a bit part in your life

Is this thing on?

2010-04-06T12:49:00.000-07:00

Yup. We're still alive. Just busy. You know, with Yo Gabba Gabba and Goldfish Cracker consumption. Oh, and I'm working from home now...writing about shopping (nice work if you can get it). I'm a bad blogger, actually I can't really use the blogger title any more since I never do it. But maybe one day soon...

Hot Blooded, Check it and See

2009-07-23T09:03:00.000-07:00

He's got a fever of 103.

George does, that is. Yesterday I got to experience two milestones--baby's first visit to a walk-in clinic and baby's first visit to an emergency room. Not a bad run considering he's five months old. My favourite part was when I called the nurse's hotline and described his symptoms (39.6 degree temp--that's 103.3 for you yanks, pulling on his ears, coughing, grunting, sleepy) and the nurse told me to take him to a doctor right away. Then, when I get to the clinic, Dr. Superior acts like I'm some overprotective loon wasting his time and sends me packing with an Advil sample and the kind words "there's nothing I can do to treat a fever that you can't do at home."

Two hours later, George's fever is even higher so we take the better-safe-than-sorry approach and stroll on over to the emergency room (luckily, we now live half a block from a hospital). The doctor there was much nicer and explained that George's immunity is down due to teething and he has contracted a flu bug of some sort. He said not to think twice about bringing him back if I feel I should or if his condition changes. Oh, and he actually examined him, which was a nice change of pace from the first doctor. I hate walk-in clinics. I also hate having a miserable baby dealing with teething and the flu at the same time.

A wolf in mom's clothing

2009-07-22T11:08:00.000-07:00

George and I have been making a daily pilgrimage to Rocky Point Park. It's a big ol'water park and picnic area here in Pomo. The place is gagging with strollers, puppies, moms, and little ones. It's a really nice place, but I still feel like an impostor when I go there. I've got the ponytail, and the suburban mom uniform of fashion backward capris and T's, I've even got the kid in the stroller--but I still don't feel like "one of them."

Don't let the smile fool you...

2009-06-09T09:14:00.000-07:00

this boy's got the Satan in him. Well, either Satan or just a stubborn tooth. I vote for Satan though.
We are two weeks into his first teething experience. So much slobber, so much screaming, so little sleeping. If we keep him dosed on teething tablets and baby Tylenol he's manageable, but the poor little bugger is having a hell of a time pushing out those pearly whites. It's hard to see him in pain, but more importantly, it sucks for me. I'm so tired. Keeping him distracted and comfortable is a full time gig that I'm not entirely qualified for. But every time I'm ready to throw in the towel he goes and smiles at me or falls asleep in my arms--manipulative little bastard.

God Bless Ketchup

2009-06-08T17:58:00.001-07:00

Seriously. If there really was a God or a Jesus or whatever, I would accept him or her as my saviour and then use my new-found status as believer to convince him or her to bless the good people at Heinz. What kind of world would this be if ketchup had never been invented/discovered/conceived? Not the kind of world I want to live in. I am now going to go have a piece of low-fat cheese smothered in ketchup and dipped in salt.

TV Nation

2009-06-04T10:31:00.000-07:00

I watch television.

You can tell me it is evil and the source of much dumbing down, but I don't care. I'm still going to watch it. And I won't put on a big show of claiming how little I watch of it when it comes up in conversation. I don't care if all the cool people trip over themselves in their declarations of who watches the least amount, or how long it has been since they last tuned in. And I won't claim to only watch IFC, documentaries, and The Daily Show. I do watch those things, but not exclusively. I'm tired of being shamed for my boob tubing. I'm going to revel in it instead. I don't care who knows it--I like to get right down in the trenches with such educational programming as The Price is Right, LOST, and Coronation Street. And I've been known to sit through hours of cake-baking challenges on the Food Network.

Okay, I draw the line when it comes to most reality tv. Even I would have trouble justifying those Bachelor shows or American Idol, but I do like Hell's Kitchen and I've wasted quite a bit of time on America's Next Top Model and Project Runway. I've accepted it. I have a tv. A big, flat screen tv. And I actually watch it. The rest of you can go back to whatever it is you do with your downtime--quantum physics, juggling, talking--I'll stick with the comforting drone and glow of the magic picture box.

Smells like teen spirit

2009-06-02T11:46:00.000-07:00

It is hot here this week. Hot. Hot. Hah-aht. I took the offspring out for a stroll this morning, and was smart enough to pile on the sunscreen first. It was Hawaiian Tropic, and it smelled so yummy. That smell always takes me back to high school. Back when my family lived in Winnipeg and we had a pool in our back yard--one whiff of HT puts me right back there. These days I wear sunblock because I don't want to encourange wrinkles or cancer, but those days I wore sunblock to prevent any semblance of a tan from cramping my style. You can't be tanned and listen to Morrissey, you just can't.

The 35-year-old me was walking the streets of Port Moody with my 14-week-old son, wondering if the 17-year-old me could ever have imagined this turn of events. I think the 17-year-old me would approve of Simon and George, not so sure if she'd be over the moon with the additional 30 pounds I'm hauling around. But that's okay, I've got another magic-bean solution--the new wii Active. It's totally going to whip me into shape. I'll be so lean and mean, I'll be able to kick the 17-year-old me's ass.

Thirteen weeks in.

2009-05-25T20:47:00.000-07:00

Crazy. Tomorrow George will be 13 weeks old. He is over three months, technically no longer a newborn. Too fast. This is all happening too fast. He's grabbing toys and standing (with support), before I know it he'll be getting caught shoplifting and be begging his dad to buy him a motorcycle. Or worse, my mat leave will be up and I'll be forced to go back to my job or find something part time closer to home. The days are just flying past me, I'm surprised to find myself missing the long sleepless nights of the first few weeks of mommyhood. If I were a few years younger I'd probably head back to the baby well. It's amazing how you forget about the pains and pangs of pregnancy, but I guess if you didn't no one would ever have any siblings.

Hopefully time will slow down long enough to allow me to get some packing done--we're moving on July 1st. Sweet Jesus I hate packing. But I'm psyched to get into the new place and start playing happy families. As long as we stay in BC I imagine we'll stay in the new pad. So, unless we find a way to live the Halifax dream, this could be the last time I get stuck with a tape gun and a crap load of cardboard boxes staring at me while I ignore them in favour of more important pursuits--like Facebooking, or making cookies.

18 pounds of flesh

2009-05-06T10:59:00.001-07:00

No, I'm not working on an extreme sequel to The Merchant of Venice (a gritty inner-city musical with an all-teenaged cast perhaps?), 18 pounds of flesh is how much I have to lose off of my body. That seems like a lot. True, it was pretty easy to put those eighteen pounds on, but eating peanut butter cups and watching way too much tv is always easier than exercising and preparing healthy meals.

One thing I've tried is baking low-fat goodies. I love to bake. I love to eat baking. So, why not combine these loves in the creation of reduced fat desserts? Theoretically, this is a brilliant plan. In practice, however, it's more a case of me eating 15 low-fat banana muffins and 48 low-fat fudge brownie bites in less than three days. No more baking.

I could join Weight Watchers. Way ahead of you--I joined last week. The online version. The one where you pay $80 and they give you a link to a calculator and some low-fat recipes. Ok, it's not that bad, there are some good tools if you're willing to use them and stick to it. The lack of accountability is challenging though, the computer doesn't know if I'm lying about how many muffins I ate. Or does it? I think it may have rolled its eyes the last time I made a "points" entry. Or maybe I'm just being paranoid. I don't think my computer even has eyes. Or is that just what it wants me to think...

Eastbound and down.

2009-05-02T10:25:00.000-07:00

God help me, I'm going to Regina. On purpose, even.

Next Friday we're packing up the kid and hitting the sky. We're surprising my parents, and for once I've actually been able to keep a secret. I booked the flights over a month ago and have managed to keep my mouth shut, very unlike me. It'll be worth the torture of secret keeping, I'm really looking forward to seeing their reaction when we walk through the door. Of course, it's not me they'll be excited to see--I'm not kidding myself on that account--it's George. My dad hasn't even met him yet. They are planning a trip out here in September, but they keep calling to say how much they wish they could see George and how hard it is to miss seeing him grow and develop. So, a couple of seat sales and an impulsive late-night flight booking later, and we're going to the prairies.

I'm trying not to think about the fact that for the same price we could have gone to San Francisco for the weekend. Or to some lovely coastal town in Oregon or Washington for half the price. The destination isn't the important thing, it's the people who live in the destination. And, as a bonus, our visit falls on Mother's Day weekend. Bringing her daughter and grandson to visit sure beats the cardinal-shaped bird feeder I gave my mother last year. Another bonus is that George will get to meet his two Saskatchewan cousins. They are both under five, so there should be some good photo ops with the three of them.

Not looking forward to the flight, though. Not only do I have to cope with my newly minted terror for air travel, but I have to handle being the person with the screaming baby on the plane, too. Luckily it's a 2-hour, direct flight. If I keep a bottle or a boob stuffed in his face most of the time we should be able to make it through. Besides, if he does act up maybe it'll distract me from the fact that we are trapped in a speeding tin can high above the Rocky Mountains.

A Woman's Place is in the Home

2009-04-14T17:26:00.000-07:00

Horrible, isn't it? That phrase, I mean. "A woman's place is in the home." Phrases like that tend to send me into a tizzy. I remember thinking my own mother, who was a stay-at-home mom to four children, was somehow less of a contributing member of society because she didn't have a "real" job. What a jerk I was.

Now that I am a mother, I realize what a sacrifice and what a privilege it is to be able to raise your child/children full time. It is not a way out of real work, it is real work. I used to sit at a desk and shop online (as well as occasionally doing some actual work) all day. I'd go to the gym on my break and hang out in the cafeteria at lunch. I bought nice clothes and went out whenever I felt like it for dinner, drinks, whatever.

Now I stay at home all day, yes. And I probably do watch more daytime television than I used to. But it's not all soap operas and bon bons. It is a 24-hour commitment. This little fella that I am teaching how to be a human doesn't punch out after a 9-5 shift and neither do I. And if I screw up at this job it doesn't mean some report gets misfiled or a client gets pissed off, it means my son suffers. So the stakes are much higher.

I don't get to sleep regular hours. I don't get to take off and spend time/money on myself when I feel like it. I don't get to gossip at the watercooler or go on fabulous vacations. And I spend considerable more time wiping up puke and poop than I used to. But I wouldn't trade it for anything. It really is important and amazing to get to see your child develop on a daily basis. To contribute to that development is a great feeling, too. I can't imagine dropping him off at a babysitter or daycare centre and letting them experience the world with him while I go back to my desk in the Willingdon Business Park. I don't care if it means less money for the trappings and suits of pop culture, I'd wear a burlap sack and use Internet Light if it meant I was able to witness my son's first steps and first words.

So, I guess I owe my mom an apology. Turns out she had a real job all along. And I hope to go into the family business myself when this maternity leave is up next year.

What I didn't know...

2009-04-12T21:19:00.000-07:00

I did a lot of research with this whole "having a baby" deal. So many videos, so many books, so many websites. Prenatal classes. Extensive visits with the midwives. I even sat through countless episodes of TLC's A Baby Story with its typical television scare tactics of almost every birth ending in an emergency C-Section. So I was prepared. Totally prepared. Until I wasn't.

Don't get me wrong, the little dude is still thriving and isn't sitting in a pile of his own feces chained to the radiator or anything. The actual parenting part has come surprisingly easily. I haven't been scared or panicky and I have actually been uncharacteristically un-stressed during his manic crying jags. No, the whole feeding, nurturing, sheltering and clothing part is going fine. No big surprises there. But there are things about the post-pregnancy world that I was not so prepared for.

Things like having the midsection of a deflated balloon. I knew that work would be required, and I know they say to give it time and to not even start working out until at least six weeks (or until your abdominal muscles knit together again--gross), but I wasn't completely prepared for the way I would feel every time I try to put my old pants on or catch myself in the mirror. It's difficult accepting this transition body. At least when you're pregnant you have an excuse. And people think it's cute..."Oh, you're huge, congratulations!" But now I'm just another lululem-mom walking around in yoga pants and cursing at the hot 20-year-olds in their skinny jeans.

And then there's the changing standard of accomplishments. I used to get so much done in a day, even in the days when I didn't do anything. Now, I feel like a captain of industry if I can get my teeth brushed by noon. This adorable little time vampire requires so much constant coddling, he's such a...baby.

Oh, and how is it possible that someone who is only nine pounds can create ten times that weight in laundry and general mess in less than an hour or two? Seriously, hurricane George leaves a trail of diapers, blankets, clothing, and other various baby accoutrements in his wake that seems impossible for such a little dude.

Speaking of the little dude, he is currently making evil grunting noises in his swing. Guess he's waking up. It's show time.

George Bailey Hatton

2009-04-01T10:57:00.000-07:00

Hey look, I'm still alive. Although it doesn't always feel like it. Lack of sleep and abundance of screaming babies can take a toll on your sanity. But it's worth every minute. There is sooo much I have to say, unfortunately I can't say it right now. George just fell asleep, which means I have to try to fall asleep. I'm not that good at daytime napping, but I've learned to take the sleep opportunities when I get them. George Bailey Hatton, born Feb 24th. 2009. 7lbs 12oz.

backfired

2009-02-02T08:43:00.000-08:00

So, I ignored my instincts and lifelong fear/mistrust of chiropractors and took the advice of my midwife and husband and went for a "prenatal adjustment."

The chiropractor, let's call him The Evil Bastard, promised me that this procedure was specifically designed for pregnant women. He said it would be "very gentle and honouring", and that it would be very light and safe. He also said that most women felt instant relief and very often did not require any further treatments. He told me it was a very good idea to have this done now, because the last thing I needed was to compound the difficulty of labour with back pain and stress. Sounds like I was doing the right thing, right? The responsible thing. The proactive thing.

