and get a tattoo. Your largest tattoo ever. That tattoo you have been thinking of for about a year. That you have fondled in your mind and held it there, petting it lovingly, sometimes putting it away for a while, then taking it out with renewed vigour.
5. When the tattoo artist says: Give me about 45 minutes, instead of say, going home which is 5 minutes away, or perhaps just hanging around, reading a book, go shopping. Buy some new pyjamas!*

Also:
How You Should Not Be Reminded Of Christmas:
When you buy a pair of pyjamas at a popular store, and the saleslady asks you: "Is this a gift?" Your thought after this moment really really should not be: "oh shit. That's right. Christmas! I should be buying for OTHER people...."

Ahem.

* - not because you need pyjamas, oh no. Because you do not. No, your pyjama drawer is full, as is your t-shirt drawer. In fact, all your drawers are full. When you try and open one, it opens them all. It is a little frustrating. However - the pyjamas are black and silk and really quite nice, and they have been sitting in the back of your mind for the last two weeks or so. If you can resist that, then you are a better person than I am. I, for one, now own the pyjamas.

Améliorer

2006-11-17T09:43:00.000-05:00

I think I was maybe a little grouchy when I edited that last post. (y'think?) Ahem. I am slinking back to offer my apologies, especially for denying the internet a joke about ebola.

(But guess what! I'm still gonna do it! because it does not fit in this post! Sorry, the moment has passed. Obviously, I am just not that sorry.)

My wrists are less sore, now, due to the addition of lovely, fashionable wrist splints, which will hopefully ameliorate* the problem until I can get someone to come by and raise my desk to a proper height for my superiour length, and a keyboard tray to assist with my atrocious posture and hand positions. (you'd think I'd be better at that, since I played the piano, but clearly not) Then I can go back to ignoring the underlying issue because it will have improved (ameliorated!) to the point that, well, I can ignore it.

So have a slightly happier post.

--

Montreal at night is brilliant. Walking down Saint Catherine's street, the signs shine brightly, but not neon, beckoning to large, well lit interiours, stores that I may have in my city but all on larger scales. Le Chateau is huge. The Bay, an entire building. Archambault, stupendous. **

Since the sun sets so early now, I got to experience Montreal at night, nearly the entire time I was there. We were in the car long nearly as long as we were in Montreal, but regardless, it was enjoyable. To me, long car rides are an opportunity for something - be it long conversations with friends, like this time, or listening to music or enjoying scenary when I take road trips alone.

Also, the opportunity to go to Archambault was too much to refuse. While we have one in the city I live in, it's smaller scale, with less focus on sheet music and more on CDs and DVDs (not that I can complain about large amounts of CDs and DVDs being available to me), and the one in Montreal is 3 floors, and so has an entire floor dedicated to instruments and sheet music. This meant cheerfully browsing books before deciding on a few to purchase and then dashing downstairs to gleefully cavort amid CDs before choosing three, two sure things and one risk. I love Archambault. Every trip I take to Montreal includes: "and I get to go to Archambault!"

I mean, my friend emailed me to ask me to go, and I replied within seconds going "CAN I STOP AT ARCHAMBAULT?!?!?!"

This tells you how much I love this store. Sheet music for voice is difficult to find where I am. And yes, I can and do order music through my local Archambault, but there's something to be said for being able to actually walk through a store and browse and pick up things I never would have thought of.

I think, if I could, I would live at Archambault. I don't take up a lot of space. Perhaps I can speak to the manager next time. In return for lodging, I could sweep the floor and sing for the customers (or if the customers object, I can use it as blackmail: Let me stay, or I will sing!!) and maybe sell a thing or two. Also, only steal a few things every once and a while.

It would be heaven, let me tell you.

* - tell me - is this english? I know it's french. I love that word. it's so fun to say! ameliorate. A - mel - i - or - ate! Ameliorate! Okay, I'm done now. a m e l i o r a t i o n! Sorry, couldn't help it.
** - err. Le Chateau (which might be international, but just in case it's not) is a clothing store. The Bay is a department store, kind of like Macy's, but ... not. And Archambault is a music/book/instrument store.

zzzzz....

2006-11-16T10:55:00.000-05:00

there was a post here, but it was kind of crappy. It involved the ergonomic set up of my desk, and a pretty worn joke about ebola.

I apologize.

I will try to come back when my wrists aren't quite so sore and when I have a better joke.

in the mean time: ow.

Ack, Ack, Ack!

2006-11-15T08:28:00.000-05:00

Guess where I am going!

Go on, guess.

Okay, fine, I'll tell you! Montreal! I am going there this afternoon. it is a two and a half hour drive. Then I am coming back. Today. Also, driving. This is slightly disturbing because I really really need a nap. I have taken this afternoon off to take a friend to her audition, and also sneak off to this great music store and pick up some more music books. We will eat there, and then we will come home, and I will be a little more broke than I was before!

This means I need to work this morning. Which means! no time for a post.

except, you know, this one. Which I guess sort of makes me a liar.

So, to make up for my lack of wit and humour and entertaining stories (...shh, burst not my bubble) I leave you with this question:

How oh how do shoes end up on the median of the highway?

Cats & Tipping Practices (unrelated)

2006-11-14T09:39:00.000-05:00

Lesson: Cat pictures makes everything better.

Moral: RP is a crazy cat lady.

--

Prior to my current job as Tech Chick (that's my title. Tech Chick. Just ask my boss. I fill a valuable role as the sarcastic one and also, the one with breasts. That sounded wrong in ways I never meant it to.) one of the positions I held at the company I work for now is outbound call-centre representative. In that position, we had all sorts of little seminars, and blah-dee-blah, cushioning devices, assume the sale, &cetera, &cetera.

Anyway, one of the things we learned, and one of the things that is so true is that people remember the bad experience much more than they ever remember the good experience.

It's fairly true. I mean, you kind of expect people in the service and sales industry to be nice to you. It's their job. So when they're not nice to you, you're offended and outraged. The moral basically was : you have to try really hard to stick out in a person's mind, because the expected politeness is just that, expected.

So, sometimes, when I notice good service, I try to hold it in my mind, rather than let it go.

I really love the restaurant near my apartment. The food, it is good (oeufs benedicts au saumon faumé is my favourite breakfast, and lo, they serve it there). The service there, also is amazing. When I went this past saturday, there were no booths available. They offered me a table, somewhat regretfully, then suggested I wait - it would only be five or ten minutes before a booth cleared.

When I opted to wait, my regular server noticed that I was there, and waiting. She brought me coffee, made sure I had milk and sugar, and told me they'd be ready soon. When she sat me down, she remembered my order, made sure I had my orange juice, then arranged for my eggs benedict and smoked salmon. Then, she left me alone for a good 45 minutes, dropping by to check on my coffee, and other wise letting me eat and read in peace.

It's amazing how the little things add up. I know that part of it, likely is that she knows I'm a good tipper, but everyone wants the good tips, but not everyone stands out. I go to the restaurant to relax, eat some food I haven't cooked myself and read my book. She makes it pretty easy to do that.

Certainly - not a bad way to spend a part of a rainy Saturday afternoon.

I've never been a waitress. I imagine it must be hard. I didn't even like working at Subway (first. job. ever.) and I think working in a restaurant must be even worse. This is probably part of the reason why I tip so high. Who knows. Maybe I'm just extremely appreciative. I try not to do the math on how much I tip, because sometimes I've done that, and realized I've tipped 50% (on a bill of 10$. Typically, if my bill is more, my tip percentage goes down to 20% or so).

Who knows.

Kickin' da Blah.

2006-11-13T15:51:00.000-05:00

I've been feeling some what blah this weekend. Not like ... sobbing in a corner blah, so much as "what, I need to get out of bed? but breathing is taking so much of my energy!" kind of blah.

Probably a
1. "Daylight savings time sucks" kind of blah or a
2. "I'm exhausted because I don't sleep nearly enough" kind of blah or maybe a
3. "Wah, I wanted to be somewhere else this weekend" kind of blah, or perhaps a
4. "My apartment is so messy and I need a mother" kind of blah and definitely a
5. "I'm a delicate flower who cannot handle her hormones" kind of blah. Also, likely a
6. All of the above kind of blah.

So I haven't exactly done much, until today. I slept like ... literally twelve hours a day for three days, and then yesterday, also found time for a nap. I watched the entire X-Men Trilogy (and god, the first two movies are good enough that it almost pisses me off, because the third movie was such a rip off), also Inside Man (ehn) and the first twenty minutes of an independent film called Black Dhalia that I picked up without actually paying attention, thinking it was the movie with Matt Damon. It was not.*

Today, I made a distinct change to my long weekend routine. Immediately after getting up, I got showered. Immediately after getting showered, I did my hair, then got dressed. I cleaned my kitchen, grabbed my book and went for coffee.

The sky is grey and cloudy, my voice lesson is likely cancelled and my foot is asleep.
I bought flowers when I went for groceries, smoked salmon was on sale and I have the makings of spaghetti sauce for sometime this week.

Today is looking up.

* - no, no it was definitely not. It was a movie about a crazy school girl type who basically drew in girls with a promise for an audition, took the girl's measurements, and then had her buddies graphically dismember them while watching and getting turned on. It's kinda funny in retrospect, given how I went through TWO graphic dismemberments before finally going "...maybe this is the wrong movie." BUT LET THAT BE A LESSON TO YOU. BLACK DHALIA WITH MATT DAMON IS NOT OUT YET. BLACK DHALIA WITH CRAZY SCHOOL GIRL IS.**
** - whatcha wanna bet the movie was made for the soul purpose of screwing with audience and making easy money?

The Word of the Day Is. . . . Inane!

2006-11-12T13:42:00.000-05:00

Hi! Welcome to my blog. I know, you've probably been here before, but have I ever properly welcomed you? I don't think so. That is kind of rude, and I need to remedy that. So! Welcome to my blog.