It started out okay--the new age music, light stretching, and massage had me feeling like this was going to be a pretty good experience. Then The Evil Bastard told me that he was going to roll me back with one of his hands under my middle back and my arms crossed while he pushed down on my arms. He told me I would hear a "loud pop or cracking noise" and before I had a chance to process that information...CRACK!...my back made a horrible noise and so did I. Something between a grunt and a scream if I remember correctly. Then he tells me he's going to do the other side. Of course, after the trauma of the first crack, I was unable to relax and he had to try it twice and still didn't get the desired cracking. Then he let me leave, telling me all my troubles were probably over, and if not I should come back in a few days.

Shortly after leaving, the pain returned multiplied by about 875. And it hasn't left me for more than an hour or two since. There is nooooo way he's getting near me again. I'd like to cut my losses before I'm completely paralyzed. Unfortunately, he works in the same office as my midwife, so I will have to see him when I go for my appointment today. I haven't decided if I should tackle him (as much as I can in my current state), or just pretend I feel great so he doesn't try to hurt me again.

Nobody told me there'd be dreams like these...

2009-01-29T12:32:00.001-08:00

Vivid dreams. Apparently, vivid dreams are very common during pregnancy. I'm not sure of the science behind it, but I can tell you it's true.

If I'm not being awoken by back/leg/abdominal pain, I'm being awoken by crazy, often scary, dreams. Two nights ago I was convinced someone was crawling through our bedroom window and I woke myself up trying to yell out my husband's name. I was actually pretty annoyed with him--in my dream I had been trying to wake him up when I heard someone outside, but he just kept snoring and ignoring me. When I came out of that dream it took me a few seconds to realize it wasn't real, my heart felt like it was going to jump out of me.

Then, yesterday, I watched an old episode of Quantum Leap. Bad idea. Almost every movie or television program I watch before sleeping ends up making an appearance in my crazy dreams lately. Last night I Quantum Leaped (Leapt?) into my own body, and my mission had something to do with the pregnancy. I can't remember what I was supposed to do, but it was really important at the time. It was really freaky.

Oh, and a few weeks ago, after watching Dexter, I had a dream that our son was grown and had become a serial killer. My husband and I were sleeping and we heard noises in the house. We went out to see who it was and this creepy guy was just standing there in the living room. He turned and looked right at me and I realized who/what he was just before I woke up...scary. But on the bright side, we had a really nice house with a spacious loft-style upstairs landing that overlooked a fabulously decorated living room. Too bad about the murderous offspring standing in the middle of it.

"The doctor said I need a backiotomy."

2009-01-27T07:53:00.000-08:00

Son of a Bitch. That's my new pet name for the angel inside of me. It's okay for me to refer to him as Son of a Bitch, as technically I'm insulting myself and not him.

So, the Son of a Bitch has begun his descent into the real world (he'll be full term in two days), starting with the wedging of his gigantic Son of a Bitch head into my pelvis. Which is freaky to think about, so I try not to. But what is really causing me problems is that his aforementioned gigantic noggin is apparently putting my pelvic alignment out of whack, and pushing on my Sciatic nerve. Which means constant back ache, accented by the occasional burst of sharp pain when I try to walk. So much for enjoying the first couple of weeks of mat leave before the big event.

The midwife wants me to go to a chiropractor that specializes in prenatal massage. He will supposedly be able to help realign my pelvis and alleviate the pain. I'm not sure though. I've always had a--how can I put this--complete fear and disgust for the chiropractic profession. Spines gross me out. And the idea of someone "adjusting" my spine makes me want to puke. But then, this pain is getting old and I've already got more than enough pain to look forward to in my near future.

Complain, complain, complain. Am I fun or what? It's hard to be interesting when you are giant and uncomfortable and unable to sleep. I'm sure I'll be much more entertaining when I've got a screaming, puking, poop machine keeping me up all night.

Pearls and Pumps

2009-01-21T13:22:00.000-08:00

Greetings from the 1950s.
Today is my third day of playing housewife (my maternity leave started on Monday), and I'm really getting into the role. As I type this, I have a batch of Snickerdoodles in the oven and a load of baby clothes in the washing machine. I've already made a shopping date with another mat-leaver for next Tuesday and of course I woke up at 7am to pack my husband's lunch and wave from the doorway as he headed out to the office. It may get old eventually, but I'm digging this homemaker gig for now. Who needs silly things like a connection to the outside world or financial independence when they can have a lace-trimmed apron and hot rollers?
Oh! There's my oven timer--gotta go.

What the hell was I thinking?

2009-01-14T19:46:00.000-08:00

Okay, joke's over, I want out. I'm not really going to have a baby within the next month am I?

I mean, I'm cool with having a baby, I'm just not cool with HAVING a baby. There's got to be some other way. We live in a civilized society here, people. We have microwaves and iTunes, don't tell me we can't find a better way to bring a baby into this world than by torturing its mother. What ever happened to that whole stork theory? That was pretty good--you fall in love, make a decision to commit to raising a child, and then a large, drunken bird drops off a little bundle of joy all clean and wrapped in the gender-appropriately coloured blanket. That's perfect. I'm in.

Labour and delivery is fine as a distant concept. Something you realize happens, but not something you have to make happen. I know that my mom went through it four times, and that at this very moment in time loads of people are doing it. Smart people. Dumb people. Rich people. Poor people. Middle-aged career gals and confused teenagers. I get it, everyone that has a child had to get that child out of them--but it's only now that I'm really starting to get what that means. I'm going to have to do this. And soon. I can't put it off for three years like my wisdom-teeth extractions. I can't ignore it and hope it goes away like that time I had those weird chest pains. I can't convince someone else to do it for me like when I paid my sister to pretend to be me and deal with the Employment Insurance people. I have to do it. I have to do it. Oh my God, I have to do it.

We've been getting all sorts of goodies from the midwives to help prepare us. Books and pamphlets and videos. I've seen more hippies giving birth in portable bathtubs than any non-birth attendant should ever want or need to see. Some of the women look and sound like they are being torn apart cell by cell, while others look as though they are suffering from little more than an annoying ingrown toenail.

Despite my fears, however, after all of my research I have begun to think there is a glimmer of a possibility that I may be able to do this drug-free (although a bottle of wine would be nice). Maybe it's all this talk about "experiencing the birth" and "allowing my body to do what it is meant to do" or maybe it's all the experts talking about the unnecessary medicalization of the birthing process and the potential risks of epidurals...but it doesn't seem as impossible that I could skip the giant spine needle as I had originally thought. Of course, that's easy to say now, when all I'm coping with is some sleepless nights, strong kicks, and lower back pain. My tune may change when this little bugger starts slamming his giant head into my pelvis.

Who knows? Maybe I can channel my inner masochist and actually get some enjoyment out of the whole process. Or, at the very least, channel my inner sadist and get some enjoyment out of beating on my husband.

35

2008-12-20T08:36:00.001-08:00

Today I enter the next phase of my life. No longer am I a part of the viable 19- to 34-year-old females demographic. I am now 35 years old. Which means I've entered the realm of "character actresses", mom jeans, and Costco shopping. My husband turned 40 today. He thinks he's older than I am, but he's counting in regular years not gender years. A 35-year-old woman is like a 50-year-old man, so he's actually younger than I am. He's getting more and more sophisticated and worldly and I'm getting more and more invisible. But, whatever, time marches on and all that. Instead of thinking about the limitations of my age, I should take this time to reflect on what I've learned/experienced in my 35 years on this planet.

Learned:
35. Combining red wine and chocolate is a beautiful thing.
34. For better or for worse, there is life after high school. A lot of life.
33. Waiting for change is not the same as making change.
32. Smoking is not cool, it's actually really disgusting.
31. Always use a primer when painting a room red.
30. There is such a thing as too much Tequila.
29. Leland was Bob.
28. Exercise gets better results when you actually do it instead of just talking about.
27. Lasagna is gross.
26. "Morning" sickness is misleading.
25. Dogs are waaaaaay better than cats.
24. Student loans may buy you an education and lots of great clothes and concert tix, but eventually they expect to be repaid.
23. Rollercoasters are not fun. They are terrifying and should be wiped from the face of the Earth.
22. I am not "driver" material. It's a passenger's life for me.
21. Mexican food is really, really good.
20. The principal from Pretty in Pink was right,"If you put out signals that you don't want to belong, people are going to make sure that you don't."

Experienced:
19. Sipped Chianti on the Ponte Vecchio.
18. Married the most wonderful man in the world. And still have no regrets.
17. Threw the dice at Craps tables in Vegas.
16. Made a human being.
15. Had the Spaghetti Puttanesca at Ciprianos. Twice.
14. Got the Hell out of Regina, Saskatchewan.
13. Sang Karaoke in St Johns, Newfoundland.
12. Drank Guinness in a pub (pubs) in Ireland.
11. Had (have) a very cool niece and got to meet her moments after she was born.
10. Swam in the shark-infested waters of Mexico. Shark infested in my mind, anyway.
9. Saw the Flaming Lips live--three times.
8. Witnessed my little brother's collar bone breaking in a hockey game. Gross.
7. Got really fat and spent a lot of time in the basement of my parents' home.
6. Got out of the basement and found my way on to a treadmill.
5. Shook Bill Clinton's hand.
4. Went back to school after 11 years of slogging it in the retail arena.
3. Developed a taste for sushi. Pretty impressive since I almost threw up the first time I tried it.
2. Drank waaaaay to much and fell off the dance floor a few times at my boss's wedding.
1. Turned 35.

Fringe Benefits

2008-12-18T18:46:00.000-08:00

I went to work today. I'm such a hero. I'd totally decided to stay home and milk the snowfall, watch Oprah's Favorite Things orgy of consumer gluttony, and maybe do a little laundry or something. But my husband decided to drive, so I went. It was cold and snowy, but mostly ice-free.

And it's a good thing I did, too. Today was a very special day at the office. No, it wasn't Pizza Lunch and Dessert Buffet day--that was yesterday. It was popcorn and a movie day. Pretty awesome and not at all demeaning, eh? Who needs use of the company jet, weekends at the corporate ski chalet, or seven minutes in heaven with your hot new secretary, when you can sit in the sales training room with 40-50 other employees drinking Coke out of styrofoam cups, eating popcorn out of brown lunch sacks, and watching Tim Allen's The Santa Clause? Not that I'm complaining about the two-hour break from actually working, but I find these weak attempts at humouring the working cogs embarrassing. I'm sure the hearts of the people who were actually running the "event" were in the right place, but knowing that the idea most likely originated in some ridiculous corporate brainstorming session puts a bit of a tarnish on it.

Oh, and last week the business and listings departments divided into four teams and played Deal or No Deal in the conference room. The prize? Not a million dollars. It was Bravo points. Bravo points allow employees to go to our online corporate catalogue and exchange their points for wonderful products. Wonderful products like oven mitts, or word-of-the-day calendars. Score.

163 hours of sick pay, and counting.

2008-12-17T14:57:00.001-08:00

Well, I'm at home today. And so is Simon.

We got a whole lot more than 5-10 cm of snow up here. We live in an area near Heritage Mountain, which was hit really hard. The school buses aren't running up here, and the sound of spinning tires has been pretty much non stop all day. It's really pretty, what with the piles of snow and the Christmas tree lights--it reminds me of the old days growing up in the more Canadian parts of Canada. But it's left us pretty much stranded. Not sure what will happen tomorrow. There's no way Simon can drive down the huge hill with his all-season tires, but there's also no way I can walk down and then back up the huge hill to get to transit in the dark with all the ice and snow and other commuters.

If it were next week it would be Christmas Eve and I could just sit back and enjoy the snow from my mountain perch--like the Grinch, but slightly less evil.

(Don't) Let it Snow

2008-12-16T20:41:00.000-08:00

Here it comes. The annual Vancouver snow freak out. We're expecting anywhere from 5-15 cm by tomorrow night. Now, to the rest of Canada, that's chump change. That's a balmy December day. No big deal. But to Vancouver, 5-15cm of snow is enough of a reason to abandon your vehicles on the side of the road, skip out on work or school, and, if it comes to it, eat your family members one by one in a them-or-me survival ritual.

I grew up in the prairies, and I like snow. I miss snow. I want to spend the day drinking cocoa and gazing out the window while I watch It's a Wonderful Life by the light of the Christmas tree. Or throw on a scarf and some mittens and go strolling through the winter wonderland till my nose starts running and my forehead goes numb. But that's not really an option, as I have to work. And the 155 hours in sick time that I have cost my company so far this year makes a snow day a little difficult to pull off. Seriously, I saw it on my paystub last week--155 hours in sick time. Thank god for unlimited sick days. But my bonus/raise appraisal is coming up, and even "unlimited" has it's limits, apparently.

So, unless it's super insanely snowy tomorrow morning and not worth the risk, I will have to make my way to the office. Which means either we hit the highway with the many morons who have no snow tires and who are only used to seeing the white stuff on their own terms (when they get decked out in their MEC gear and drive up to Whistler on the weekends), or we pile on to the bus/SkyTrain with the hoards of other miserable, tired people who opted for public transport. Ugh.

It ain't going to be pretty. Every time it snows here the city goes crazy. Sirens everywhere. People panicking. Power failures. And good luck getting a pizza delivered. Anarchy.

Final Countdown

2008-12-15T19:01:00.000-08:00

I'm all about the countdown these days. The countdown to my 35th birthday: five days. The countdown to Christmas: 10 days. The countdown to 2009: 17 days. The countdown to my last day of work before my year and three weeks of mat leave: 32 days. And most importantly, the countdown till I can drink a bottle of red washed down with several gin & tonics: 66 days. Oh yeah, and that last date also coincides with the day George will be making his grand entrance. Or at least the day he's scheduled to. But first things first, right now there is 21 minutes till Coronation Street is over, so I'd best be going.