I am feeling inane today and not really in the mood to post. Which isn't to say that I haven't got some blog ideas, because I do, but really, all I wanna do is curl up with a book and read and maybe try and get the damn "do-re-mi" song outta my head. (also, if I could get the scale in major key outta my head, too, that would be great. Thanks. I mean, if it were in minor key, I might be okay. At least minor is nice and foreboding. But major? outta my head, please!)

So, you know, what's a blogger to do, if all else fails? When they are stupid and agree to try this post every day thing, because hey "they practically post every day anyway!" it should be easy! (lesson: It's not, really. Or it is, but it makes me inane. See! Look at this post! Inane!)

I will tell you what a blogger is to do.

Photo essay.

Ha-hah!

This is Temi. Hi, Temi! She is pretty and poised and my most cuddly cat.

Likes: Freyja, sucking on hair, purring, cuddling, wet food, beating up Max & her scratching post.

Dislikes: Veterinarians, water, loud noises, people who move when she wants to cuddle, & people who put flashes in her face & make her all squinty eyed when she's trying to sit pretty.

Also pictured: My laundry hamper, kleenex box, unmade bed, vanity dresser, makeup basket & random artsy thing.

Here is Freyja. She has eyes, I swear. She just doesn't like the flash, and for some reason, I never turn it off. Any picture I have of her has her looking squint-eyed and put-upon. Freyja is the fat and snoring one. She also has endearing qualities like a purr that should be bottled and sold as stress relief.

Likes: Temi, wet food, belly rubs, toilet paper, head rubs, ear rubs.

Dislikes: Water, cleaning her bottom, being picked up, Temi, comments about her weight.

Also pictured: one of my blankets that has been appropriated for cat use, and thus is now covered in fur and Max, 'cuz for some reason, I don't have any photos of Freyja alone, and now my camera batteries are dead so .... deal! also, please note that this photograph was taken precisely three seconds before both cats realized they were sharing the same air and promptly tried to kill each other.

Meet Max! Max is the last cat I ever got, even though he is the oldest. He is the most laid back of my cats, while Freyja is the most easily traumatized and Temi is the drama queen. He is also the most expensive free cat ever.

Likes: Sleepin', head rubs, chin rubs, blankets, kickin' Temi's ass.

Dislikes: Getting ass kicked by Temi, belly rubs, medication every three days, allergies to air.

Also pictured: the same thing that has been pictured in ALL these photos, my unmade bed. I get out of my bedroom, I swear, it's just this seems to be where the cats congregate and my camera is in there so... yeah.

So there are my cats. I hope you took notes, because now that I have told you their names, I am going to stop referring to them by strange pseudonyms because, seriously, it was getting confusing. Also, there may be a quiz after.

Inane!

"We Are The Dead"

2006-11-11T11:20:00.000-05:00

Huh. Did anyone notice that both Lessa andI both had the same phrase in our blog posts (meaning very different things) yesterday? You didn't? WHY AREN'T YOU PAYING CLOSER ATTENTION?

I'll have you know that this was not intentional. I'll also have you know that I know this because I promptly messaged Lessa and went "U R STEALING FROM MY BLAAAAAAAAAAAAWG!!!!" only maybe with better typing (though I still said blaaaaaawg). Only to discover she hadn't read mine yet. Which means the conversation turned from 'COPY CAT' to 'Why don't you read me anymore? don't you LOVE ME?'

... I am high maintenence. Sorry, Lessa. (and everyone else.)

(also congrats to her for her review at CUSS and Other Rants.)

--

Today is Remembrance Day in Canada. Armistice Day in the United Kingdom. Veteran's Day in the United States.

In Flanders Field, the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row

I can still form the words of "In Flanders Field" in my mind, though likely imperfectly - I frequently think of "grow" instead of "blow", because the verbiage throws me off. In Canada, November 11th is commemorated with a school assembly, every year through to the last year of high school. I've heard Flanders Field probably hundreds of times, though I never presented it myself. It has never ceased to send a chill down my spine. Just like Taps never fails to make my throat tighten.

In Canada, veterans set up small shops for donations; companies frequently do it, too. The donations usually go toward the Royal Canadian Legion, and whenever you give a donation, you get a poppy. Not a real one, but one to pin to your clothing. It's always the same colour of red, with the same dark green centre inside. It's held together by a straight pin, which is what you slide through your lapel to pin it to your clothes. The pin often comes undone, the poppy falls and is lost. I probably donate several times a year, to make up for the lost poppy. You see it on the collars of our politicians as well. Watch a House meeting in Canada during the latter half of October, the first half of November, and every one of them wears a poppy.

I like the tradition. I like the history behind the poppies. I love the poem. I'm glad that both my grandfather (Canadian army) and my grandmother (British Army) survived World War II, and I understand the sacrifices made to stop oppression. I simply like the day - I think it's a good one to have, a good thing to remember. Lest We Forget, and all of that.

I guess, really, as I sit here, safe, warm, dressed in my nice clothing that I buy from a chain store with money I earn from my 99.5% safe job (because lord knows, I could BREAK A NAIL or something, lifting that computer), it humbles me to think of what has been done, what is being done and what will be done to (cue dramatic, uplifting music) make the world a better place. Or to stop indignity. Or maybe it simply humbles me and horrifies me to think of what others have gone through.

Because for me, it is "Lest We Forget"
But for someone else, it was "Arbeit Macht Frei."
Because for me, it's "is my toe nail ingrown?"
For another, it was "do I have trench rot?"
For me, it is that the dry air has caused my skin to equally dry out.
To someone else, it was breathing through a urine soaked cloth, to save himself from mustard gas.

For me, things are better.
Because someone withstood so much worse.

The past is humbling. The past is horrifying. It's good to have a day to remember all that. To reflect on just how good we have it, and why.

--

In Flanders Field (1915)
Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae (1872 – 1918)
Canadian Army Medical Corps

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Introspective

2006-11-10T13:57:00.000-05:00

"I feel bad for you, because all that's left are the crazies."
Gee, thanks.

Also, what?

I'm not sure if it is the people I hang out with (who, I think are a varied group, married, single, divorced, serial-monogamists) or not, but ever since my separation, the most common question I receive is: "Are you seeing anybody?"

It's interesting. I'm sure the latent wannabe in me, the one who took anthropology in university, is somewhat at fault here, but for the most part, I want to stare at this fact in fascination, hold it between my hands and ask my friends why they ask me this question before asking me, for example, who got the cats.

(I did! I got the cats! THEY ARE MINE! hahahaha. okay, that's another blog post. I am slightly insane. )

It's interesting how important a question that is. I think it comes down to it's a good, easy subject. My dating life, or lack thereof, compared to, for example maybe starting to talk about deeper issues, like what I think of having coffee and orange juice at the same time for breakfast, or, I don't know, what I think of abortion. I'm certainly far from bothered by the question, it simply never fails to quirk my interest.

We are a society that is about marriage. Even those people who choose not to get married, but are in long term relationships, it becomes about the decision NOT to get married, and how the decision is a banner, so you never refer to her as "your wife" when talking to him, you must refer to her as "your spouse", because, dude, that's such a big difference. Maybe I'll just call her by name, crazy concept that it is!

The dating, the search for The One, or at least The One Who Will Do Right Now. Several friends, after I mentioned I didn't have a good time on my date last week, tried to excuse it. Maybe I have to work on the "click", they said, and "maybe he's just shy!" As if I should work on it, maybe because the unthinkable alternative is a return to my single status.

Eventually, that date might become a blog post (uh, more than the disconnected, uncomfortable post that it spawned) because it has the makings of one. Though - maybe not. After all, the interweb probably doesn't want to hear about the gum chewing anymore than I wanted to experience it.

I think the idea of growing old alone, dying forgotten and unmourned is a compelling fear in us. That good friendship will not be enough, so you need to find someone and bind them to you for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, 'till death do us part. Bind them, have babies who will come and visit you in your old age, that way if you happen to be the unlucky widow(er), there is still someone left for you. If you are a friend, of course, you care for your friends, so you want them to have the same comfort you enjoy (or perhaps strive for), so you take an interest in their dating life, or lack thereof.

This is, of course, an extremely simplified and morbid way of looking at things. It's more than that. Of course it's more than that.

Of course, if I'm going to look at one side, we might as well look at my side as well. I currently feel that I will never want to get married again, likely because I had a relationship that was not a good fit, but I tried to make it a good fit through marriage and the 'we are going to live together forever, tra-la-la!' Now, that I am finally free of it, and able to see just how I was made less by the relationship, I never want that again. I would rather have a perfect relationship with an easy out, for when it begins to lessen one or both of us, than a perfect relationship, bound by marriage.

I'm looking to have fun and enjoy myself, not find a husband. If only because I know that the biggest mistake I made in my relationship with my ex was to look at it as the most important thing in my life, he is The One, and all other things, I will put aside for that. I tried so hard to make him The One that I forgave a host of transgressions, made a host of my own, and now find myself free of it, happier for that, but with a few tiny twinging regrets of 'if only I had done'.

Not to save the marriage, but to be myself.

No, I am not seeing anyone. And I am enjoying myself just fine! also - if only crazies are out there, well, at least I've found myself in like company.

Plan, Interrupted

2006-11-09T10:21:00.000-05:00

There had been a plan to go to New York City this weekend, but I have a feeling that this plan has failed. Mostly through the fact that both my friend and I are somewhat sporadic in our contact with each other, and REALLY, me mentioning in June "so, November 11th long weekend?" and her going "Sure!" then neither of us mentioning it until this week where I go "So! This weekend!" in an email, is just not how one does plans.

We are plan defective. It is rather sad.

On the plus side, this means I won't disqualify myself from NaBloPoMo! Yay!

...Sob!