How the Jerks Stole Christmas

2008-12-11T19:31:00.000-08:00

You try to do something nice for people, and how do they thank you? By smashing your gesture of kindness into the asphalt.

You see, being the festive and generally wonderful people we are, we naturally put up outdoor Christmas lights and decorations this year. And not just in our yard either--oh no, homies don't play that way. We put lights up in the trees in the common area on the other side of our fenced-off yard as well. And they were my favourite kind of lights. I know it's not environmentally friendly of me, but I don't like LED lights. I like the big, old-fashioned, frosted, multi-coloured Santa Lights from Canadian Tire. They just go better with the plastic 1950's Christmas wonderland theme we go in for.

So, we (well, Simon) buy all these lights, go out in the rain and string them up through the trees, and then sit back and bask in the glow of our own awesomeness (in addition to the glow from the environment-murdering wasted electricity being sucked through our many extension chords and outlets). And how do you think people in our co-op reacted? Did they all gather round like the Whos down in Whoville, clasping hands, swaying, and singing songs of holiday cheer? Did they knock on our door bearing gifts of wine, chocolate, and their undying gratitude for our display of Christmas spirit? Did they hoist us onto their shoulders and parade us through the grounds declaring that just being our neighbours is truly the greatest gift of all?

No. No they didn't.

They reacted by cruelly wrenching our brightly coloured bulbs from their sockets and smashing them to bits in the parking lot, leaving nothing behind but empty green chords tangled in the trees. And they didn't do it all at once either. It's like they were taunting us. Every time we went outside there would be a few more missing until they'd cleaned out the lot of them.

Who would do such a thing? Was it our crazy neighbour with the giant red hair and even more giant ass? She used to be known as "the" Christmas decorator in our little community, perhaps she got jealous and wanted to put a proverbial horse head in our bed. Could it have been a poor coal-miner's daughter who wanted to gather enough lights with which to surprise her eight kids by brightening the Christmas twig in their shanty? Perhaps it was a vigilante Christmas environmentalist group who spend their evenings skulking from house to house removing all non-LED lighting in the Greater Vancouver area. Or was it possibly a group of woodland creatures gathering decorations to spruce up the forest in preparation for Santa's arrival?

If any of the above scenarios were real, I'd be cool with it. But my guess is it was just a bunch of stupid kids who like smashing things. I hope the little buggers get lumps of coal in their stockings. Or just lumps. Mysterious, unexplained lumps in their little jerk bodies. That would be fair, right?

The Horror

2008-11-13T20:07:00.000-08:00

You know the scene in An American Werewolf in London when the dude transforms into the wolf man for the first time? The stretching and anguish and disgusting end result? Well, that's pretty much where I'm at right now. Apparently, sadistic little George Bailey has decided to double in size and start rehearsing for the Ultimate Fighting Championship. Which means that I have doubled in size and am in constant pain. From the back pain to the pressure of whatever it is that little bugger is doing in there, oh and then there's the headaches and leg cramps. Awesome.

Tomorrow I'm getting my hair cut though. So that's exciting. And then there's Christmas shopping. Hopefully Georgie will let me stay mobile long enough to get through the day.

S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y Night!

2008-11-08T18:56:00.000-08:00

Tonight my husband's band is playing at a bar in Vancouver.
But I am sitting on my couch in Port Moody, eating chips and dip and watching a really, really lame Christmas movie. And I'm actually happier here than I would be there. Sure, maybe if I could have a couple of gin and tonics and wasn't the size of a house (or at least a double-wide trailer), I would have enjoyed going to the show. But I am huge and sober, so I'm good here.

I used to be fun, you know. You might not believe it, but it's true. I liked to go out. I liked music. I liked wearing nice clothes. I liked being around people. These days, I divide my time between my cubicle at work and my couch at home--with the occasional trip to the mall or the aquatic centre thrown in for good measure. Oh, and I haven't had my hair done in months. Really, months. The last time I had it done was before I went to Mexico in May. I know what I want to do to it, but I keep putting off actually getting it done. What's the point anyway? Who cares what my hair looks like? I'm a married pregnant woman who lives in the suburbs. I am invisible. Man, I wish I could take a day or two off of being fat and tired. I wish I could buy a fabulous new fall outfit and go out and have fun. But this is good, too. Who needs to be the life of the party when they can just have a bath and watch Saturday Night Live in bed?

Two girls for every boy.

2008-11-06T19:28:00.000-08:00

There is a special report coming up on the CBC about the shortage of boys being born in Canada. Guess George Bailey will have his pick of the gals when he grows up--even if he inherits his father's penchant for monstrous snoring and his mother's inability to communicate on the telephone. Beggars can't be choosers, ladies.

Make them eat cake.

2008-11-05T19:34:00.000-08:00

Cake. I love it. Especially white Safeway cake with lots of roses made from that magical sweet concoction of chemicals they whip together to make them sooooo yummy. But, apparently, even I have my limit.

You know that Seinfeld episode where Elaine is bombarded with cake at her office? I am living that episode. It's obscene. This week alone we have had two cakes so far, and it is only Wednesday. On Friday we have a baby shower for some girl who works in another department on my floor. More cake. A few weeks ago, we had two bridal showers on the same day, in the same room, at the same time. But instead of having one cake, we had two. One chocolate, one vanilla.

Yesterday, after the birthday cake, a tin of gourmet chocolate cookies appeared in the breakroom. I can't take it. I just can't take it. But I do, take it. The cake I mean. And the cookies. And the buckets of Halloween candy that appear around the office. My teeth hate me. My midwife won't be impressed either, seeing as how she recently put me on a one-month refined-sugar ban. I'm sure she'll understand when I explain that the health and well-being of my unborn son was no match for lard and icing sugar. I mean, that's not a battle anyone can win, is it?

Oh, boy.

2008-10-03T19:01:00.000-07:00

Yikes, it's been awhile. Guess I got stuck in my time machine.
We had an ultrasound today and the technician is "pretty sure" we're having a boy. I was a trifle bummed because I had sooooo many adorable girl clothing items picked out, and because I was very attached to the name (Molly Valentine), but the idea of a little chap is growing on me. And in me, so I guess I don't have an option. As long as he doesn't pee on everything and never wears camouflage, I think he'll be lovely.

We just painted the nursery. Fun. Except I burned my arm. Not on paint, but on an exposed light bulb. It's pretty gross. all bumpy and red. So hot. Feeling, not looking.

And now we shall eat pizza and watch Coronation Street. Man, I can't imagine what it'll be like giving up this life of excitement once the babe arrives.

Time Machine

2008-09-07T14:18:00.001-07:00

Where and when would I go if I had a time machine? I'd certainly fancy a Dublin pub crawl with Oscar Wilde or a champagne-fuelled post-Oscar party with Humphrey Bogart, and I suppose it would be tempting to go and kick Hitler around the school yard when he was younger and less armed, but I think the first place I would go would just be any random day when I was younger. Like 17. Or 24. Man, what I could do with a nineteen-year-old me.

First of all, I'd tell myself to chill out and stop looking for the black cloud in every silver lining. Then I'd put on whatever 90s duds I was sporting back then--probably jean cutoffs, black tights, a black blazer and Doc Martens--and then I'd just enjoy the day being young. Being debt free. Not to mention being free of the mysterious back pains and painful hangovers that come with age. Not for ever, just for a day. Maybe two. Wouldn't it be fun to be young again? So much more fun than it was the first time, I'll bet.

I would stay out late, I would drink terrible Long Island Iced Teas, I would play my Morrissey records and smoke my Dunhill cigarettes, I would go to Scandals and dance on the speakers. I would find a way to convince the younger me to do more with her youth. To go backpacking through Europe. To not drop out of University. To not get a credit card. I would tell me not to work crappy retail jobs for 11 years before going back to school just so that I could acquire massive student debt and end up working a boring 9-to-5 office job that drains my soul a little more each day.

Oooh, scratch all that reliving my youth crap, I just realized that I could use the time machine to go back and buy a lottery ticket with the winning numbers. See you later suckers, I'm off to last week to strike it rich.

I do have stuff to say,

2008-09-02T18:09:00.001-07:00

honest. But I don't have the time right now. Although I will say that people who put butter on their peanut-butter sandwiches are gross and wrong. Don't do that people, don't do that.

Thank God I'm Canadian

2008-08-18T12:39:00.001-07:00

I'm not one for Nationalism, but I'm very happy to be pregnant in Canada. Not because of the one-year paid maternity leave, or the fully licensed mid wives that are helping me through pregnancy and eventually delivery--all free of charge, but because Canada is the only country that offers Diclectin.

What is Diclectin? Diclectin is a little piece of heaven. Diclectin is the holy grail. Diclectin is the only thing coming between me leading a semi-functional existence or spending my days knee deep in vomit, cursing my unborn demon child and the bastard who put it inside of me. Okay, some people will tell you Diclectin is just a combination of Vitamin B6 and Unisom--but it's a magical combination that somehow takes away the vomiting and (most of) the nausea associated with pregnancy. It's perfectly safe and is widely prescribed in Canada. It used to be available in the states, but I guess they're a little too sue-happy down there so they stopped selling it just in case. Not that it had ever caused any problems, but I guess some people were hoping it would be the next Thalidomide and they could cash in on a lawsuit against the saintly Diclectin pushers. Apparently it may be sold in the US again soon, and I hope so, for the sake of my American sisters in nausea. It really is the only thing that helps.

Unfortunately, it helped so much that I figured I didn't need it anymore. My prescription ran out on Friday. Today I left work after two hours and three puking sessions. Now I have to wait till my midwive's appointment next week, or go pick some up from my illicit source. Not on the street corner or anything, just a pregnant friend who had a bunch prescribed to her but can't take them because of a lifelong aversion to swallowing pills. Her loss is my gain.

Week 14

2008-08-16T15:25:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I'm 14 weeks into this motherhood thing. Up until now I've complained, but I've accepted, that I can't have alcohol and I have to limit my caffeine and aspertame intake. And my gums bleed when I brush my teeth. And I couldn't dye my hair for 13 weeks. And I got the first pimples I've had since I was 14. And I puked or felt like puking for three months straight. And I've started buying "special pants" right when all the hot fall fashions are hitting the stores in regular human sizes. And now I've accepted that I will not be getting a good night's sleep for at least a year. Yeah, I get it. Sacrifice is a part of parenting, blah blah blah. But today's development was almost enough to completely break me.

Today I made brownies, and then realized I couldn't eat any of the batter. How cruel is that? What kind of a system allows for no red wine, no sleep, and then won't even allow me to take solace by sucking a rubber spatula dry of brownie goop? So raw eggs are bad for unformed humans. Life is tough, why not teach these future people this now and get it out of the way? Someone should take a stand. But it won't be me, not yet. I put the spatula down and cooked the stupid brownies. Now all I get is a bunch of stupid cooked brownies. These parental sacrifices are really hard.

Okay, I lied a little. I had some brownie batter. Just a little tiny bit though. See, honesty is an important lesson for future humans too. This parenting thing is gonna be a breeze.

"Expect bears in all parts of Port Moody, and at any time of the day"

2008-08-08T12:06:00.000-07:00

That's from the official Port Moody city website. Yes, people laughed at me when I initially expressed my bear phobia, but they're not laughing now. Three bears have been shot in Coquitlam in the past week. Coquitlam borders Port Moody. One of the bears that was shot attacked a woman gardening in her back yard. The bear tore most of the flesh from her arm in addition to seriously damaging her scalp and various other bite and puncture wounds. She's in hospital and alive, mostly because neighbours heard her screams and distracted the bear with rocks and noise before it could finish her off. One of the other bears climbed into the window of a basement suite to get at food that was out on a counter--luckily the tenants weren't home.

So, basically, I have become a shut in. My husband, on the other hand, has responded more in an American vs the terrorists tact. He's decided to continue his daily routine--including cutting through the woods when walking down to the grocery store--in order to "not let the bears win." I say, if something ways 400lbs and has giant teeth and claws, let them win.

Besides living in fear of bears, Port Moody has been really great so far. I love the new place, so much more space. It's a bit further from work, but manageable. There are other, equally fascinating, things I could discuss here, but I'm expecting guests shortly, so I'd best go cut the Rice Krispie squares.

The land of malls and maulings.

2008-07-24T16:53:00.001-07:00

I really should be making dinner, or doing laundry, or packing--the big move is the day after tomorrow, but I just got home and I need a few minutes before "the move" starts taking over my life again.

Speaking of the move (oops, there it goes...taking over again), I've recently discovered something rather distressing about my new residence of choice. Oh, I knew that life in Port Moody would be different than life in the West Side of Vancouver--more gardening, more strip malls, more overweight smokers in track suits--but what I hadn't counted on was the possibility of being killed by a large, hairy, angry beast. No, I'm not referring to the suburban males trolling around the local Home Depot, I'm talking about bears. Not burly gay men or animated picnic-basket thieves either. Real life, honest-to-goodness, giant-clawed, giant-toothed, tear-your-skull-open bears.

We went out to sign some papers and pay our co-op shares the other night, and the woman who was showing us around casually mentioned that a mother bear and two cubs had been spotted around the co-op lately. She mentioned this in the same breath as "keep your garbage in the garbage area, because we've had some raccoons in the area". Raccoons and bears do not get to share the same breath, in my opinion. Don't get me wrong, I'm not fond of raccoons--I' think they're creepy and diseased--but I'd rather run into a raccoon while I was leaving for work at 6:30 am than to surprise a mother bear and her cubs.

After hearing the bear news, I took the next logical step. I googled "Port Moody bear." Turns out, this is not a rarity. In fact, on the official Port Moody website, they refer to themselves as "Bear Country." How did I not know this? Sure, I knew there were lots of trees, and the place had a quaint foresty atmosphere--but it never occurred to me that it was a part of an actual, functional bear-filled forest.

Now, granted, there are loads of bear sightings and not many bear attacks. Although I did come across a couple of mentions. But that does little to ease my paranoia. And it is paranoia--based on a lifetime of recurring bear-fuelled dreams. When we were kids we used to camp at a national park in Saskatchewan, it was beautiful. And there were bears. I saw a few--always from the safety of our car or trailer--and I thought they were cool. But something must have seeped into my subconscious, because for as long as I can remember I've had dreams about bears. I don't usually get full-on accosted by the massive creatures, it's more like I see a bunch of them and I have to somehow get past them and it's very frightening and disturbing. I figured I'd never have to really worry about a real-life encounter though, as long as I stayed out of the woods. I stopped going camping in tents--I'll only venture into the great outdoors if there is a trailer or cabin involved. But now, I'm moving to bear country. Time to dig out the suit of armor and vats of bear spray.

Pomo-a-go-go

2008-07-07T15:04:00.000-07:00

So, in three weeks we will be living in Port Moody. Pomo, as the kids call it. We went and checked out the new place again on Saturday. It's a little rough around the edges, but it's gonna be pretty fabulous once we get our hands on it. I'm looking forward to getting in there and setting up our new home, but I'm more than a little freaked out by this move. The only thing I know about the Port Moody/Coquitlam/Port Coquitlam area is that they have a mall with an H&M in it, and a whole lot of track-suit wearing, pram-pushing, Costco-shopping suburbanites.

The other thing I know about Port Moody, is that it is ten minutes away from my mother-in-law's (M.I.L) home. Which is good, I mean, that's why we're moving there in the first place--for child-care proximity--but it's also going to take some adjusting to. The M.I.L came by to check out the new pad with us on Saturday, and we're already being pressured into frequent pop-ins and being offered unsolicited and detailed interior decorating suggestions. Suggestions that are soooo not us. But that's cool. She's recently retired, and I imagine she must be getting a little bored, so it'll be nice for her to have family closer. Totally understandable. But also a little scary. We like our alone time. And we know that's gonna go out the window when Jr arrives, we're just not prepared to lose it any sooner than that. Guess it's part of growing up. Man, we're doing so much growing up in one fell swoop. I just want to stop growing up and take a weekend to be young and selfish. And, preferably, drunk.

Embracing the nausea.

2008-07-02T11:49:00.001-07:00

That's my new plan, embracing the nausea. The theory behind it is based on my experience with hiccups. When I was younger and I would get the hiccups often, I tried all sorts of remedies: eating a teaspoon of peanut butter, holding my breath, drinking from the opposite side of a glass of water, etc. Eventually, I settled on my own method, which was embracing the hiccups. After a hiccup, I would tell myself "that was great, I love hiccups, I can't wait for the next hiccup", and so forth. Eventually, or at least it seemed to me, the hiccups would go away. Stupid hiccups fall for the ol'reverse psychology every time.

So now, I'm trying to apply this practice to the 24-hour nausea I've been experiencing for the past week or so. I don't know who the ass face that coined the term "morning sickness" was, but my sickness is anything but restricted to the a.m.. Unfortunately, the nausea doesn't seem fooled by my clever methods. I guess nausea is just less gullible than hiccups. And it's also more of a jerk. It made me puke crackers and water at work on Monday morning. And it has made me call in sick, again, today. Apparently nausea wants me to lose my job so I can spend all my time enjoying its sickening company.

When I haven't been puking, thinking about puking, or trying not to puke, I've been busy googling other morning sickness tricks. None of them have worked. Awesome. But my life isn't all about puke, even though it feels like it most of the time. We found out that we got into one of the co-ops in Port Moody that we had applied for. Not the fancy one with the three bedrooms, full basement, and other perks--but another one in a very nice forested setting. It's only two bedrooms, but that's one more than we have now, so we're movin' on up. The people seem really nice, and we'll have our own garden and washer and dryer and other luxuries we aren't accustomed to having been living in the Vancouver shoe-box condo market for so long.

This past weekend we went out to Penticton, and I survived my first alcohol-free trip to a beer garden. It was strange. Luckily, the nausea helped to make the beer less tempting. Good'ol nausea, always looking out for me. The beer garden was a part of the Elvis festival in Penticton, funny how going to an Elvis festival seemed like it would be really amusing when we planned it a couple of months ago, but turned out to be so much less amusing without the benefit of alcohol. Although, to be fair, even without the accompaniment of crappy draft beer, I was able to laugh at the sight of the sweaty Elvis impersonator eating mini-donuts in the extreme heat behind the port-a-potties in a park in Penticton. The King is dead, long live the people who pretend to be the King at low-budget Canadian summer festivals.

night terrors

2008-06-20T18:13:00.000-07:00

Okay, so my initial freak out has somewhat subsided. I'm taking it day by day and remembering why I got into this in the first place, the miracle of life, a mother's bond, blah blah blah.

In other news, last night my husband just about gave me a heart attack. He was out "jamming" with his band (I say jamming in quotations, because that is just one of those words that I can't pull off), and normally when he is out I have a lot of trouble falling asleep. But I guess there is something to this being super tired in the first trimester thing I keep reading about. I put in my ear plugs, got through about three pages of the Tom Robbins book I was reading, and passed out cold within 15 minutes.

Enter a slightly buzzed Simon a half hour later. Apparently, our dog Stella was barking (and she's half Basset, so she has a loud bark), Simon had turned all the lights on in the rest of the apartment, and he had been calling me because he assumed I was still awake. But I wasn't. In fact, I must have been borderline comatose. I'm not sure what eventually roused me, but in my state of confusion and sensory deprivation (it was dark in the bedroom and I had my earplugs in still), I awoke to see someone standing at the foot of the bed. Before my brain had a chance to adjust and realize where I was and that it was just Simon, I started screaming. And it was real screaming. Terror screams. The likes of which I haven't let out since I was convinced in a moment of weakness (induced by a massive tequila hangover) to ride the rollercoaster at West Edmonton Mall.

Eventually, after screaming and flailing about, my body caught up with my brain and things started to come together. Of course, after that adrenaline kick to my system, I was unable to get back to sleep. Made for one hell of a day at work. But the nausea helped to keep me awake.

Oh...we have an interview at a co-op in Port Moody on Wednesday. Perfect timing.

And now the panic sets in.

2008-06-18T17:02:00.001-07:00

What the hell was I thinking? I can't do this. To say I'm freaking out would be a huge understatement. From the nausea to the getting giant to the no sleep to the extremely painful labour and delivery to looking after a helpless infant 24 hours a day to child care when I return to work to how the hell we'll pay for this thing to grow up...man I could use a drink.

Yowza

2008-06-15T15:11:00.000-07:00

So, let's see, what's up? Well, I made a killer jalepeno/green onion/cheese wrap for breakfast today. And I bought a lovely new outfit from H&M on Friday. And I went to see The Strangers, which was really creepy. Oh yeah, and I got knocked up.

Yup, if all goes well, I'll be pushing a ridiculously overpriced Bugaboo stroller next February. Or, more likely, a slightly ridiculously overpriced Peg Perego Pramette. Yes, I now have a new obsession--stroller shopping. I had no idea there was this crazy subculture of high-end stroller fetishists. Some of them are $2000.00. For a stroller. Until we bought the Versa, that's about twice as much as any of our cars had ever cost us.

Besides stroller envy, I've also been coveting the cribs, car seats, and other baby crap I've been seeing in the many Vancouver baby boutiques I've been scouting out lately. So far this pregnancy is pretty much just a new shopping opportunity to me. I imagine it will feel more real when I start puking and getting fat. Good times ahead.

Oh yeah, blogging.

2008-06-02T16:43:00.000-07:00

I haven't been blogging much lately. Must be because I've had so much to do. Let's see...I went to the new Indiana Jones movie. In my defense, I didn't actually go to see Indiana Jones, we wanted to go to the drive-in and that's what happened to be playing. It sucked. Really, there's no point in dissecting the "plot" to explain how badly it sucked, it just sucked. Iron Man was playing as well, and thanks to Robert Down Jr, it was pretty entertaining. The best show, however, was the one in front of the screen. Drive-ins are crazy. Drunken teenagers, pick-up trucks, kids in pajamas...good times.

What else? Uh, I didn't win the lottery. I didn't get my hair cut. I didn't file my taxes or initiate student-loan repayments. With all these things I wasn't doing, it's no wonder I had no time for blogging.

One thing I did do was to develop another symptom on my road to imminent death. It's not terrible headaches or mysterious back pains this time, it's a weird "fluttering" or twitching sensation near what I now know to be my sternum (yeah, yeah, I admit it, biology was never my strong point, and sternum isn't in the "...connected to my ___ bone" song, so it never really came up before). When I google this unusual new addition to my hypochondriac's shopping list, I find all sorts of bad heart and colon issues. And neither of these areas are areas where I look forward to having issues. Whatever, hopefully my ignore it (other than obsessing about it) and it will go away method of medicating will pay off once again.

Oh, and I went for a ridiculously expensive dinner at the ridiculously expensive celebrity hotspot, Cin Cin. It's not normally like me to frequent restaurants that charge 30 dollars for spaghetti, and I'm not of the mindset that the cost is offset by the possibility of being seated next to Ben Affleck or Anne Heche or whatever Hollywood hack happens to be filming in the city at the time, but it was for my mother-in-law's retirement dinner, so I sucked it up. I also sucked up the sparkling water that the wait staff kept refilling, thinking it was free, only to discover a 24-dollar additional charge on our bill at the end of the evening. Luckily, by insisting I didn't want an appetizer, salad, or dessert, and by ordering the cheapest thing on the menu (the aforementioned spaghetti) and nursing one beer, I managed to make it out of there and still have enough money to eat for the rest of the week.

And that about brings us up to date. Time for dinner.

A Lynching on the Prairies

2008-05-22T20:28:00.001-07:00

No, not that kind of lynching. Sure, the prairies are still stinking with their share of red necks, but this is a Lynch of a different colour. David Lynch.

I went to visit my little brother in Penticton over the long weekend, and while sipping Cab Sauv on his sprawling balcony, he casually mentioned that he had met David Lynch in Regina last year. What is up with that? How did he meet David Lynch and not even tell me? David Lynch. My all time favourite brilliant, inspirational, amazing, crazy genius. This is the man who wrote Blue Velvet. The man who gave a name to the "people like Frank" in this world.

Okay, sure, it's not cool to name drop celebrities you may have encountered. Like, for instance, I don't go around telling everyone that I've met Bill Clinton, Mia Farrow, and Stephen Baldwin. Well, I do tell them about Stephen Baldwin, because he was such a huge loser. And it's just funny to tell people that you met Stephen Baldwin. Especially when you tell them how he was shopping with some slag and trying to play the "I'm Stephen Baldwin" card to get you to give him a discount on his pants. And, technically, I have told people about the Clinton and Farrow meetings. So I guess that means I'm not cool. But I don't care how lame it would make me look, if I had met David Lynch--people would be told. Ad nauseam. And then a little more for good measure.

The reason my brother had met The Man was because Jennifer Lynch (David's daughter) was directing a movie (Surveillance) that was being shot in Regina. Ira, my brother, used to work in film and television in Regina. His main gig was as set decorator for a Canadian TV show called Corner Gas, but being a big fish (or any sized fish) in a small pond like Regina, meant that he also worked on most major films that came to town. Unfortunately, Ira didn't have much to say about his close encounter of the Lynch kind. He just said Dave-o looked kind of weird and nervous.

I suppose if I had had the chance to meet him, I wouldn't have had any more to report. It's not like he's going to ask me to grab a Slurpee with him and discuss transcendental meditation for hours on end before revealing to me the secret of how he created the Eraserhead baby. Or would he? I'm going to pretend he would. In fact, I think I'll take the David-Lynch-meeting anecdote away from my brother and tell everyone it was me. But with the Slurpee/meditation/Eraserhead baby ending. So, forget all that stuff you just read about my brother--have I ever told you about the time I met David Lynch?

What a difference a day makes

2008-05-15T16:55:00.000-07:00

Wow. I guess the mad scientists decided to turn the dial to "Awesome" on the weather-controlling machine today. All week the forecast kept calling for a lovely, sunny weekend, but it was a little hard to buy, what with all the rain. But whadaya know? They were right. It's soooo nice out right now. All sunny with chirping birds and people who really shouldn't be wearing shorts in public. Tomorrow morning we're heading out to Penticton to check out my brother's new home. He used to live in Regina. So I imagine he's really enjoying this turn in the weather. If you've never been to Regina, you can't possibly know how icky it is.

Hmmm, the early news is on right now and warning of severe avalanche risks due to the shift in the weather. So, if you never hear from me again, it's because we're trapped under a pile of rocks on the highway some where.

I'm putting my alcohol hiatus on hold for the weekend--I'd decided to jump on the wagon in preparation for getting knocked up, but that can wait a few more days. No future child of mine would begrudge me one last long weekend of balcony drinking in the sun. I've already conceded New Years and St Patrick's Day, if need be, so this May Long is non-negotiable.

You know, I had a bunch of things, fascinating things, to share with you today, but who can concentrate with summer beckoning. Have a lovely weekend.

Enough Already

2008-05-13T19:42:00.000-07:00

Sheesh, what's with all the natural disasters? Kind of makes posting about the new Vancouver H&M megastore's opening, or my bender in Seattle last weekend, seem a little irrelevant. I don't like feeling irrelevant. I don't want to be reminded that it can all come crashing down at any moment. I want the outcome of the season finale of America's Next Top Model to be the only thing I have to worry about this week. How dare reality. Why do bad things (that happen to other people) always have to happen to me?