I have made some small, minor attempts to find another destination. Somewhere tropical, perhaps. However, these are all exceeding expensive, especially when I would not be going with someone. To go alone, usually means paying nearly as much as one would for two people. I mean, unless you go to a singles resort or something, and I'm not necessarily sure that's the way I want to go.

Maybe I'll take a crazy roadtrip instead (er. not that driving to NYC by myself was not a crazy roadtrip, but well, I had done it before, so this is a whole different brand of crazy). Hm. I could drive to PEI. Err. That only takes 14 hours.

Perhaps I will catch up on my sleep, clean my apartment and finally put up those shelves. Maybe I'll go shopping. Dancing. Go to a pub with some friends. Go to that jam session I heard about downtown.

You know, it's not really that staying here is bad, or that I won't have a good weekend if I don't leave, but that when I am somewhere else, it's easier to disconnect. If I don't have an apartment to clean, cats to care for, a laptop by my side, it's easier to regroup. Take a deep, cleansing breath (of, uh, NYC's smog filled air) and relax.

I've been trying to plan these ... goals in my head, goals that I'll be making into a future post (one that I had planned to maybe make today, but instead got side tracked by whining about my weekend). I'm fairly sure one of them will involve travelling. Take more vacation. Real vacation, too - not simply sick days taken because I've worked myself to the ground, or a three day weekend because I can't take it anymore. A full week, spent somewhere, anywhere but here.

Hair Tales

2006-11-08T08:53:00.000-05:00

did you know! that sometimes people comment on past posts? And because I am strange and do not have an email notification on, I do not realize this, and never see the clever bits of wisdom that others have to offer?

(okay, this has only happened... like... twice. But it's happened!)

So, I am now displaying my excellent troubleshooting skills, and I have activated email notification on my comments.

--

I think it's almost amusing how hair dressers are excited to cut someone's long hair to very short. The glee! The amusement. I suppose it doesn't happen all that often that someone with hair that goes past their shoulders comes in and says 'cut it off. cut it all off!'

I have to say, I don't do it very often either. And it was exciting. And liberating. And kinda fun.

Also, my head is now light and feeling kinda swingy. Long hair to short, it can be quite liberating. Short and spikey, even. Short and spikey and dark brown with red highlights, even. I almost wonder why I grew out my hair in the first place, I like it so much.

However, we will face it and answer the question honestly: I am easily bored with my appearance. Eventually, I get so bored with my appearance that I am willing to put up with annoyance and grow my hair out. Then, I remember why I don't like my hair long, or perhaps I dye it a particularly bad colour that cannot be solved by hair dye alone, or maybe it's just that it's a full moon and I am over tired and fidgety, and back to the hair dresser I go.

And this is where I stand. With a kind of chilly neck.

(snooze)

2006-11-07T13:17:00.000-05:00

I need to learn a crazy concept. This concept is revolutionary and new, and kind of out there, so bear with me, as I share this crazy concept with you.

I need more than five hours sleep a night.

Gasp. I know! Insane!

I am tired, and I am feeling grouchy because I am tired, and I am feeling whiny and uncreative and uninterested in things like work, or communication or anything that evolves more energy than: curl up with cats and sleep.

In short, this is the worst mood to be in when I intend to go and get a radical hair cut and colour change. Which, of course, I am doing! Yay!

Someone had better tell me my hair is pretty. Post it after 5pm Eastern Standard time, and then I'll know you mean my hair cut, and I'll be happy and pleased and know that all is well. And then, maybe I'll have a nap. Which, given the fact I keep losing my COMPUTER MOUSE WHILE IT IS ATTACHED TO MY COMPUTER (I keep pushing it out of the way. Why? I do not know) is probably a very very good thing.

Or maybe I could nap right now. That bit of carpet beneath my desk does look mighty comfy. . .

Please Send Cookies & Coke

2006-11-06T14:08:00.000-05:00

When I am faced with a tough day, an annoying situation or just something harsh at work, I fall back on the inevitable, and slightly bewildering comfort food. A chocolate chip cookie and a coke. The gravity of the situation is defined by whether or not I drink real Coke, or Coke Zero. Coke Zero, of course, being what I SHOULD drink (if one can apply "should drink" to any product that can dissolve your tooth over night), and real Coke being reserved for those days where I just cannot take it without real sugar, throw the aspartame out the window, oh my god!

I say this situation is bewildering because, as a rule, I don't like sweet food (fruit notwithstanding. Love fruit. Love.)

(reminder to self: please clean out fruit drawer, fruit is about to walk away. Also, get some groceries.)

But there's something about a chocolate chip cookie and coke that is simply perfect. The taste! The chocolate! the sweet caffeine! It is best when the cookie is slightly overdone, so it is crisp and brown and ever so tasty.

Today is a Coke Zero and cookie day. Which I consider to be quite an achievement as I'm once more on the phone with my hardware vendor.

(all together now!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGH)

Misuse of the "" Tag.

2006-11-06T09:27:00.000-05:00
I must humbly apologize for my last post.I mean - what was that? There was no real subject. It was just drivel. Guy Fawkes Day isn't even CELEBRATED in my country, so what precisely did I achieve by posting bits of the rhyme?

~~A post! I achieved a post! I do not care what kind of post it was, it was a post! NABLOPOMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!~~
Ahem. I mean, nothing.

I mean, if I start posting like that, I might as well start posting about whether or not ~~I blow dry my hair~~ (whoops, I think I've done that), ~~how my dates go~~(damnit), ~~random lists about myself~~(ARGH!), ~~about my cats~~(who am I kidding? seriously), what I had for lunch. (FINALLY.)

(I wonder if, when she named her book, Mighty Girl realized just how catchy it is.)

-- <---This is how I segue without actually segueing. Clever? I think so!

~~This tea is horrible.~~

Wait - is that like telling people what I had for lunch?

I think it's maybe worse. Damnit.

--

Alright - I give up.

FOR LUNCH I AM HAVING LASAGNE AND A FRUIT CUP AND SOME APPLE JUICE.

There.

Let The Bells Ring (A Post O' Nonsense Only Loosely Linked Together)

2006-11-05T16:46:00.000-05:00
wait- what?

What do you mean it's a new day?

I have to make another post? What the hell? How are these days just ... ending and starting again on me? Each sunset leads to sunrise leads to another. freaking. posting. How does this keep happening? The whole ... need for new material, and new stuff and TITLES and WORDS and ... wah.

(and it's only day five.)

Remember, remember
The fifth of November
Gunpowder, treason
And plot.

I didn't particularly like V for Vendetta. Too vulgar. Too blunt. While I enjoyed some of the scenes, others made me cringe at the utter bluntness of it, which left me boggled as to the point of it. It is, of course, completely impossible to make an opinion on a movie without spoilers, and I don't feel like bothering, but the point of it is: I did not like the movie.

I am, however, fond of the idea that four hundred years later, a man's failure is still remembered, immortalized in a nursery rhyme.

And what shall we do with him?
Burn him!

If You Are My Mother, I Do Not Want You Reading This

2006-11-04T13:49:00.000-05:00
Actually, I am under the assumption that no one wants to read this, really, so you may as well stop reading now, and save yourselves from the inevitable TMI.

The date, it was "ehn". In fact, it was so "ehn" that while on the date I was trying to figure out how to write "ehn" so that when I blogged about it, people were not thinking I was just misusing "eh".

He was a good kisser, so ehn did not stop me from going home with him where I discovered being good at kissing doesn't mean he's good at everything. I'm a little slow with some of life's lessons.

(ehn.)

So - you know. It's a good thing I'm going out tonight with some friends to make up from the disaster that was last night. (if your mind just went into the gutter about "friends", please take it out, you disgusting, disgusting person, you) Maybe someone there will be able to answer my deep and clueless question of "is it bad if I screen my phone calls 'till he goes away?"

... in fact - if you did not listen to my well-meant disclaimer and read this far despite my wishes: your penance is to give me your opinion. Take that.

(Yes. Yes, it is bad. No, I am not going to do it. It sounds kind of appealing, though.)

The Rare Sound of RP on the Phone with Her Hardware Vendor

2006-11-03T15:44:00.000-05:00
(shh. Listen.)

AUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGHHHHHHH

(breathe.)

AUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGGHH.

(Repeat for approximately 305 hours. Or until it's time to leave for your date. Or until your ear falls off. Whichever comes first.)

AUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

What's In A Name?

2006-11-03T09:24:00.000-05:00
(I would like to start a pool! How long 'till I make a post that just says "OMG!!!1!!one!!! POST!!!!eleventy!!!"? because I've run out of inspiration. I wish I'd been smart enough to come up with a theme beforehand.

On that subject, what theme would I have chosen? 30 Posts of Cat Goodness? 30 Posts of Why I Love Being Single? 30 Posts of Why I Cannot Feel My Toes?

... alright, now we know why I don't have a theme. I am not a theme person.)

Growing up, my stuffed animals never had names. They were Teddy and Doll and Unicorn and Horse. Even that, really, was more a word of convenience. If I needed to talk about my doll or my teddy or my unicorn, I had to use words for it - at which point, nouns became proper names out of necessity. Not out of my inclination to name my stuffed toys. Sometimes I'd randomly feel I should name a doll or another, and come up with something like "Arabella". And then within a few days, the name would slip through my fingers, and Doll she was again.

When I got my first cat, I tried to insist on naming her cat or kitten. Or maybe fish. Because names were not important to me. (Apparently neither is proper grammar.) This was overruled by my ex and thus ensued a long bandering of names before finally, FINALLY agreeing on one.

Even then, I called the cat "cat" and "kitten" far more than anything else. When I call her anything at all.

In the privacy of my thoughts, I don't use names. Cat is not Cat, she just is. Same with the other two. The same goes, really, for people. When I think, I do not think with names, but with some sort of internal designation that doesn't translate outside of my thoughts. I frequently forget people's names, and spend time snapping my finger before it finally comes to me. Even regarding people with whom I've been working for years. I also often mix up people's names and there are several people I do not call by a name at all, because their name simply never comes to me.