At least I have a four-day weekend in Penticton to look forward to. If there's still a planet in two days.

Vancouver is no Mexico

2008-05-05T20:39:00.000-07:00

Trust me, I know. Everyone was digging the 17 degree temperature in Vancouver today, but they don't know, they just don't know. Mexico was excellente. Mui excellente. Eight days and seven nights of sun-filled, cerveza-fuelled relaxation. We were like the couples from the Corona commercials come to life. Except paler and fatter.

Sure, I complained about the clamminess of the hotel room at night, and the way my stomach felt after consuming retarded amounts of pickled jalapeno strips, and the time Simon frolicked in sea-lion infested waters only to realize that our camera had been in his pocket the whole time--but those things didn't really bother me. Except for the camera thing. I wish I could have stayed for another week. Or month. Or decade.

We spent our wedding anniversary on a private beach called Las Caletas, once owned by John Houston and Elizabeth Taylor. Now it's owned by a tour company called "Vallarta Adventures", but despite the occasional Survivor-esque ornamentation, they actually managed to refrain from sucking all the beauty and romance out of the place. We lounged in hammocks, checked out the monkeys and parrots, ate lobster and squid, and drank rum. Fabulous. Even when we stopped by the harbour en route to Las Caletas so the giant cruise ship could spew oversized Americans in undersized swimwear on to our little boat, we still had a great time. It sucks to be back. But at least we have that whole "trying to start a family and finding out what life is really all about" crap ahead of us to look forward to.

Sometimes Reality Just Nibbles

2008-04-20T09:23:00.000-07:00

It doesn't always bite, despite what Winona and Ethan would have you believe.

Take my current reality, for example. Yes I have recently received thinly veiled death threats in the form of "request for payment" letters from two dentists and the BC Medical Services Plan (Turns out there was some confusion over what my dental insurance actually covered, so now I have to pay considerably more out of pocket for my wisdom teeth and recent fillings--including the recent filling which I still can't chew on over a month after it was "fixed." And MSP has decided to charge me for the year I "forgot" to register and pay my monthly medical services expenses after I went from student to working chump), but at the same time I am going on holiday this coming Saturday and I had a really nice whole-wheat English muffin for breakfast--so it all sort of balances out.

Another thing shaping my current and future reality is a decision Simon and I have made recently. A whopper of a decision, actually. We're going to try for a baby and move out to Port Moody (where we have some hope of renting a 2-bedroom condo for under 1500 a month). It's a little scary, seeing as how I'm 34 and not some young 20-something baby-making machine. However, if our previous experience was anything to go by it seems like the conception part won't be too challenging. What happens or doesn't happen after that is the scary part. But we're going in with our eyes open and prepared for whatever outcome is meant to be, although it would be a cruel twist of fate if we ended up losing our fabulous current home to be stuck in the boonies of Port Moody without even a little future meal ticket to dress up in H&M baby clothes and watch Sponge Bob with.

Two weeks from now I'll be on the beach in Mexico.

2008-04-12T16:33:00.001-07:00

Well, actually, I'll probably still be at the airport in Puerto Vallarta, but I'll be a lot closer to the beach than I am now. Mmmmm palm trees, white sand, gold Tequila, and my 11-year-old niece--what a romantic anniversary. Yes, my 11-year-old niece and my sister are joining us on our anniversary trip. At my insistence. It's not like it's our honeymoon, after all. Plus, the last time we went I was constantly saying how much my niece would love it there--so now I'll get to see if I was right. It's going to be a blast. I can't wait. Just wish I was staying for more than a week.

I've been spending the past week or so thinking and deciding and planning and trying to envision my future. Which is why I haven't been blogging, and why this post is so boring. Guess my mind is still preoccupied. But the future is not now. So I will try to remain in the present. But that doesn't mean this post is going to get any more interesting. Sorry. I'm off for a Margarita on the balcony. It's a lovely day here (20 degrees celsius and sunny), so it's a perfect opportunity to practice for Mexico.

Canadian Tire Commercials Make Me Cry

2008-04-02T18:07:00.000-07:00

Not because the Canadian Tire Corporation are masters of sentimentality or anything, but because they are advertising for things like lawn furniture and house paint. These are things I can not buy. Well, I can buy them, but I wouldn't have any use for them. I am not a homeowner. I will probably never be a homeowner. And that makes me sad.

As a kid, I assumed that, like my parents and every other adult I knew, I would one day own a house. I would spend Saturday afternoons picking out bedding plants for my flower garden, and I'd constantly be nagging my husband to finish remodelling the downstairs bathroom. I'd bake cookies in my own kitchen--and that kitchen would feature those hot red-patent cabinets from Ikea. I'd complain about property taxes and the gas bill. I'd yell at the kids not to slam the screen door on their way out. I'd transform my front yard into a Christmas wonderland every December.

But I am not a kid anymore, and I have to accept the fact that I will never own my own house. At least not in British Columbia now that houses in Vancouver start at 680,000 dollars for a crappy East Van "Vancouver Special." I remember the first house my parents bought in Winnipeg. It was a two-story brick house on a big corner lot in a good neigbourhood, less than a block from the river. It had cute green awnings, hardwood floors, a private formal dining room, a huge living room, finished basement with fireplace, two bathrooms, and four bedrooms. It cost 125,000 dollars. We thought it was sooo expensive at the time, too. For 125,000 in Vancouver you couldn't even buy half of a studio apartment now.

Both of my younger brothers own houses. One of them has a big fancy house by the lake in Penticton, and one has a beautiful old bungalow in Regina. Bastards. If I could find a job in Halifax, I might have a hope of realizing my homeowner dream. Houses are still available for under 200,000 dollars there. But my battered credit and unresolved debt doesn't make me a very attractive mortgage candidate.

Oh well, throwing away $1200 a month for a one-bedroom rental is satisfying too. It's nice to know we are contributing to the comfortable retirement for the people who own our condo. And, while it may suck that I am not living the childhood vision I had for my life, it is good that I am not living the vision the 20-year-old me had for my life. You know, the one where I die, bitter and alone, in a basement bachelor apartment and no one even notices until two months later when the smell starts to waft up through the heating vents.

I imply. You infer.

2008-03-29T18:49:00.000-07:00

While there are some mistakes I will probably continue to make for the rest of my life (like damaging my credit or getting hair dye on the bathroom ceiling), there are, believe it or not, some mistakes that I have actually learned from.

Like the time I wrote a highschool English paper in which I repeatedly confused the words "imply" and "infer." I believe the topic was persuasive writing or something, and in my defense the teacher did say my writing was clever and amusing. But she also said I made the "common mistake" of misusing imply/infer. She said this in front of the whole class. She told everyone in the class that my mistakes were common. Mistakes. Common. I was not impressed. Why hadn't my parents taught me the difference between these two words? It's not exactly the kind of thing you pick up on the street, and I don't recall hearing about in school, not until the day my "common mistake" was put on display for the world to laugh at. Or if not the world, at least my grade nine English class. But the point of this anecdote is that I have never since mistakenly used imply when I meant to say infer. Or vice versa.

And then there was the more recent day when I forgot my security badge, which I need to get around the building at work. Seriously, that place is like Get Smart, there's magic doors and elevators that only open when you wave your security badge in front of them. You'd think we were CIA rather than just directory publishers. The day I forgot my badge I had to hitch a ride in the elevator with badge-wearers, and I had to stay at my desk all day or I wouldn't be able to get back to it if I'd left. But since that day, I have never forgot my badge. I put it on first thing when I wake up, and double check at least 11 times on my way to the bus stop to make sure it's still on.

Then there's the whole Sasquatch Festival. Every year we debate about going, but this year we decided to do it. We booked it off work, drummed up the cash, and got all pumped about the lineup. Then we waited too long, got caught up in the group-planning confusion trap, and ended up missing out when they sold out of premium camping passes. So sad. But this too, is a mistake I will learn from. Next year we will be first in line with cash in hand to secure our own spot. Provided the lineup is even half as good as it is this year. Come Hell or high water, we shall be in attendance at that damn festival next year. "Come Hell or high water" is kind of a strange expression. If you change the "or" to "and" the high water could douse the fires of Hell and everything would be cool. I think I will say come Hell and high water from now on, you know when I'm in a situation that kind of sucks but has a solution in sight.

I bought a hat today.

2008-03-24T16:29:00.000-07:00

Bid deal, you say? Well, yeah, it is a big deal. "Big" being the operative word. You see, I have a big head. And by big head, I don't mean that I am lacking in modesty, I mean that I have an abnormally huge skull. People tell me I'm crazy when I tell them about my "gargantuan cranium," but people aren't the ones who have to pull themselves up by the hair when they tip their massive heads back too far. And hat shopping? Forget about it.

But four weeks from now I will be sipping Golden Margaritas on the beaches of Banderas Bay in Mexico, so I needed a hat. My hopes weren't very high--the only hat I could find for my last Mexican vacation was more "granny" than "honeymooner"--but I grabbed my debit card and headed for the mall this afternoon anyway. And whadya know, I found one. And at the first store, too. And it wasn't a Big & Tall head store either, it was just a regular ol'shop. Mexico here I come. Well not quite. There's still the matter of bathing-suit shopping. Good lord. I have a feeling bathing-suit shopping is going to make hat shopping feel like...uh, something that's easy to shop for shopping. Like beer shopping, maybe. Or chocolate shopping.

This filling is getting on my nerves.

2008-03-22T11:43:00.001-07:00

Really. It is. Right against my nerve, to be more precise. And if I accidentally touch the tooth in question with my toothbrush, or mistakenly chew something with the left side of my mouth, I am struck by lightning. Or at least it feels like I am being struck by lightning.

I tried to do the right thing. I was experiencing some occasional light sensitivity and a weird metallic taste. I did my research and chose a fancy pants dentist who caters to chickens and offers sedation. I made an appointment (well, Simon made it) and despite my instinct to cancel said appointment, I actually went through with it.

The office was lovely. Beautiful view, nice furnishings, and a fabulous selection of magazines. The staff were super friendly, excessively friendly actually, I guess they're used to cowards doing a runner so they try their best to keep people feeling comfortable. The dentist seemed like a competent guy. He had nice glasses and expensive shoes--both good signs. He told me I had a healthy mouth, a lovely smile, and was very "easy to work on" (like I haven't heard that before). He said I had one cavity on the bottom left and one small one on two of the back molars on top. He said he would take care of the bottom one that day since it had been bothering me, and he would also replace the metal one behind it since it was starting to break down. I didn't really want to do anything so quickly, but I decided to take the plunge since I was already in the chair. I wasn't going to bother with sedation for a little ol' filling.

Twenty minutes, one big needle, and a blur of drills and suction later, and I was supposedly all fixed up. I thanked him, talked my way out of booking the next two fillings until I had a chance to check my schedule, and went home feeling like I had finally done the grown up thing and taken care of business.

I was quite proud of myself--until I bit down on a piece of toast the next morning and almost fell out of my chair. I called the dentist's office, and they told me the filling had been quite deep and it's normal to experience some "sensitivity", but if it was still bothering me I could come in on Monday and they could do any necessary adjustments. I probably should have explained to her that I wasn't experiencing minor "sensitivity", I was getting shot in the face every time anything came in contact with my newly "fixed" tooth. But I guess I wanted to believe their "give it a few days and it will go away" diagnosis. But it has been a few days, and it is not going away. It's driving me insane. And now I'll probably have a root canal to look forward to, meaning I went through the filling and a week of pain just for fun as a prelude to a more expensive and more painful procedure. I'm not sure who I'm going to kill first-myself or the dentist.

Moral of the story: if your tooth hurts a little, ignore it. Because the supposed "cure" will make things sooo much worse.

This has been an exceptionally boring post, I know, but it's hard to think of anything interesting to say while experiencing massive facial pain.

Trouble in Transit

2008-03-14T17:39:00.000-07:00

Now that I'm back taking the SkyTrain everyday to and from work, I remember how much I hate it. Sure, it's fast, it's convenient, and it's an environmentally friendly commuting option--but does it really have to be so unpleasant? So busy? So smelly? And what's with the garish colour scheme--electric blue plastic seats? Puh-leaze.

So, not that Translink have asked me, but I put together a list of improvements, which, I believe, will make my commuting experience so much more bearable. Enjoyable, even.

1. Passenger dress code.
I'm not delusional enough to expect a return to the days of men in grey wool hats and ladies in silk gloves and pearls--but it would be nice if every one could wear shoes. And I'm just as tired of the half-naked crack whores as I am of the half-naked teen bimbos. Oh, and fellas, detergent is not your enemy so try hooking up with it once in a while.

2. Cones of silence.
Have these installed for the cell-phone blabbers to stand under. I'm sure that whatever conversation could prompt these people to screech and howl and spit profanities out at the top of their lungs is really, really fascinating, but it's just not the same when you only get the one side of it. And you might as well throw some silence cones in for those passengers who apparently prefer to wear their headphones inside out.

3. Bar service.
Wouldn't that long trek from Broadway Station to the nether regions of New Westminster, or, God forbid, Surrey, be so much more bearable with a gin and tonic (served up by some plucky young gal with a ready smile and a pill box hat)? Of course it would. Of course it would.

4. Sleeper cars.
Not only would this be a nice option to help cope with those arduous three-minute journeys from Granville to Waterfront Stations, but it could also be a handy solution for those homeless folks who seem to enjoy passing out on the SkyTrain. Why scuff your lovely new shoes tripping over these people, or have the mere sight of these lesser beings "bring you down," when they could simply be shoved out of view? Not only would we no longer be confronted by this ugly side of Vancouver while trying to enjoy our transitting, but the homeless people would get to enjoy a dry, warm night's sleep at the same time. Everybody wins.

5. Entertainment.
True, the occasional pan handler's drug-fueled tirades, the drunken Surrey-ites exchanging clumsy body blows, and the trashy Metrotown teen-makeout sessions provide plenty of eye candy for passengers, but if these groups would pool their respective acts and perhaps incorporate a little choreography (maybe even top hats--surprise me), they could really bring the house/train down.

6. Door-to-door service.
Thanks to the much-maligned 2010 Winter Olympic games, areas of the city such as Cambie Village have already been violently molested to create the "Canada Line," so why not continue the trend by creating SkyTrain lines that will connect every doorway in the GVRD? This construction could get a little disruptive in apartment buildings, but c'mon people, it's not like we have anything better to do with the billions of dollars this will cost the city.

Death By Chocolate

2008-03-10T12:24:00.001-07:00

I'm not at work today. Sounds like a good thing, right? But it didn't seem like such a good thing when I was up all night with terrible chest and stomach pains. I'm pretty sure it's because I had some sugar-free chocolate ice cream yesterday that was pretty high in maltitol--that stuff can wreak havoc on the insides of people that it doesn't agree with. Apparently it doesn't agree with me. In fact it's still arguing with me, and winning.

Of course, the other self-diagnosis option is that the weird taste and painful tooth I've been living with for the past week has abscessed and is leaking poison into my body, which is causing me all sorts of horrible pain. I'm going with option A for now. But Simon was nice enough to take the dentist by the horns and book me up for an appointment with a sedation dentist. Sedation dentists are perfect for cowards like me. I think when you walk into the office the dentist whacks you on the head with a frying pan and when you come to your toothache is gone. At least that's my understanding.

The dentist appointment isn't until next Tuesday, so hopefully the pain storm in my mouth will be calm for awhile. A post-St Patrick's day dental appointment, should be fun. I imagine I won't be the first person to puke green beer on a dental professional.

I'm a goin' RVing.

2008-03-06T18:53:00.001-08:00

Yup. That last bastion of white trashdom that is the RV trip. My parents had a trailer when I was a kid, but that doesn't count. The trailer had to be hitched up to our van (which my dad had pimped out with red shag carpet and blue vinyl swivel bucket seats), you couldn't sit in the back and drink cans of Budweiser while heckling the driver's choice of road music like you can with a real RV.

Unfortunately, we're not going on the ultimate RV trip--dragging a minimum of two screaming kids and lighting out for the Grand Canyon--we're just going down to the Sasquatch Festival with a couple of other people. If I were 19, I'd probably be satisfied with a sleeping bag, a magnum of Peach Canadiana Champagne, and some ridiculously camping-inappropriate outfits, but these days I'm all about the 25ft RV with shower, fridge, and stove.

I've never made it down to Sasquatch, and I'm pretty excited. It's at "the Gorge" in George, Washington. It looks like a lovely spot. And the Flaming Lips are doing their UFO show. Oh. My. God. That is going to be sooooo amazing. But the good times don't stop there--actually, they do, the Lips are closing out the festival on the last night, but you know what I mean--REM, The Cure, Steven Malkmus, The Breeders, Flight of the Conchords, Death Cab for Cutie, Mates of State, The Mars Volta, Built to Spill, and many others. Crazy. It's like a smorgasbord of rock. Well, whiny indie rock, anyway.

Justify

2008-03-04T16:54:00.000-08:00

I may not excel at many things, but I dare you to try and out justify me when it comes to money and/or calories. Like today, for example, I am drinking a beer at 4:55 on a Tuesday for no apparent reason. Seems like a reckless waste of calories, doesn't it? Well, that's because you're not looking at it from my skewed perspective. You see, I worked out at the company gym today and yesterday. "Worked out" is a bit of a stretch, but I did walk briskly on the treadmill for a half hour on both days for a combined calorie loss of 460. And this light beer only has 102 calories in it. So I can have four and they still don't even count.

Of course, the point of working out is to see some improvement and not to break even, but let's be honest--I would be drinking the beer whether or not I had worked out, so breaking even is actually pretty good considering the alternative.

But my powers of justification don't stop at beer consumption. You should see me with money. That may explain why I owe my father $4000 and still managed to convince myself that charging a vacation to Mexico on his credit card was somehow a good idea. Or how I can finance an H&M spree by calling in sick to work--you know, because I won't need transit or lunch money. It's a skill. An art, really.

I went to Ikea twice this weekend.

2008-03-02T17:07:00.000-08:00

I am a bad person. I know. But I really needed a new area rug. And some throw pillows. And a frying pan. And a lint brush. And a cinnamon bun.

What an obnoxious place. Everyone was walking the Ikea-zombie walk--slowly shuffling around in circles while scoping out the latest textile and shelving options. And the screaming kids. And the arguing couples. And the lines. And the noise. And the parking lot filled with morons trying to shove giant flat-packed cardboard boxes into their tiny economy cars.

And the worst part is I'm not too keen on my purchases. Well, the cinnamon bun was pretty good, but the area rug and throw cushions aren't quite tying the room together for me. Perhaps if I go back tomorrow and get some ugly giant "art," that will help.

Argh, have you filed those TOC reports yet, matey?

2008-02-28T16:21:00.000-08:00

Someone in my office likes the Pirates of the Caribbean movies. By which I mean to say, someone in my office really likes the Pirates of the Carribbean movies. There is a cubicle on the other side of the floor I work on that is practically wallpapered with photos and magazine covers of Johnny and his pirate cohorts.

Now, I've seen the first installment in this trilogy (there have been three haven't there?), and I thought Johnny Depp did a good job for what it was. But I certainly never felt inspired to surround myself with images from the movie. I mean, I think Johnny Depp is a great actor, and he seems like he'd be a cool guy, but that's about as far as I'm willing to commit to him. Plus, I don't think the Disney pirate flick should be his legacy. Why couldn't this co-worker throw a couple of Cry Baby, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, or even "21 Jump Street" pics up, too? And I wonder if her/his swashbuckling decorating flair extends out of the office? Does he/she sleep under a Captain Jack Sparrow bed spread, or eat off of Dead Man's Chest dinner sets?

I have no idea who actually populates this cubicle, because nobody is ever sitting in it when I walk by. It's starting to annoy me. I'm not sure what I expect to find. Okay, I know what I hope to find--a dude in a really bad pirate getup hunched over his computer, peering at his sales reports through his one non-eye-patch-covered eye. But I realize that what I'll probably find is an overweight woman in her mid 30s who doesn't even bother to pick the cat hairs off of her cardigan anymore.

But perhaps I shouldn't judge this person. Perhaps I should learn from her. I've really dropped the ball on this cubicle decorating thing. I mean, how are people walking past my workspace going to know which movies I've seen? How rude of me. I'm going to put together a kickass Goonies diorama this weekend that will put her little Johnny pirate display to shame.

Some words and phrases I could do without.

2008-02-26T16:39:00.000-08:00

There are a lot of lovely words and phrases out there. Like Valentine, birthday cake, payday and happy hour. But there are also a lot of really terrible words and phrases. Too many to name, but here's a sampling of some of my (least) favourites.

Beef.
What a gross word. Beef. When you say it, it sounds like a slab of itself being dropped on a counter. And why is it that a cow is a cow when it is alive, but as soon as you kill it it turns into "beef"? Is it just another way to disassociate the dinner from the animal? Now, unlike my better half, I'm no vege-me-tarian--I eat chicken and turkey, and once or twice a year I'll break down and eat a McDonald's cheese burger--but there's just something disturbing about Beef. The way it's placed on display in the supermarket--all bloody and fleshy and shrinkwrapped. Yuck.

Meat lover's.
Not that there is a meat theme to this post, but c'mon, this is a terrible phrase. I think it started out as a Pizza Hut pizza name, but has since become more widely used to describe all sorts of flesh-laden delicacies. Whenever I hear it, I hear it without the apostrophe. Meat lovers. I imagine a group of people with blood dripping from their chins and manic meat lust gleaming in their eyes while they participate in some ritualistic beef orgy. Yum.

Main Street Hipster.
On a less meaty note, this phrase has got to go away. If you live in Vancouver and this phrase doesn't annoy you by now, then you are probably one of the idiots who still use it. Stop. And that means you can't say "Main Street hairstyle" either.

One hundred and ten percent.
Actually, this one doesn't really bother me that much, but Simon hates it--and you know what they say, when you marry someone you marry their semantic pet peeves, too. Yes, they do say that. Shut up.
You can not give one hundred and ten percent. One hundred percent is the most that you can give. It is not possible to give more than the most that there is. If you take a glass that is half full (or half empty, for us pessimists), and fill it until it is 100% full, and then try to pour another 10% in, it won't work. I don't care if you are a professional athlete and think that this is a really clever way of telling people how dedicated you are. One hundred percent is plenty dedicated, so think of some other way to express your prowess.

Carbon Footprint.
Okay, my problem with this one isn't that it is a pretentious, overused buzzword, my problem is that it sounds nice. Carbon Footprint. It's lovely, gentle, poetic even. It makes me think of footprints in the sand on a beach on a lame Hallmark sympathy card. I think if people want to get their environmental point across, they should use a more disgusting phrase than Carbon Footprint. Something like "Carbon Shit Streak" perhaps. Vulgar, I know, but what would you rather diminish? Your carbon footprint or your carbon shit streak? And this more confrontational tact could be taken further. Instead of saying things like: "Should you wish to minimize your carbon footprint, you might consider driving a Prius," environmentalists could say,"If you're so worried about your goddamn carbon shit streak, maybe try getting off your ass and walking to work once in a while, fatty."

I could go on. Oh, could I go on. But you are bored, admit it. And I have to go make dinner. It's Taco Night. Taco Night--that's a pretty terrible phrase. But it's so lame, that I can't help but love it. I heart Taco Night. Wait and see, the "I heart Taco Night" t-shirts will be all the rage with the Main Street Hipsters.

The shame of joy and the joy of shame.

2008-02-24T14:10:00.000-08:00

This will come as a huge surprise to people that know me, given that looking like an idiot is one of the few things I've ever been able to do with any degree of competency--but I am not down with Rock Band. Don't get me wrong, I think Rock Band is fun for other people, and I enjoy watching other people playing it, but I will never participate.

Okay, let me qualify "never." If, say, Simon ever decided to throw away a couple hundred dollars to purchase the game, I would, when I was home alone--or perhaps if Simon was home and I had had enough to drink--probably want to try the drums. I admit it, the drums look pretty cool.

And, perhaps, if I were in the mood for humiliation, I could be coerced into playing guitar while other people were present. After all, there are at least five living witnesses to the painful memories of me playing Guitar Hero. Of course, their living status could change if the memories continue to haunt me for much longer.

But what I will never, ever be able to do, is sing. And not just because I'm a terrible singer. I think terrible singers would be the most fun at a game like Rock Band. And good for any terrible singers that are brave enough to grab the mic and go to town on "Detroit Rock City" in a room full of people. But as much as I admire it, I will never be one of those terrible singers. Not even in my dreams/nightmares. In fact, having to be the Rock Band singer in a room full of people is right up there on my nightmare scale. Higher than showing up for a high school final math exam late, having not studied, and wearing nothing but really ugly running shoes. Higher than being forced into a life of phone solicitation--and not in the "1-900" way, that'd at least be amusing, I'm talking about the type of people who have to do cold-call sales. Higher than being forced to eat Hamburger Helper. Really, really high.

It's not that I enjoy being the stick in the mud, it's just that I have an abundance of shame. I am shame full. And I have no desire to test my boundaries and let loose when it comes to this type of public display. I don't believe people when they tell me that it will be freeing and horizon broadening. I once fell into a bottle of tequila and ended up singing karaoke in a pub in St John's New Foundland, and yeah, it was pretty fun. But the circumstances leading up to that once-in-a-lifetime performance are not likely to be duplicated, and I'm cool with that. Some people seek out the lime light, some people prefer to sit in the shadows drinking lime margaritas. I know which kind of person I am.

Future Travel

2008-02-21T16:53:00.000-08:00

No, not in the Marty McFly sense. I'm getting antsy. Antsy to get the hell out of Dodge. Dodge being the Willingdon Business Park in Burnaby. I can't afford to go any where for a while (besides Mexico in April), so I'm only in the daydreaming/googling phase of planning my next holiday. But it keeps that light glowing at the end of the work-a-day tunnel.

My sister is in England this week, that's just not fair. I bet she's doing it all wrong--spending too much time in Top Shop and not enough in cozy little pubs with names like "The Horse and Pickle" or "The King's Chesterfield". I should be there. I really, really should be there. Eating Galaxy chocolate bars, fish and chips, and some yummy Marks and Spencer's calorie-filled birthday cake. It's always someone's birthday.

But I'm not there, so in the meantime I will attempt to remain sane by planning my holiday for next year. We're thinking sometime between Feb-May, preferably while it's still low season so every place isn't overrun with tourists and our Visa isn't overrun with high-season prices. We'll be going back to Ireland for sure. Simon's extended family that we met last year were really fabulous people, and it's worth going back to the same place for the opportunity to hang out with them again. Although it's a bit painful when we think of all the places we'd like to see, and how limited our options are with only three weeks of holidays a year. I would kill to spend more time in Italy. No exaggeration. Kill. But no one has asked me to kill anyone in exchange for more time in Italy, and I have my doubts that they ever will. Unless I find a way to make some mob connections.

It looks like we'll end up with 6-7 days in Ireland, followed by 2-3 days in Scotland, followed by 4 days in Amsterdam. Kind of lame, I know, it's hardly off the beaten track, but the flights are cheap and the beer is cold--well, warm, it is the UK/Europe after all. If we aren't blessed/cursed with a baby by the next year I think we'll try Eastern Europe. Or, if our lottery investments finally pay off, we'll go everywhere. Everywhere. Professional holiday makers. Now there's a daydream to get me through work tomorrow.

Begging for better grammar.