This is a good reason for me to avoid having children. I will probably name them "Child" and "Infant" or "Baby", and then randomly try and come up with real names for them, and never be quite happy with the ones I picked.

Or worse - I'll name them by some of the names I like. Peyton, Autumn, Harper, Jordan for girls, and who knows what for boys. Then they'll be beaten up in the play ground, and never forgive me and have to talk to their therapist years later about what kind of horrible mother I was.

This does, however, explain my rather plain moniker. A Random Person! It's new! it's fresh! It's COMPLETELY ORIGINAL.

Or so I tell myself. It helps me sleep at night.

All I Need Is Some Bling

2006-11-02T09:10:00.000-05:00
will have you know that I am sitting in my office, wearing a baseball cap and a hoodie over my pressed pinstripe slacks and a polo shirt. My co-worker cannot look at me without busting up. I am also wearing a jacket. I'm not sure what tipped the scales.

I am freezing.

I wish I could blame it on the building, but I don't think it's possible - while the building does keep the temperature low to allow for body heat and occupants and to save money, it is not possible that everyone is as cold as I am all the time. In fact, frequently, if I can ever get the temperature up to something a little more comfortable for me, and I hear every 3 seconds about how hot it is until someone turns the temperature down, and I begin to freeze once more.

I am That Girl. The one who is always cold. The one who can put her hands on your neck and turn you to ice. I am the one who never feels her toes, and always has a long sleeved SOMETHING handy, because what happens if the sun goes behind a cloud?! I could freeze and die, and wouldn't you feel sorry for me then?

These facts are ironic when you consider how long it took for me to turn on my heat, and the fact that despite the fact I have 4321 thermostats in the apartment controlling my 4321 heaters (slight exaggeration. it's more like 5), I've only turned on one of them, in the living room which is where I spend most of my time.

Actually, it's not so much ironic (defining irony is important) as it is "mind numbing due to the stupidity of it".

(Upd: My co-worker left for the afternoon, and I jacked up the heat as far as it could go. It's now 22.5 degrees celcius here, and I was finally able to take off my jacket and hat, and lower my hoodie. I now only look slightly disreputable. But if you think I'm going to take off my sweater and have my bare arms ... uh, bared, in my polo shirt, you got another thing coming.)

My Skin

2006-11-01T08:27:00.000-05:00
Ever had an idea for a post and then thought about it, sat down to write and gone "man, this isn't such a great post after all?"

Well, guess what, people, I'm stubborn and also in denial, so you're stuck with it. I just keep telling myself that EVERY POST I MAKE is AWESOME AND THE WORLD LOVES ME LADEEDA.

After this post, I intend to go and instigate world peace. Just you wait.

My skin it is a delicate flower. It does not like change. Change can mean "winter to spring" or "autumn to winter". Change can mean "new make up" or "new skin care regimen. I get that - my skin is resistant to new things. I can even understand that. I am sometimes resistant to new things, too.

However, it seems that the longer I have this skin, the more set in its ways it becomes. Change now means "new air", and change in the weather can mean "slightly colder than it was yesterday". It no longer likes new tricks. What's more, it's become a bit senile. It cannot remember what skin type it is supposed to be, nor yet, if it's going to be combination, it cannot decide which part is what. I have parts of my face that I have identified as "oily" suddenly dry up completely.

I wish I could blame that on my skin care regimen, but like a few people, I started washing my skin with oil a while ago. I find it hard to believe that olive oil is stripping my skin of moisture. In fact - I think it's kind of impossible.

I believe I've come to a solution for my problem. I will take my skin off. I think that should help me make new friends. Don't you?

because I am far too lazy to write a 50k novel.

2006-10-30T22:25:00.000-05:00
How could I resist such an icon, anyway?
Not possible.
And I already nearly post every day, anyway!
National Blog Posting Month

No Kitty Pictures For You (A Consideration on Self Esteem)

2006-10-28T20:08:00.000-04:00
I cannot find my camera. This makes me sad.

I keep meaning to take pictures of myself to try and force myself to grow accustomed to it. I don't like the camera and it shows in my face. I don't know how when or why it happened, but whenever a camera is pointed at me, the instinct is to duck, hide and then when I force myself not to (I mean - it's kinda sad that my friends have no pictures of me. Hell, my PARENTS have no pictures of me), the picture looks awkward, my smile forced.

I don't like that. It makes me feel more awkward and become a vicious cycle. If I can look in the mirror and think of myself as attractive (my makeup perfect, my clothing appealing, my hair done carefully), then I should be able to look at the camera and create the same result.

It doesn't matter if everyone else sees it or not - be it my awkwardness or my attractiveness, but what I see. I think if I could capture those moments in the mirror, I could recreate them. I'm harder on myself than I think I need to be; tougher and less forgiving. That I look at pictures of myself and want to tear them up - I think that says a lot of how I view myself.

I do not accept this. This is ridiculous. I need to change it. (of course, I just realized how this is an example of me being hard on myself. I know this! I know!)

So, maybe pictures. On days that I think I look nice. Practice smiling, practice feeling comfortable. Get OVER it.

Yeah.

However I seem to have lost my camera. So - no kitty pictures for you.

A Random Post of Randomness by a Random Person Prone to Randomness. (RPRRPPR)

2006-10-28T01:49:00.000-04:00
I need to do a photo essay of cute cats. Because - you know. They're cute and their fuzzy and they are photogenic! and I have a camera now, and if I am not going to use my camera for taking pictures and proving that I am a crazy cat lady, WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO USE IT FOR?

Pictures of me and my friends? What? that's crazy talk.

I am now in love with Iron & Wine (a band) and Pretty Girls Make Dead Graves (also - band). There is a new radio station on Pandora just for that purpose.

I also bought a new coat (please note that I lay the bill directly at another blogger's feet. You know who you are), which will hopefully keep me warm this winter, as opposed to my cheap gap jacket. Though I must admit, it was a near thing. I almost bought another cheap gap jacket.

However, I stood strong, and went for the warmer jacket that will actually keep me from freezing this year.

Canada, people. It's important not to freeze.

Migraines

2006-10-26T18:58:00.000-04:00
I have a migraine. I should, in fact, not be online. I should be in bed (well, I am that) in the dark, sleeping. It's the only solution for migraines - and the medication I take is really only a step toward that goal, not a step toward solving the problem.

Except for some reason, this time around, my medication (I'm taking something new, my old stuff ran out) is not doing that. In fact, I think it's keeping me up. So, after having spent intermittant times in the dark, unable to sleep, I have given up, and decided to blog about it.

I think i should change the name of this blog! "Where Blogger Catalogues Every Sniffle, Achoo, and Ache and Pain." What do you think? It frequently seems like lately, all I have to talk about is my ailments, and I feel bad, because really, no one who reads this blog knows me well enough to know that it is not normal. I'm afraid of people thinking I'm a whiny little girl who can't take a headache, or a knee ache, for whom ear infections are debilitating. When, really, it's not true.

But - truth be told, the only thing I can think of to blog about right now is migraines. It was either this or pizza with pesto sauce (... mmm... pizza with pesto....).

--

Whenever I've spoken with people with migraines, conversations regarding our ailments are peppered with "oh my god. I know!" and "The same thing happens to me!" You can always tell who gets migraines and who doesn't by how they treat conversations with migraines.

My chiropractor, for example, clearly does not get migraines. He has done much to help me with migraines, but he obviously does not get them. What he would like for me to do, when I get a migraine, is make an emergency appointment, come by and be adjusted.

That's great, and if it could alleviate the symptoms, I'm all for it. If, you know, I could drive. Which I can't, when I have a migraine. While I do get pre symptoms, they're not really enough warning for me to hurry to the chiropractor's. They're about 5 minutes. Enough time, if I'm at home, to stumble into the bathroom, take medication and then stumble to bed for what I hope is a 30 hour nap. If I'm at work, it's hardly enough time for anything - just warn my manager I have a migraine and start calling around to see if I can get someone to come get me and take me home.

and it's more than the headache - it's the fatigue, the nausea. The lack of energy. It's a whole body experience. I haven't actually left my bed in two days other than to feed the cats and then to shower today, because I felt disgusting. I showered in the dark and I relished in the lightlessness, because the bathroom is the darkest room in my apartment.

I've realized my current set up is wrong for a migraine sufferer - I have blinds, not heavy curtains and when the sun is up, light fills my rooms, meaning I must either bury my head in blankets, or squeeze my eyes tightly shut in the hopes of some relief.

And it never ceases to amaze me how migraines make my world stop. I haven't sung, listened to music, watched TV, gone to work. All I've done is laid in bed, ordered food, and sporadically come online when the boredom starts to kill me. And really, I have to admit, I come online in the hopes that the small energy expense will tire me out, so I can sleep again.

I am never. EVER. taking this medication again.

--

The good news, though: This is the first migraine I've had since March. I used to get them almost every month. The chiropractor is making a difference. In the last year since I've started going to see him, I've had two migraines. The year before that, I believe I had eight.

It's getting better - which means I'm less accepting of the symptoms. Which means that when it happens, I lament it more. I think I have to say that I prefer that to accepting the migraine and curling up once every two months, meekly resigned to my fate of auras of light sensitivity.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to eat my pesto pizza and go to bed.

Not What It Seems At First.

2006-10-24T09:06:00.000-04:00
"Pucker up."
"Lie down on the floor, here."
"Relax."
"Let me take off my sweater so you can feel."

... not a sub/dom relationship, but my voice lesson. New teacher means new methods, and I have to say that in this last lesson, I feel as if I've accomplished more than I have in the last six months.

(in case it has to be said: the sweater was a cardigan and she was wearing a tank top beneath)

Which isn't to say nothing has been accomplished in the last six months, but in a single one hour lesson (one hour! instead of half an hour! oh, my soaring heart. oh, my aching bank account) she was able to blow away some serious issues I've had with breathing and tone - or at least explain what I need to do accurately so I can start doing it properly, rather than muddling about hoping to hit on the right combination to do what I'm supposed to do.