2008-02-20T21:56:00.000-08:00

A young man was panhandling in front of the Broadway Skytrain station today. For those of you familiar with the Broadway Skytrain station, this is hardly a revelation. What surprised me, however, was the dude's choice of begging signage. On a piece of cardboard on the pavement in front of him, he had written: Supper fund. Enything help's.

I wasn't sure if I should give him a dollar or a copy of Strunk & White. I don't mean to be a bitch, I realize he has bigger problems than spelling and the misuse of a possessive apostrophe--bigger problems like the fact that he was sleeping on a blanket next to an A&W. Perhaps I should have offered to tutor him, or to proofread his cardboard scraps, or to give him enough change so that he could eat (without having to spend even more time on the sidewalk being judged by ignorant grammar elitists). But, you know, my bus came.

Back-breaking Work

2008-02-18T13:29:00.000-08:00

I'm not at work today. I'm at home. On the living room floor. Snacking on muscle relaxants, watching trash tv, and creating a permanent heating-pad induced red-striped pattern on my back. It sucks being sick when you take a sick day. Sick days are for trips to the beach or the pub.

And the worst part of all, is that it's my workplace that is keeping me away from my workplace. My back was perfectly happy until I forced it to remain in an awkward position for hours on end in a chair that won't bend back and a desk that is too low. Between the sharp, stabbing neck and upper back pains, and the twisted, throbbing lower back aches--I just couldn't face another eight hours in that torture chamber today. I bought a back-pain yoga DVD that seems to help a little, but I know I have to go back to work tomorrow. Yuck.

Are backs that important? I was thinking of having mine removed. It takes up so much space anyway. Or maybe I could get a brace and sit on a Swedish ergonomic ball instead of my company-supplied spine destroyer. That'd be cool. I wouldn't just be the weird new girl that doesn't talk. I'd be the weird new girl with the back brace who sits on a big ball and doesn't talk. Cool.

Explosive Mexican Food

2008-02-13T18:59:00.000-08:00

And not in the travellers' diarrhea sense of the phrase. This morning at 2:30 someone blew up a Taco Delmar a couple of blocks from our house. The explosion also levelled the Starbucks next door--but I imagine ten more will crop up in its place before the weekend. The blast shook our building and woke up Simon. And freaked out our dog Stella who used it as an excuse to sneek up on our bed and under the covers. Thanks to the sleeping pills and ear plugs I have enlisted to combat Simon's snoring, I slept through the whole thing. It's quite a testament to my choice of sleeping pills and ear plugs. Although experience tells me Simon's snoring has the potential to exceed the most sonic of booms.

Apparently the wakeup call was the work of an arsonist. The evening news was hinting at an insurance scam, with a story about how Taco Delmar franchise owners are upset and the company has been plagued with problems blah blah blah. Nobody was hurt, other than the bleary-eyed Starbucks' customers who woke up to find their Frappucino pusher blown to bits.

Last Valentine's Day I was in Rome, this Valentine's Day I'll be in Burnaby.

2008-02-11T20:13:00.000-08:00

Is that not the saddest sentence you've ever read? Seriously, it's right up there with "Truck load of orphans die while swerving to avoid pile of burning puppies." Maybe it's even more sad than the orphan-puppy sentence, I don't know, I'm not an authority on sad sentences.

No offense to Burnaby, it's a fine place, I mean they've got...Joe Sakic...and Metrotown Mall, but they're no Rome. And instead of eating Pizza Napoletana and sipping (I use the term loosely) red wine in the shadow of the Pantheon like I did last Valentine's, I will be sitting at my desk in the beautiful and historical Willingdon Business Park pushing information around in a computer. Ouch. But whatever, when in Burnaby, after all.

In Concert

2008-02-10T16:00:00.000-08:00

My ten-year-old niece will be attending her first concert on Friday. She's going with her mother to the Orpheum to see some dude named Mika. Not my cup of tea, this Mika fella, but my niece is very pumped up. When her mom told her about the ($100!)tickets she bought for the show, my niece's first response (after her unintelligible squeals and hoots died down) was to ask if she could buy a David Bowie wig to wear to the show. How many ten-year-old girls even know who David Bowie is, let alone want to emulate his hair style? And why did her little mind go there as a first response to being invited to a concert? She's such a great little freak in the making.

Not that I can criticize. I remember my first concert experience, and while I might not have shown up looking like Ziggy Stardust, I still acted like a bit of a freak. It was INXS in Saskatoon, I think I was maybe 13. It was a huuuge deal. My sister and her friends already had tickets, but I didn't have the babysitting funds to cover the 30-dollar ticket cost. Then, a couple of days before the big show, my Dad offered to pay for me. So I recruited by best friend Karen Bradley, and off we went.

Being new to the concert scene, I was very concerned about behaving properly. The only exposure I had had to concert footage was via Friday Night Videos (Much Music wasn't included in basic cable back in those days), so my research had been limited. I knew you were supposed to shake your fist in the air and yell "Woooo!" a lot, but I wasn't exactly sure when you were supposed to do these things. After much internal debate, I figured I'd just let it happen organically, or take my cues from the many 17-year-old girls with large flammable hair.

Unfortunately, I didn't take all my cues from the many 17-year-old girls with large flammable hair. Like when they all remained in or near their seats after INXS said good night and left the stage. I figured, since there were so many people there, the best course of action would be to make a b-line for the exit to be first in line for the shuttle buses back to the Saskatoon suburbs. So, Karen Bradley and I took off, and wouldn't you know it, we were first in line for the bus. Actually, we were the only ones in line, which seemed odd. And then the sounds of Australian rock trickled out to meet us in our transit line of two. I looked at Karen in confusion, if the concert was over what was that music? We decided it was just canned music used to play the people out as they grabbed their coats and souvenir t-shirts and made their way to meet us at the bus loop. But then the canned music started saying things like "Thank you, Saskatoon!", which seemed like too much of a coincidence. And then the music stopped. And then started again. And then stopped. And then started again. Turns out we missed three encores. In all of my concert research, I had not come across any references to the phenomenon of the encore.

Eventually, the hoards of acid-wash clad, heavily eye-linered teens began to spill out of Sask Place (which I believe is now called the Credit Union Centre), excitedly exclaiming about the awesome encores. The awesome encores that everyone except Karen Bradley and I had seen. The awesome encores that my sister and her friends had seen. It was quite crushing. I believe I went home and listened to "Never Tear Us Apart" over, and over again.

But, despite the devastation of missing the best part of the show, it was still a huge night for me. One that I would never forget. And now my little niece, whom I used to dance around with to "Teenage Riot" when she was a giggling, adoring two year old, is going to her first concert. So if she wants to wear a David Bowie wig, she should wear a David Bowie wig. She only gets to attend her first concert once, and I wouldn't want her to look back in 24 years and have her lack of David Bowie wig cause her the regret that my lack of encore attendance has caused me.

Wipe Out

2008-02-08T19:59:00.000-08:00

Do you know what isn't cool? Falling down in public. Oh, it's plenty funny--if you're not the faller--but it is definitely not cool. It's difficult to look graceful and nonchalant as you are madly grasping a display of organic olive oil (stacked precariously and housed in glass bottles) and watching your pizza sauce and Tofurkey skid across the aisle as you do the splits in the produce department of the IGA on Main St.

As you may have guessed, I am speaking from experience. Very embarrassing experience. There I was picking up dinner supplies after work, I stopped to grab a sugar-free chocolate bar as a Friday present to myself, when I saw a semi-elderly lady heading towards the cashier. In my defense, she wasn't like a poor little old lady with a walker or anything, she was just a silver fox in her mid-sixties and completely competent and functional. But the point is, she was heading towards the cashier, and she had a lot more items in her cart than I had in my little basket. So I took a quick assessment of the physics of the situation, and figured if I put the pedal to the metal I could totally beat her to the register. As I was thinking this a strange feeling came over me. The feeling of my right foot flying in the air as I slipped on a wet spot somewhere between the bananas and the English cucumbers. I'll leave the phallic symbolism of this location to the Freudians in the his-ouse, all I know is that the next thing I remember was my flailing arms grabbing at a large display of olive oil that shook and teetered loudly drawing the attention of everyone in a ten-aisle radius.

Once the slow-motion falling scene came to a sudden and noisy finish, I looked up to see the silver fox grasping my arm with genuine concern on her face and asking if I was okay. Then there was some smelly guy with a parka exclaiming over the giant skid mark my fancy new black patent Franco Sarto boot left on the produce department floor. And then the mustachioed manager in his short-sleeved, pit-stained dress shirt and company-issued tie was rushing toward me to make sure I was alive/not going to sue. It took every bit of strength and lack of shame I could muster to brush myself off, leap to my feet, claim that I was fine, and make my way to the cashier (who was now stalled by a price check that meant I would spend the next ten minutes standing in line while I listened to people in the adjacent produce department talking about "the girl that fell"), when what I really wanted to do was run out of the store and not look back.

Now I've got a bruised knee to match my bruised ego. And it turns out the spelt/cornbread veggie pepperoni pizzas I almost died for, were actually quite gross. But now I have wine. Perhaps this Friday is salvageable after all.

I have nothing to say. But I'll say it anyway.

2008-02-06T17:56:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, I blogged everyday. Sometimes twice a day. But that was in the beginning. When our blogging relationship was still new and exciting. Then I got lazy. I took you for granted. I only blogged when I was in the mood, and even then my heart wasn't in it. But no more. I'm recommitting to you. I'm going to blog with you at least four times a week. I'm going to blog you like I mean it. And I do mean it. I really do mean it.

Unfortunately, I don't really have anything interesting to blog about. But I won't let a little thing like "content" hold me back. I will blog about what's happening on Coronation Street, what I had for lunch, or even about current political events (okay, you'll probably see more of the first two than that last one). My point is that I will blog. I will blog so often that you will get bored and stop reading. But still I will blog. Because I am a blogger. I am a blogger, goddammit.

Okay, what now? I'm getting kind of bored already. Hey, I told you content wasn't going to be king around here. Oooh, I'm going to Mexico in April. So there's that. And I sat across from a large angry man on the bus today who kept yelling at people who tried to sit beside him. Apparently he recently had surgery that involved a large incision in his stomach. Which somehow meant nobody could sit beside him. The bus was packed, and people kept trying to sit next to him and he kept freaking out. I love buses. Oh, and I saw There Will Be Blood a couple of weeks ago, and I'm still in awe of it. Daniel Day Lewis was perfect.

Let's see, what else? I started a new job in January. It's okay. I'm not good at being the new person, though. I miss my old co-workers, with whom I could chat and go for breaks. Now I sit in my cubicle all day and rarely talk to anyone. I think I'm going to have to bring out the big guns and make some heart-shaped cookies to bribe my new co-workers into liking me. Who wouldn't like me? It's just ridiculous.

Inside the Non-Actor's Studio

2008-01-10T16:43:00.000-08:00

Just because I haven't appeared in Lethal Weapon 2 doesn't mean I can't answer the quiz too...

1. What is your favourite word?
Valentine.
2. What is your least favourite word?
Ocular jelly. Or spinal chord.
3. What turns you on?
Clive Owe... I mean, my husband. And the album Dummy by Portishead.
4. What turns you off?
Cruelty. And back hair.
5. What sound or noise do you love?
Televised golf coverage.
6. What sound or noise do you hate?
Someone rubbing their socked feet together.
7. What profession, other than your own, would you like to attempt?
Pub owner and landlady in a little Irish village.
8. What profession, other than your own, would you not like to participate in?
Telephone sales.
9. What is your favourite curse word?
It rhymes with "other trucker".
10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
"C'mon in, Simon's waiting at the bar for you." I suppose that would be bad news for Simon if I die first...

I, Cog.

2008-01-08T20:29:00.000-08:00

I am a cog. A cog. A cog is what I am.

Had someone asked me, when I was a wee child dividing my days between collecting smurf stickers and memorizing Duran Duran lyrics, what it was that I wanted to be when I grew up--I would not have said a cog. I might have said a teacher, or a photographer, or a writer--depending on what struck my fancy that week, but I would not have said a cog. I would not have said that I hoped to one day be a faceless, irrelevant, little part of a faceless, irrelevant, big company...but then I also would not have said that I would be 34, childless, in debt, and likely to enjoy a few good years before being shipped off to a government-run nursing home where I would spend my final days poor and alone and being beaten by sadistic, minimum-wage earning "caregivers." So, yeah, what did I know as a kid?

But you know what's even worse than the occasional waft of panic in regards to being a useless, doomed cog? The fact that those occasional wafts are only occasional wafts. The fact that I've grown to accept my cogginess--that I sometimes even bask in the safety of my own coggy mediocrity. I don't have to try too hard. I don't have to
take risks. I have good health benefits. I have a comfortable daily standard of living--I'll never own a house, but I'll never be homeless. And I can buy fancy shoes and go out for dinner pretty much whenever I want. So being a cog ain't all bad.

And, of course, the one thing that puts my lame cog-nastic life in perspective, is that I have something not all the other cogs have (something that many non cogs don't even have, for that matter). I have a wonderful husband whom I love more than I ever thought possible (who knew a little nothing cog like me had such a capacity for love?). And having lived 29 years without loving and being loved by this wonderful person, I know how lucky I am. I know that this one good thing is worth soooo much more than the other things I long for but will never have because of my cog status. And I wouldn't change a thing.

I am a cog. Yeah, I'm a cog. Whatever, it could be worse. It has been.