For example, breathing from the stomach.
RP's logic: What? One cannot breath from the stomach. One can only breathe from their lungs, what are you talking about, breathe from my stomach. That's crazy talk.
Old explanation: Breathe low and without sound, and try not to involve your shoulders.
RP: tries to keep shoulders very still while breathing.
New explanation: When breathing, let your stomach expand so your lungs can expand downward. Lungs can expand more, downward than they can in the ribcage, because they're stopped by bone.
Method of teaching: RP spent time on the ground with books on her tummy, moving the books with each breath for each count of beat, first in two time, then in three time, then in four time, then... you get the idea.

Other things were made clear, such as how to not sing from one's throat (I knew I shouldn't do it, but I had no idea how to achieve it; I thought it meant not singing low in my throat, which is also a bad thing, but really, what it means is using the muscles of your diaphragm to propel the air your expelling as you sing, allowing you to sustain notes longer).

Maybe it's because my teacher is now a woman, because some of her teaching methods certainly would come off as creepy and inappropriate, when from a man. Maybe it's a click of personalities - I really like her. Or maybe it's that from the beginning, she is taking me seriously.

But - I'm pretty excited about this, so we'll see how it goes.

A Balm to Heal No Ill.

2006-10-23T16:47:00.000-04:00
I recently saw a show about a school for children in British Columbia that focused on unwanted - for the most part, special needs (referred to, at the time as "retarded" or "morons", to date how long ago this was). The school actually remained open until about 1996, which rather shocked me, but what was worse was how many of the children were treated. I'm sure that most countries have episodes of misuse of the impoverished or voiceless, including at the hands of the government. I'm not unaware of what my country has done to some (native americans, the Japanese during WWII) and as I have known several deaf adults who went to residential schools, I'm not unfamiliar with that, either. I hadn't known about this, though, and I watched the show (buried beneath blankets, a cat curled on my chest, cold because no, my heat had NOT been turned on*) with my teeth gritted and my body flinching as a man with fake teeth described how he was taken to a dentist and put to sleep. And how when he awoke, all his teeth had been removed - all because he had been classified as a "biter".

The man was in the school because his parents had two boys who did not get along, so they gave one up.**

The damage had been so bad that when the man went for his first set of dentures, he was asked "who is the butcher who did this to you?"

So, damage was done. Alleged sexual abuse, physical abuse, unfair treatment, such as being put in a strait jacket and locked away for days. Thousands of kids died and were buried on the grounds. Their headstones are heartbreaking slabs that the government inexplicably ordered to be removed, and then were sold as barbecue breaks, for patio walks, &c. Others were thrown into a nearby quarry.

Now, ten years after the doors on the school closed, the government is trying to gather these blocks back and build a memorial on the grounds. Some of the blocks are incomplete - they've been shattered to fit whatever purpose they served, or maybe they broke when someone was careless with their disposal. Others have been put together like a jigsaw puzzle, and still more are whole but not precisely improved for all that. Some have names, some are impersonal "Baby Scott, died 1935".

All in all, the memorial is a depressing testimony to a governmental failure. Children who were supposed to be protected were not. It's another testimony to our history, some sort of statement that we most apply to November 11th, but that I think should be applied to every horror a government or culture comments. Lest we forget.

On the other hand, the survivors of this school, those who made it through alive and are here and whole, though poorly educated and suffering from residual trauma, have seen no compensation because proof of this trauma is almost impossible to find. It's hearsay - and many of the victims suffer from various degrees of disability. Some cannot speak for themselves, let alone try and prove the damage in court. What's more, it's an uphill battle, and disabled people have not (as a general rule) faired well in Canada courts.

I have to admit that while I applaud memorials, I'd much prefer efforts to be put to the survivors. If the money to gather the gravestones together and lay them on a large slab of marble were used to help people who lived through it, it might do something to alleviate some of the damage. Or at least bring someone a step above poverty. Absolutely, the dead should not be forgotten. But if effort is being made for the dead, the living should have at least the same courtesy.

* - it is now. I know. I should have turned it on sooner!
** - I am sure the reasons were more complex than that, but still.

Look! a post! with full sentences! and NO LISTS!

2006-10-22T01:10:00.000-04:00
Really. I swear. I'm gonna try.

So - folks, I need to get off the ~~coffee~~ crack. I'm ~~drinking several cups~~ shooting up several times a day.

It started out oh so small. Everyone at work was doing it. So, I started doing it too. So, it was a social thing. That's okay - I was still in control. Then I started trying to convince people that a second hit, to supplement our morning decadence, was necessary. Preferrably in the afternoon. You know, it was starting to get tough through the day.

A few people agreed with me, and that's when it went downhill.

Because, see, soon, if I could find no one to ~~drink a cup~~ shoot up with me, I'd go down by myself. It was just that good. Also, I was finding if I didn't get my hit at the same time every day, I started to get withdrawl symptoms. You know, the shaking, the headache, the irritability. Soon it was easier just to deal with it before it happened and anticipate it, before I started crashing down.

Two cups became three. Some days I worked more, and three cups would be five. Soon I found myself talking doublespeed, and sometimes making embarassing posts on my blog with capital letters strewn throughout, willy nilly. I started to embarass myself. It was all downhill from there.

The first step is admitting I have a problem. I have a problem with ~~caffeine~~ crack. I need to step back, take a deep breath, and lay off before things get worse. After all, ~~starbucks coffee~~ drugs can be expensive. It's all adding up.

Tomorrow is a new day. I'm going cold turkey. No more cra-- oh, let's face it, coffee.

If I'm asked to give up my tea, though, it's war.

(edited to add: It is Monday, and I somehow forgot this morning I wasn't supposed to have coffee. I forgot and went and had coffee, drank it all down, and only remembered just now, two hours after it was finished, when I logged into blogger and saw this post. How sad is that? )

The Week Of List-y Posts Continues

2006-10-21T02:16:00.000-04:00
Nails: unbroken
Pink shirt: in the wash.
Pay: In the bank!
Black leather jacket: buttons! still intact.
Last thirty-six hours prior to the last twenty four or so: Most awkward and strange of my life*.
Ability to make posts WITHOUT lists of any sort: apparently on hiatus.
Ability to write full sentences: Same place as my non-listing posting ability.
Plans for future posts: 3
Future posts that require full sentences: 3
Chances of these posts occuring tonight: Nil.

--
* possible exaggeration.

Wednesday whine (no cheese)

2006-10-18T11:24:00.000-04:00
This week, it is a bust. (and it's only Wednesday!)

I am giving up!
I am going back to bed!

When I wake up on Monday, I will say "what, October 16th to October 22nd? huh. I musta missed that."

And I will pretend these days never existed. By my sheer force of will, I will force them out of my existance.

(I have a high opinion of my abilities)

But then I think about it, and I consider that maybe that's not fair of week 10-16-22 (my own special moniker for this space in time), because I am sure that there are good things about it, and I just cannot quite get past the bad to see it. So, I try to come up with some good things.

1. I have not broken a nail. (my nails! they are strong and flinty and they will cut anyone who gets between me and my cocacola!)
2. My new pink shirt looks especially dashing.
3. It is almost pay day.
4. I got my jacket fixed! the really nice one! that's leather! and a trench coat! and the button was falling off! but not anymore! because I got it fixed! I am so grownup!

It's not really a great list (though I must admit, I started with only three, and now that I've added a fourth, it seems so much better), when I think about it, which makes me think I'm still subpar in this whole "think positively!" experience. But maybe it's enough to hold on. So every time I walk by a mirror in my dashing pink shirt, I shall say to myself "self, you look dashing!" Or as I walk down the street in my fixed jacket, I will glance at myself in the reflection of the window pane and enjoy the fact I no longer need to worry about losing a button. Perhaps this will improve my mood.

So, maybe I'll stay outta bed after all. Unless I break a nail.

Then all bets are off.

Lessons learned

2006-10-17T11:51:00.000-04:00
Lessons I have learned today:

1. having medical tests first thing in the morning kinda sucks.
2. it sucks because I cannot drink, eat, smoke (not that I do, but if I wanted to! I can't), or pee when I wake up. I must get ready, dry mouthed and starving, with my legs crossed, and go to the hospital right away.*
3. Making the decision to NOT get dressed in work clothes and go straight from the hospital to work is so-very-very-smart. It means I can go back home and make tea.
4. Trying to speak french without tea or any caffeine at all in my system is very trying.
5. Trying to UNDERSTAND french is even more so.
6. I seem to lose my ability to lip read without the aforementioned tea or caffeine. Several times I was boggled why I couldn't understand people, before it occured to me to, oh, watch lips and maybe PAY ATTENTION.
7. Getting paged when you're not at work and told to do something ASAP is really, really, infuriating.
8. The fastest way to get your co-worker to help out is to say in an exasperated tone, "look, I can't do it, I'm still at the hospital*, would you give me a hand?!"
9. Then deal with the guilt for using the word "hospital*" to make someone do something.
10. My skin bruises very easily, and I now have an owie on the crook of my elbow and no one to kiss it better.

-----
* - The word "hospital" sounds dire and scary and I feel the need to point out that it's not dire, nor scary. Canada works differently than the US and Quebec works differently, moreso. For me to have any medical tests, including ones for minor ailments (such as "TAKE SOME IRON PILLS AND QUIT WHINING, woman!"), I need to go to a hospital, or the government will not pay for it. As I am cheap and like the government to pay for things, I go to the hospital.

I'm a speaker-phone-ist

2006-10-16T16:22:00.000-04:00
A message to corporate slaves everywhere:

Speaker phone is not cool. Aside from the fact that it creates background noises for everyone around you, it's the modern equivalent of talking drunkenly at the top of your voice.

Furthermore, your hard-of-hearing tech support may want to speak with you, and she may get tired of having to ask, every bleeding time to be taken off speakerphone.

So - when you are that extra step of rudeness, and ask her why she can't hear you, after she asks to be taken off speakerphone, she may snap, "uh, because I'm hard-of-hearing?" rather than being polite and understanding that you don't know. And you may annoy her so much that she needs to get a chocolate chip cookie and a coke (a REAL coke, not the coke zero that she's recently convinced herself she likes) to calm down.

Be kind to your fellow co-workers. Pick up the damn phone!

. . .Mmm. Coke and chocolate. Is there any better combination on the face of the planet? I don't think so. Well. Maybe sex and chocolate.

Get That Post Off The Top of the Screen Already!

2006-10-15T19:00:00.000-04:00
whew.

I feel better. Just for having started posting something. Moving on now!

Facts That Should Make People Mock Me
unless you live further north than I do, or maybe in Buffalo, at which point, please message me, so I can feel better (read: mock you)

1. It snowed Friday. Not enough to stay on the ground, but it sat on my windshield for precious, disbelieving moments before melting away.
2. I now have to clean off my car every morning before work because the frost cannot be combated by car heater alone.
3. Despite all this, I refuse to turn on my heat yet.
4. I haven't felt my toes all week.
5. Or my fingers.

Things That Make Up for the Last List
1. My sexy new boots with warm lining and stiletto heels.
2. Jersey cotton sheets.
3. Oak tree leaves.
4. Chilled kitties who snuggle for warmth.
5. My fall jacket wardrobe.
6. Tea.

A long post with absolutely ZERO FUNNY, sorry.

2006-10-13T12:13:00.000-04:00
In this post, I'm going to try and talk about my ex-husband.

(or - really, not so ex, because Canada has laws where I cannot get a divorce for a year unless I can prove spousal abuse or adultery, or he can. And my case for verbal abuse is miniscule, and while it did occur to me to maybe go sleep with someone and take pictures and send it to him so I could maybe stir him into an adultery case, that seems kind of cold hearted, and also very mean, and really, too much drama. Also - I can't imagine he would do anything with it except for maybe mope and send me a long, dramatic and heart pulling email. But I am not living with him, and I will never live with him again, and I am getting a divorce, so he is my ex-husband.)

I'm a big fan of blogging over things when they're over, rather than right away, with a few exceptions - mostly those exceptions where I am not truly angry, I am just in the mood to rant. This is a situation where I have been truly angry, hurt and somewhat demoralized, so I haven't talked about it much. It doesn't seem to be productive to end up with me sobbing into a pillow or maybe trying not to punch a wall. Really, I think this post is me tenderly touching a tooth that has had the cavity recently filled. Testing for pain.

See, my ex suffered (suffers, I'm sure) from depression, and I am the evil witch-bitch who left him. I took away my insurance (which would have paid for medication, if he would just go to a doctor and get some), I took away his financial security (because I was the only one making any money, as he had quit his job and begun to play World of WarCraft all day) and I removed the wife he loved and worshiped so much (because I no longer loved him).

It wasn't working and I didn't think it ever would. I still don't think it ever would. Depression was eating him up.

I know there are a lot of bloggers online who have a lot of readers who have suffered from depression. I read a lot of them - and in fact, while reading them, I'm in awe and am so ... impressed by them. While I'm sure I don't see everything that they go through, their determination of "I will get better" gives me so much respect for them.

You see, my ex did not want to get better. Or he couldn't. He said couldn't. I said want. He felt he'd never be better, he would always be suicidal, and anything his doctors gave him were no good. He would not see a psychologist, a psychiatrist or a family practioner. He would call me and tell me he wanted to kill himself, then hang up, and leave me shaking in shock and unsure what to do.

And over time - I grew numb to it.

I got him to a doctor, who told him to get a psychiatrist and prescribed a drug. He told me he wanted to die, and he was seeing things, and I dragged him to the hospital and got him an emergency psychiatrist. The psychiatrist hospitalized him after two visits. He was in the hospital for a week - where he was on a higher dose of medication (which he had not been on long enough to work) as well as anti-psychotics. He was told he could choose to stay voluntarily, get his street clothes back and some priveleges, or he could be forced to stay in, and be given nothing but hospital clothes. He said he would leave the hospital the minute he was free, so they commited him longer for his own safety. When they released him he refused to go back to the psychiatrist.

I got on the phone with a Emergency Help Line with work, to see what they would offer us. They could give us a doctor - at no cost, but he would have to call. I gave him the number and posted a magnet on the fridge. He never called and went off his meds.

He was supposed to go to school - and managed to finish his first year, racking up debt and working 10 or 15 hours a week at the same job he'd had since before we were married. When at the beginning of second year, he said he wanted to quit his job to go to school and focus, I said we couldn't afford it - he'd saved no money, and hadn't worked full time since we'd gotten married in 2002. A fact I regularly pushed out of my mind and excused. He'd gone down to part time for school - though it took him three years and no savings to get there.

Partly it was, I couldn't afford it. The other part was that perhaps I could, but I was unwilling to sacrifice anymore for him. I'd been planning on going to school several times, and repeatedly, I had to refuse admissions to great universities, because I would apply, and start to create a year-long plan, and he would quit his job, or suddenly start classes at college that I would have to pay for. My plans would come apart, and I would tell myself it would only be two years until he was done, then he could make the money, and it would be my turn.

Then he'd quit. Or fail. Or, this time want more than could be afforded.

It was never his fault - a teacher didn't like him, or somehow he couldn't get the work done, or it was another student who flubbed it up for him. I don't think I ever heard him take responsibility for anything except for those times he would say to me, crying, "I'm sorry I'm such a burden on you." Even when it came down to: "We have no savings, so you cannot do this," he said "I know it's not my fault."

He would put it all on depression. And maybe I got selfish, like when I got annoyed that he wouldn't want to go out to dinner or ice cream with me, and I would get annoyed. But I couldn't get him to go to my new favourite pub, and he would go out with friends from work.

We no longer had the same friends. I dislike the people we knew in high school, I didn't like the people he met through the warhammer games he played and hated sitting there listening as they talked about Skavens or Dark Elves or what not. I asked him to leave in October. He quit his job in November. He never went to see a doctor again, and never went on another interview until I left in February.

I don't feel I've made the wrong decision - I'm so much happier now, and I no longer cry silently in bed, curled in a corner and hoping he doesn't hear me. I no longer come home and go straight into the bedroom to avoid him, and lie in bed watching TV. I can now look back and see things in my life from back then and point them out going "that should have been a hint," and have come to grips with the fact that we should never have gotten married.

This post is a mistake, really, or at least, I've contradicted myself - I'm not blogging while I'm over it, because I can't type "I forgive him", because it's not true. I suppose it would really be over, when I can say that. Or maybe when he calls me about something, I can listen to him talk without getting irrationally annoyed.

But, in testing, I don't feel pain, so much as a kind of ache beneath my breastbone. Or maybe just fatigue - I'd love this entire chapter of my life to be done completely, cleanly, without any messiness. The divorce done without contact, the money he owes me received without him calling to guilt me. Just to be free, which is not going to happen.

but it's a light at the end of the tunnel - and that's more than I had in January.

____

(did anyone notice that I had an astericks in the last post that went absolutely no where? What clarification was I going to give? WE MAY NEVER KNOW.*)

* minor, tiny, weak funny.

Possessed Blogger

2006-10-12T11:48:00.000-04:00
Whenever I go to Blogger, I can successfully log in. I can even see individual posts when I go to their individual links. I cannot, however, go to my home page and see all my posts in a lovely collection of 10 posts or so (or whatever I have it set to - it obviously wasn't very important to me before and I am too lazy to look now).

There are a couple of perfectly reasonable explanations for this, all technical and involving the idea that Blogspot is a free service and I am getting what I pay for. I choose, however, to believe that blogger is possessed a là the Ring. Or maybe a là Star Trek, and my posts are being sent to a distant future, where people will marvel over them, or perhaps to another dimension, where the world is distorted and strange, where maybe Jack Layton of the New Democratic Party won the last Canadian Election, so everyone is complaining how the NDPs ruined Canada, because, you know, you can never make everyone happy in regards to politics, and every year, those who are the unhappiest complain the most.

So in my world where the Conservatives won, I salute you people in the land of NDP. And anyone else in any other alternative dimensions who may be reading this.

(You see? You see what this is? This is what happens when people humour me about telepathic bloggers. Now? Now I am communicating with people in other dimensions. WE ARE TAKING BLOGGING WHERE NO BLOGGER HAS GONE BEFORE.

... the sanitarium. Oh wait. No. This very likely has been done before. Damnit.)

-- (see these? These two lines? This is like a whole new post. This is like me being too lazy to either make a new post or think of a clever and funny segue.)

There was a puppy waiting outside my apartment door for me yesterday. I might have been more pleased had the puppy been mine, or at least, had the puppy had tags so I could return the poor thing to his owner. A great big ole boy with a clubbed tail, he was soaking wet from the rain and ever so excited to see me and have his head rubbed and to be asked "comment ça va?" in a tone I tend to reserve for animals and small children. He also desperately wanted inside. Not that I can blame him - he was soaked through and it is autumn, which means I can see my breath as soon as the sun goes down.

Three cats and one large, wet and excitable dog is not a recipe for a good household, especially when none of the animals know each other, and one of the animals is probably taught in a language I can never remember commands in, and the other three don't respond to commands in ANY languages. Unsure of what to do, but rather unwilling to just leave him out where he could try and cross a busy street and get hit, I dithered, petting his head, and getting my face licked, and chattering at him, searching repeatedly for a tag that simply wasn't there.

Eventually, I was joined by a poor suspecting soul taking out his garbage whom I promptly pounced to find out if he knew the dog, pointed out that the dog had been out since at least six pm, because I saw him when I got home from work, and it was now eight pm.

"He might get hit by a car," I said, petting the dog forlornly. "I'd take him in, but I have three cats. I don't even know what to do with him. he can't stay out here."

"You could call the SPCA," pointed out my neighbour.

"Er. Well, do you have a phonebook?"

"I guess I could call them," he said, then paused, "I guess I could take him inside with me, too."

Success.

The puppy was taken somewhere warm and dry, and perhaps provided with food, and some petting. I hope he had a microchip* - and that the SPCA could find his owners. It's bothersome not to know, but I'd feel foolish following up with the neighbour, and calling the SPCA with random ramblings about a dog, simply won't work.

Pity. I'm sure it works out for the best. Mostly because if it didn't, I would feel guilty. And the fact is, that if I knew for a certainty that things would not work out, that the owners would never be found, and the dog might be put down, I would take him in. Even without the space, time, money and the three cats who would flip out and not be happy. Because I? am a sucker for animals.

So, it will work out for the best. Yes.

I Got Nothing II

2006-10-11T09:51:00.000-04:00
I wanna write a post, people.

But whenever I sit down to do it, my mind wanders elsewhere. The website I was working on (done), the fact my laundry needs to be done (done), the fact I need to vacuum before the dustbunnies attack my cats (done) and the fact my laundry needs to be put away (not done). Oh, and the fact I need to do some work (currently procrastinating).

It's not even that I don't have any ideas on what to say. I mean, the weather's a safe bet - cold and rainy and making my joints ache. Or my aching joints, even, and how I am an old, old lady who can say "I can feel the rain in my bones", because I do. Or perhaps the debate between calling my chiropractor and taking some old perscription meds for anti-inflammatory. How the downside for chiropractor is: 35$ and the downside for old perscription meds is: potential stomach bleeding.

And how this is actually a debate for me.

I can talk about the shoes I bought this weekend. The cool jacket. The cool jeans. And how maybe I need shopaholics anonymous.

Except, I'm feeling kind of out of it. Or maybe just not creative. Or funny! I'm not so much with the funny. I'm more with the "oh, I need more sleep and maybe I should clean my kitchen" right now.

or at least - I am as soon as I go to write a post. Because otherwise, I have this nagging feeling. This "I must blog" feeling.

How sad is that?

Happy Thanksgiving to my Canadian Readers!

2006-10-08T12:26:00.000-04:00
... don't you love how the title of my post sounds like I've got tonnes of readers? Maybe I'll go through blogging this way. Totally act like I have hordes of readers and if anyone questions me, I'll tell them it's just that my readers are too cool to comment, and they communicate with me telepathically instead.

yeah. Dude. I am like the coolest blogger, if I have telepathic readers.

In other news, I think I may actually have three readers now. Rejoice! I shall now say I have five readers. It's a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Anyway. I don't think anyone who reads this blog is Canadian (There's an NZer! and ... some Americans) and if you are Canadian and reading this blog comment! and wish me a happy thanksgiving. Actualy, that's just a blatant attempt to prode a mythical reader into commenting. Anyway. Just wish me a happy thanksgiving, people. It's only polite.

I am going to my parents where I will eat turkey. and mashed potatoes (but with olive oil and not milk because I still cannot have milk products!) and maybe have some girly drinks. Then! I shall drag my stuffed and overly full self out dancing and try and get rid of some of those calories. I'm not sure why my girlfriends think this is a great idea - go dancing on a Sunday night, but meh. I don't have to get up tomorrow, so I suppose I can't complain. And I loooove to shake my booty.

I remember the time, you left it all behind...

2006-10-06T15:18:00.000-04:00
I have had Theory of a Dead Man stuck in my head all day. The funny thing is I've really only had a snippet of it running through, over and over, just aching to be sung:

'I wanted more than this,
I needed more than this.
I asked for more than
this,
but it just won't stop,
it just won't go away.'

I don't know why, but I love that particular snippet, even though Santa Monica isn't precisely my favourite Theory of a Deadman song (I usually prefer some of the other songs on the CD, rather than what is released to the radios). I'm not sure why. I think it's the emotion he puts into it, the stress on "more than this" when he sings of asking. The change in pitch and intensity over "go away".

But it's stuck in my head. And it just won't go away. (ha. hahaha. I'm clever. Also, lame.)

so I'm singing it randomly, low in my throat (but not really, because you don't sing in your throat, you sing in your head, at least if you want good sound, so really, i'm just singing it low and quiet), but really, what I want to do is belt it, which I suppose would be inappropriate in an office setting.

I need a job where belting out a song is considered appropriate. I'd love a job where belting a song is required.

(of course. Maybe, instead of randomly going "wah, I want to siiiiiing!" I should uh, do something about it. What, show initiative? What is this 'initiative' you speak of? I am confused. You tire me! I need a nap.)

I sit here in a half-empty office (but not empty enough for belting. no!) counting the hours and minutes 'till I can get to my car and toss on the CD and crank it up. and maybe the song will get out of my head then.

If not, I'll self-medicate. (with vodka!)

If you hear humming and half sung words, that's me, off in the corner, trying not to attract too much notice.

fog and dialect.

2006-10-04T10:23:00.000-04:00
Fog has swallowed my city. Both of them! Usually one benefit of not working where I live (nor living where I work) is that I usually get some sort of variation. Sure, it might be pouring when I run out of my apartment to my car, but when I get to work, it will only be a mild drizzle.

Alright, so I never said it was a lot of variation. What's your point.

In either case - fog has swallowed both where I live and where I work. My drive in to work was a slow slog filled with good music (the latest alternative station has caught my fancy), and peppered with irate demands of the traffic: What is taking so long? Why the hell is everyone so damned slow? it's just a little fog, just DRIVE you idiot!

Oh right. Can't see more than 5 feet in front of me. Maybe I SHOULD slow my ass down, just a wee bit.

Also - perhaps start my day with less coffee.

I'm not sure whether to blame the fog, or various infections that seem to eating at me, but I certainly feel like the weather outside. In a fog; my bones feel inordinately heavy, and conversation with anyone seems a bit of a chore.

also - is anyone else reading what I'm writing here and thinking I sound vaguely british? Jeesh. "slow slog", alternative stations "catching my fancy". I think I'll blame that on the fog, too, as I haven't really been reading anything extremely british (please note I wanted to write "terribly british" but I resisted), not blogs (n)or books.

~~Brilliant~~ Great, now I need to edit myself so I sound like I'm from my country.

Being a Canadian makes for an interesting dichotomy. I've spoken with Americans who think I'm Irish. Britons who think I'm American. Our accent is in this netherworld that neither has enough uniqueness to stand on its own (barring an "eh?" here or there) nor has enough of one or the other to be grouped under any other major country's heading.

It's interesting - our French is different enough to be immediately obvious (at least - if you're from Quebec, or have spent enough time there to gather the accent and slang. If you're an English Canadian who learned french in school, you will likely sound Parisian to Quebecois and Quebecois to Parisians), but our English just sits there. Americanized but Britanized (not a word, I know, but it could be the start of a new trend). We just can't seem to make up our mind.

Then again - maybe it's other country's misconceptions that make it confusing. People who expect me to say "oot and aboot" are likely to be disappointed, since that's fairly localized to Eastern Canada, and if you're trying to identify me by my "eh"s, you might be waiting a while. Even though I say it often enough, I don't say it nearly as much as you might expect.

And if you want to identify me as Canadian by whether or not I call you a "hoser", you're out of luck. I don't think I've ever called a single person a hoser. I'm much more likely to call you an ass. Or maybe a wanker.

Then wonder why you think I'm an American, or a Brit.

look! new look! (version 2)

2006-10-03T18:31:00.000-04:00
I like this better. I should, really, stop going through premade templates, and just my damn own, or at least modify one to make it suit what I want, but .... meh!

at least it's not quite so bold.

look! new look!

2006-10-03T10:27:00.000-04:00
... I actually kinda sorta hate it. but I'm outta time, so I guess I gotta deal.

where I talk neither about my cats, my work, or my ear infection

2006-10-02T08:56:00.000-04:00
What do you mean what ear infection? Didn't know I had one? THAT'S OKAY, WE'RE NOT TALKING ABOUT THAT.

(wah)

Important factoid, peeps. There are now musical condoms. Yes. Never mind the mood music, when you start to get busy with it, this condom will provide you with your own soundsystem, which will speed up to the beat of your gyrating!

I wonder what kind of music choices there are. Barry Manilow? For the old-time romancer in you.
Bad Touch, "Discovery Channel", for the humourous lover.
Wumpscut, "ChristFuck", for the hardcore lover (emphasis on "hard")
Sarah McLachlan, "Angel", for those who want to get 'in touch' with their feminine side.

I'm forever amused by what people think up. But here is the question that will haunt my days (or at least the next 15 minutes):

When they say it speeds up, do they mean the sound speeds up, too? Does this mean I could be making sweet, sweet love to the sound of the Arvin and the Chipmunks singing the sexy, sexy song of my choice?

waaaaaaaaaaaaaah. oooooooooowwww. (return of the friendly, whining siren)

2006-09-29T21:01:00.000-04:00
(If you are squeamish, be warned, this post includes words like "urinary" and "that time of the month". Oh, and "bladder".)

People, I am an IDIOT.

I D I O T

aka - a very stupid person.

(and not just for FORGETTING to put laptop speakers in the laptop, OH MY GOD)

So - this week, I have felt like crap. Dizzy, exhausted, distracted, and lotsa pelvic pain. Oh, and no, it is not that time of the month. Since I've been exhausted for a while, and been putting off going to the doctor, it made me mildly worried.

Okay. Seriously stressed out. Ever looked up "fatigue" on the internet? Holy God.

Turns out, I'm an idiot. I D I O T. I've apparently had a urinary infection for AGES. And only just noticed. I have been given Super Drugs with Many Instructions and Specific Requirements. (What is it with Quebec and strange medications? First my knee medication with it's threats of stomach injuries, now the antibiotic of Specific Instructions, Like Do Not Eat Milk Products for Six Hours After Taking Me, or I Will Make Your Stomach Explode. I may or may not be exaggerating.). I have been given a requisition for blood tests for my constant fatigue. I have been told that maybe I should work less and sleep more. CRAZY CONCEPTS. I can't criticize them for suggesting this. I AM AFTER ALL THE PERSON WHO MISSED THE RAGING INFECTION IN HER BLADDER.

Seriously - I'm not necessarily a stupid person, but I do remarkably stupid things sometimes. Like - oh, don't go to a doctor. Because It Will Go Away. I hate doctor's. HAAAAAAAATE. I also have a high tolerance for pain.

So - I wait until it literally takes half a second for a doctor to go "You. Urinary infection. GET YE TO THE DRUG STORE. And get these bewildering blood tests."

On the plus side, I can drink alcohol with these drugs (my pharmacist narrowly avoided smacking me when I asked that. I applaud his restraint). So long as I wait 2 hours after taking the drug. As opposed to the last drug that was maybe going to make my stomach bleed.

Man. Maybe I'm getting out all my sickness/injuries this year. Next year, I shall be pristinely healthy, perfectly poised.

Hell. Maybe I'll be that in ten days.

So long as I remember to take my pill at the SAME TIME EVERY DAY. And eat no milk products and drink no alcohol. And about a half dozen other things.

Yeah. 100% perfect health. T-Minus 10 days.

Why I hate laptops

2006-09-29T08:38:00.000-04:00
1. Four sticks of RAM that have died in the last six weeks.
2. The two motherboards that have died in the last two weeks.
3. Replacing motherboards.
4. All the screws in the laptop cases.
5. Crawling on my hands and knees trying to find a screw or six that I have dropped.
6. All the comments that can come from "I was beneath the desk looking for a screw".
7. Successfully replacing the motherboard, getting the case back on, screwing it in and handing it back to the user to have them ask me the next day: "What happened to my sound?"
8. Speaker wires. (edited to add) okay, not the speaker wires. Actually, COMPLETELY FORGETTING the speakers and thus SENDING THEM BACK TO THE MANUFACTURER. OH MY GOD I AM AN IDIOT, PLEASE FIRE ME AND GIVE ME LOTS OF SEVERENCE PAY.
9. All those screws in laptop cases.
10. Lists that do not end in a round number.

(if you're sitting here wondering "where the hell did this come from?" please ... well, one, reference most of my blog, because I think that question could be applied to every post, and two, check the comments in my last post, 'cuz, really, the whole "exercise in futility" made me go "Yes! it is! LET ME TELL YOU WHY!". I really want to print out his comment and hand it to my manager and go "SEE. THE INTERWEB AGREES WITH ME. GET A TECHNICIAN.")

Brought to by "Whatever"

2006-09-28T09:15:00.000-04:00
I had a dream last night . . .

(and it fit me like a glove. It was a scream last night . . . )

(alright, parenthetical songs are over. I swear. But that song is now stuck in my head, so it had better be stuck in yours!)

As a rule, I don't remember my dreams. I know, everyone dreams. Everyone! even me. But I don't remember them. Usually, the only remnants of my dreams are vague feelings of unrest, only occuring when I've had a particularly unrestful night. I certainly don't have long drawn out dreams that tell whole stories, and if I happen to have a long drawn out dream, it tends to be rather disconnected, making sense only in dream land.

"We were running to save the King! but then we got sidetracked by a boat with cotton candy in it and then my boss told me to get back to work, so I went to take the motherboard out of the laptop."

Like that. They do not make good stories. They don't even really make bad stories! They just make bad, disconnected sentences. I've always been a little jealous of coherent dreamers, and maybe a little skeptical, too. After all, it's impossible for me to dream coherently, why can they? Are they just having broken dreams like I am, and filling in the gaps to make a better story? Could it be that we all dream the same way, and the ability to make great stories from dreams is not so much a case of dreaming coherently as it is a case of being a better storyteller?

I have no idea. Because, apparently, I cannot tell stories of my dreams. Even now, though I remember a dream that was more or less coherent, I find that I can't be bothered.

After all, do you really want to hear about how I was heading to some chick's place to buy some rats from her, but somehow, I had to take a detour through a war, where I lost both my hands, and ended up driving my car with fake hands that seemed to be made of toothpicks, yet still had functioning fingers because the toothpicks connected to the tendons in my forearms?

I didn't think so.

a broken foot (not mine)

2006-09-25T14:46:00.000-04:00
My voice teacher has broken his foot. In three places. Someone dropped a weight on him at the gym.

ow.

I feel really bad. After all, my voice teacher is a fitness freak who rides his bike daily and was just told he needs to keep weight off his foot for at least 10 days (proof I've been working in the corporate world too long: my first thought to that was to translate that into two weeks, because, duh, 10 business days!). I'm not quite sure how he's going to survive this downspiral into pudgy inactivity.

On the other hand, I'm a little pleased - not that he's hurt, of course, but that I might get a substitute teacher for three weeks or so while he heals. Despite the fact that he hinted (okay, outright mentioned) that it would look good for him if I insisted on waiting until he came back, because he was the Only Teacher For Me! I suspect I'll take advantage of it. A change would be nice. lately, I've been feeling somewhat incomplete with my lessons, and unsure on how to resolve it.

Let's face it - I don't feel he's providing me with enough of a challenge, or taking me seriously, and somehow, I'm having a hard time stamping my feet and going "give me more of a challenge and take me seriously!" I'm not sure why. Maybe I'm afraid he might go "well, RP, you're not doing this well enough for more of a challenge, and you're certainly not worth taking seriously."

But - in a way, I think that this fear I mention above is a sign of an issue: I have no clue how he feels about my skill. Or ... maybe more accurately, talent. I'm relatively confident that his opinion is NOT "dear lord, she's terrible, how to get through this half hour lesson?" But I can't say if he feels I'm improving, if he feels I could advance toward performing publicly with work, or . . .what.

The fault can likely be found in the fact that I am an adult taking lessons. He's used to people taking lessons 'for fun', so, despite the fact I've said I'd like to consider performing, he is still stuck in his 'for fun' mode.

Why I think a different teacher would change this is beyond me. Maybe I just figure it will interest me long enough to get through another rush of improvement, before I get stuck in the same spot again.

But seriously - broken foot. OW.

Fatty McFat Cat

2006-09-24T18:10:00.000-04:00
Have I mentioned one of my cats snore? (oh my god, am I already repeat blogging?) She does. I'm thinking of this right now, because, well, she's snoring.

Let us do a quick rundown here:
I am hard of hearing.
I am at home, and so not wearing my hearing aids.
I have the MOTHER of all colds.

and I can still hear her snoring.

This is obviously not your normal cat. Actually, I must say that while I have three remarkably well behaved felines, one cat seems to have gotten more than her fair share of defects. I don't mean like .. birth defects, or I suppose I do, but I don't mean like a sixth toe or a third eye or something (though that would certainly be something to write about), I simply mean that she is defective. She has issues.

I'm not sure what is to blame for these issues. I think maybe she's just . . . I don't even know. I cannot excuse it. All that I can say is that without a doubt, she is a cat with poor hygiene habits who snores and is also fat.

Fatty McFat Cat.

I try and defend it. I do. If someone calls her fat, I protest mightily. "Oh, don't be ridiculous," I say, "She's just stocky." Or "she's big boneded!" And my friends become disturbed and slightly upset because they thought I was joking when I said I was on my way to crazy cat lady, and to be faced with the sad, sad truth is perhaps a little unnerving. Especially when they try and press me on the issue: "No, no, RP," they say, "she really is fat!" and I finally crack and scream at them: "She can hear you, you bastard! don't you know she eats to kill the pain?!"

... sometimes my friends mysteriously stop speaking to me, and I'm not sure why ...

But to you, internet, I can admit it. My cat is fat. She weighs six point six kilograms. I do not know what that is in pounds, but it's a lot. When she decids to crawl up and perch on my hip bone while I'm lying in bed, I swear, I hear something crack. That time she cracked a rib because she wanted to curl up with her face close to mine, I had to admit it: my cat is fat.

My cat is fat.

I even know why she's fat. She gorges. Yes, the bountiless food she has experienced every day of her life can't last forever, so she builds up on a stockpile, day in, day out. Because one day, I'm going to stop feeding her, and she knows this. Probably because she broke my rib that one time.

She also cannot clean her ass. Yes, I have a cat who refuses to clean her ass. I think, actually, this may relate to the gorging thing. If one has a full tummy, one does not want to lean one's head over to lick one's ass.

... not that I've tried it or anything, stop looking at me like that.

Finally, the most damning of her defects: My cat does not bury her poo. No. She tries! but - somehow she thinks she's shorter, or longer, or something and .... no. It's better not to go any farther into that fact. What readers I have were probably leaving en masse when I started talking about my cat licking her ass. I'm fairly sure I could seal the deal by going into indepth ruminations regarding my cat's fecal matter habits.

I love my cat. Because she snores. Because she's fat. Maybe ... not because of the ass and litter box habits. But you know. It gives her personality. I like her motorboat purring and her habit of rubbing her face against my feet. It amuses me beyond belief that she'll come and tap my shoulder while I'm reclining on the couch, because YO, she needs her head rubbed.

I think given the option, I wouldn't own three cats again. Three's a lot. Probably too many, at least with the stigma of 'single woman living at home with three cats'. Also, too many when you consider the vet bills (100$ per cat, every year. Plus, apparently all three have plaque build up. Do you know what that costs to remove? I'll tell you: FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS PER CAT. Needless to say, kitties are currently suffering with plaque, with no apparent ill effects).

Ask me to give one up, though, and I'll probably poke your eyes out.