I'll be home for Christmas (or in Regina, anyway)

2007-12-20T22:22:00.000-08:00

Dentist willing, I'll be heading out to sunny Regina, Saskatchewan on Saturday. I'm still getting my ass kicked by this dental-surgery recovery, but I go in for a follow-up appointment tomorrow and they'll let me know if I'm able to fly. Of course, word on the prairies has it that my mom has gone off her anti-depressants just in time for the holidays, so the throbbing jolts of nerve pain in the left side of my face will probably pale in comparison to the torture I'm in for over the next week. And then there's the weather. The freezing, crazy Saskatchewan weather. And I can't even do the fun winter things like sledding and skating because apparently if I fall my vulnerable jaw will explode or something. And then I come back and have to start a brand new job. So, things are awesome. So awesome.

On the bright side, I will get to see my family, and meet my latest nephew for the first time, and my brother's new dog, and there will be wine. Whatever, it'll be like every other family Christmas: people will fight and be petty and complain and get stressed, and then when it's almost over we'll all be sad and wish we had been nicer and swear that next time we'll be the bigger person and not sink to the other peoples' levels and just do whatever it takes to have the best Christmas ever.

In the meantime, I am going to spend the last hour and a half of my birthday sitting alone on the couch with a heating pad strapped to my head, enjoying a cocktail of painkillers and beer.

Not so super, but kind of awesome, even though I'm shaking and nauseous dental update.

2007-12-13T13:08:00.000-08:00

Well Simon got out his red-tape machete and managed to get the insurance company to agree to paying 60% of the surgery. Then he talked to the people at my dentist's office. Here's the fun part: they told him I was having all four teeth pulled. Yes, even scary number four. Apparently my hotshot dentist specializes in complicated extractions and I guess he wants to add my freak tooth to his resume. Either that or he knows he'll never get me back in that chair again and doesn't want me to suffer through a lifetime of pain.

I wish there was a God so I could get people to pray for me. Or, failing that, I wish the goddamned courier I'm waiting for would get here so I could go out and buy a gallon of wine.

Super Awesome Dental Update

2007-12-13T11:33:00.000-08:00

So, no, the dentist did not call and cancel again. This time, the good news came from the insurance people. Turns out, they aren't going to cover the wisdom tooth extractions after all. Even though we were told they would cover oral surgeries in the second year of our coverage, which is why I waited and endured an additional four months of pain. Now they tell us they meant all oral surgeries except wisdom teeth. Bastards. Nothing like a surprise 1200-dollar medical bill two weeks before Christmas.

So, medical won't cover this surgery, and our expensive enhanced dental insurance won't cover this surgery. It must be because I'm just having the surgery for fun and not because I really need it. God damn. I should move to France. Did you see Sicko? Those French folks get all sorts of fabulous benefits. Plus they have better wine than us. Ice wine? Are you kidding me? That stuff sucks.

Surgery Eve

2007-12-13T10:08:00.000-08:00

Twas the night before oral surgery and all through the house, Amanda was stirring and eating and watching "The Price is Right" and freaking out.

I can't believe it has finally come down to this. Tomorrow morning at 9am (barring any more cancellations from the Coal Harbour Dental Group), I will be drugged up and strapped into a chair while some dude puts big ol' holes in my head. Will there be three holes or four holes? Not sure yet. There should be four, but that fourth one's a real sonofabitch. And now I'm told, even without yanking the evil fourth tooth from its bone-encased, nerve-wrapped home, there is a chance that I may not be able to fly to Regina for Christmas. Something about excruciating sinus explosions and dry sockets or something. But they are being kind enough to drag me in on my birthday (Dec 20) to gauge my recovery and let me know if I'll be good to go or not. If they don't give me the go ahead, not only will I be a painful mess, but I'll also have to call my mother two days before we were scheduled to come home for the holidays and let her know that we won't be there. That should be almost as fun as the surgery itself.

Okay, deep breath, calm blue ocean and all that. This time tomorrow it will all be over--except for the painful recovery, which, when I think about it, is really the bad part. Although, despite my fears of sounding like a drug-seeking junkie, I did manage to convince my dentist to prescribe me something stronger than Tylenol 3s. Hello percocet. Mmmmmmmm...percocet.

The things I learned in Vegas.

2007-12-04T14:51:00.000-08:00

Last night we returned from a weekend in Vegas. It was my first time. It was pretty cool. Here's what I learned.

Do not buy new red patent peep-toe pumps and try to break them in by walking the Vegas strip. This will result in massive foot trauma. To paraphrase Shakespeare: all the bandaids of Arabia will not sweeten my little feet.

Apparently you don't have to be young and hot to be a cocktail waitress, especially at Slots of Fun. You just need to have a voice damaged by years of smoking, over processed hair, a willingness to wear a tiny outfit made of non-natural fibres, and a look in your eyes that says you have given up the will to escape your casino prison.

Simon is not the only dork that can barely restrain himself from reenacting scenes from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas while visiting Circus Circus.

If I ever had to work in a Las Vegas buffet, I would completely lose any respect I ever had for human beings.

Table games are a lot more fun than slot machines, and your money lasts longer, but nothing beats that moment when the slot machine yells "Wheel of Fortune" and you get that free spin and you don't know where it will stop and you start planning your tropical vacation and...then it stops on 20 credits and you lose everything about two minutes later. But at least the margaritas are only $1.

Time has no meaning in Vegas. You can get breakfast at 3am or 10pm or any time in between. You can get a gin and tonic at 7am--without anyone raising an eyebrow. You can shop, gamble, ride a rollercoaster, get a massage, go ice skating, go dancing, check out some tigers, eat a giant plate of ribs...whatever you want whenever you want. The only problem is trying to remember to sleep.

Do not take a card from the guys on the street wearing a t-shirt that says "Girls to you in 20 minutes." Unless you want a girl in 20 minutes, I suppose. I wonder if it's like Dominoes and you get her for free if she doesn't arrive on time? I'll have to test that next time.

The desperate looking people sitting at the slot machines at 6am when you are leaving for the airport are not early risers.

Just because it has palm trees and sand and stuff does not mean Vegas is a tropical destination. It was colder there at night than it is in Vancouver. Luckily the copious amounts of free/cheap alcohol help to numb the cold.

A lot of people are willing to spend a lot of money to see Celine Dion. Seriously. They even buy all sorts of crap with her crappy face all over it in her crappy gift shop in Caesars.

My biggest flaw? That I'm flawless.

2007-11-26T10:23:00.000-08:00

So, I've got the second interview scheduled. And I've got the grey pinstriped suit. Now I just need to figure out what brand of smoke to blow up the interviewer's ass.

I have inside information that I will be asked the lame "biggest strength and flaw" questions. Why do people do this? I would never ask those questions if I were interviewing. Everyone always answers with those stupid, phony "I work too hard" or "I'm too demanding of myself" type answers. So what's the point? Is it just to see if the candidate is willing to play the game? Are they actually hoping to catch someone being honest? Should I tell them that I get bored very easily and tend to spend way too much company time on facebook? That I'm incapable of using the telephone? That my biggest strength is that I'm weak and can be easily manipulated by my employer?

If anyone has any suggestions, I'd appreciate the help. The interview is Wednesday morning, so that gives me a couple of days to come up with new ways to say "I'm a workaholic", I "tend to care too much about my co-workers" and I have a bad habit of "coming in early and staying late, without billing the company for my additional hours."

I'm Worried.

2007-11-20T13:11:00.001-08:00

I'm worried that if I decide not to pull my problem wisdom tooth, that I will be in store for a sleepless life of constant pain.
I'm worried that if I do decide to pull my problem wisdom tooth, that I will end up with a numb droopy face like Joey Buttafouco's wife.
I'm worried about trying to find a job.
I'm worried about finding a job.
I'm worried about not finding a job.
I'm worried about flying.
I'm worried about driving (or, passengering, in my case).
I'm worried that my husband's progressively aggressive snoring will force me to stab him with a pen like that woman I read about on the Internet.
I'm worried that I'll never see Italy again.
I'm worried that I will one day regret my decision not to have children.
I'm worried that if I do decide to have a kid, that I will one day regret that even more.
I'm worried that moving to Halifax is becoming more and more of a pipe dream each year.
I'm worried about dying.
I'm worried about living.
I'm worried that my husband hates his job.
I'm worried that the Hollywood Writer's Strike will somehow interfere with the upcoming season of Lost.
I'm worried that all the Diet Pepsi I drink is slowly turning into a Super Big Gulp-sized tumour in my body somewhere.
I'm worried that all this worrying means I'm just like my mother.

This new leaf is getting dizzy.

2007-11-08T15:34:00.000-08:00

You know, from being turned over so many times.

But this time is different. The guy on Oprah said so. Dr Oz. Like Dr Oz would lie to me. Why would he lie to me? Just so I would blindly order his book like every other idiot who watched the Oprah show that day, thereby adding to the heap of riches he started to accumulate with the first book he hawked on Oprah (that I also bought)? Unlikely.

I haven't actually got the book yet, it should be here tomorrow. But I have been focusing on exercise and a healthy diet for the past week. The new book is called You: Staying Young, and it will apparently get me up to speed on all sorts of top-secret tricks that will preserve my aging body well into the next century. Or something like that. I imagine it contains such unique pearls of wisdom as: eat less fat, move more, avoid stress, go to the doctor. And I can only hope it is written in the same condescending, pop-culture reference ridden style as the last book, You: On a Diet.

So why do I keep giving these people money? I don't know. Perhaps you could check with the Windsor Pilates people I have financed, or the Atkins sugar-free products manufacturers I've been bankrolling, or even, if you go way back, to Suzanne Summers for the Thigh Master she convinced me to shell out for in the early 90s. But I imagine they'll only be able to tell you what we all already know. The reason the diet industry helps people to lose more money than weight, is that they're not just selling books, videos, and cheap plastic miracle machines--they're also selling hope. A brand new shining hope. This time it will work. This time I'll look like Heidi Klum with minimal effort and time invested. No, I'll look better than Heidi Klum. I'll make Heidi Klum look like the hideous, fat, Seal-loving cow she really is.

But I don't want to sound cynical. Because hope is a good thing. And I've already lost the getting-laid off-and-gorging-on-Halloween-candy weight I put on recently. Who knows? Maybe this time I'll keep it up. I suppose it won't hurt that my upcoming wisdom-teeth removal will put me on a forced liquid diet for a week. Not that it's a fair trade, but I'll take what I can get.

Survivor's Guilt

2007-10-31T09:27:00.000-07:00

I've been experiencing my own warped version of survivor's guilt. I'm the one that died--in that I got laid off--so my husband should be the one feeling survivor's guilt--in that he still has his dependable, well-paying job. But that's not the case. Because, despite the reason, I'm the one that gets to stay home and Simon's the one that has to go to work. And his work, while dependable and well-paying, is also stressful and misery-inducing. Especially for the next few weeks while he is on his own during the busiest time of year. Because of this, I can't take any enjoyment in my current unemployment.

Which kind of sucks, because if I'm up and working soon, this week or so may be my only opportunity to wallow in free time for a long while. But wallowing isn't as enjoyable when you have to see your better half suffering. Especially when you know the one thing that could stop his suffering is something that you have, or in my case of unemployment, don't have. Maybe this Christmas will be like "The Gift of the Magi", except instead of a comb Simon will give me a new job, and instead of a watch chain, I'll get Simon fired. Okay, so it won't be exactly like "Gift of the Magi". Close enough.

The Summer of George...er, I mean, The Winter of Amanda

2007-10-30T11:50:00.000-07:00

Okay, I'm unemployed. Crazy.

I've applied for two jobs so far, one of which might actually show some promise (in that I'm qualified for it and it has better pay/benefits than my previous job). I've also applied for EI just in case the job search doesn't pan out. And it turns out my now-former employer didn't shaft us as badly as I had originally thought--they threw in an additional cheque, so I'm not technically going to feel the effects of unemployment on my finances until mid December.

In the meantime, I have been given the gift of time and self reflection and all that. I have the opportunity to regroup and focus on my future. Losing my job right now could be the turning point that I one day look back on with gratitude. This is a brave new world, and it's my oyster. I feel energized and excited (and full of anxiety). This is the start of the new me. My life begins today. The Future is Now. Or if not now, then for sure right after the Colbert Report and Days of Our Lives. Or possibly after I take a nap.

Redundancy rules.

2007-10-28T17:02:00.000-07:00

So, I was laid off on Thursday. It was weird. One minute I was eating lunch at my desk and googling Mexican vacation packages, and the next minute I was being told the Americans that bought us out have decided not to renew our contract and the editorial department is being let go. It was a shock. Especially since we just bought a new car for which we haven't even made the first payment. And I've got oral surgery, a prepaid weekend trip to Vegas, and a Christmas vacation in Saskatchewan on the horizon.

The blow was supposed to be softened by telling us we were being paid out for the month of November even though our last day would be this coming Monday. Which seemed nice enough at first, until I realized that the first two weeks worth of that pay we had already earned, and the last two weeks are required by law since they didn't give us two week's notice before kicking us to the curb shortly before Christmas. But I guess it's cool that they aren't making us work in the office for those two weeks. Even if it is just because they're afraid we'll slack off or steal their pens or something.

Anyway, once the initial surprise wore off I realized that it's probably a good thing. There was no room to grow in that company whatsoever, so I would have just stayed there indefinitely because it was the easy thing to do. There were good things about the job--not the complete lack of medical or dental benefits, or the no sick days and limited vacation time, or the crazy yelling arguments that would take place with the loons that worked in the sales department, or the absence of creative opportunities--but there were good things. Like the people in the editorial department. They were awesome and a pleasure to work with. Especially my boss, which probably isn't something a lot of people can say. And the flexibility--oh God how I'll miss my home days, and the "arrive some time around 9, leave some time around 4" mentality. And the way I could turn weekends into long weekends whenever I needed to. Of course all of those perks are directly connected to having a great boss. Sigh. It was good while it lasted.

I was kind of getting used to, and excited about, the prospect of collecting EI and taking the winter off. Sleeping in, doing pilates, baking cookies...oh, it was gonna be sweet. But, (un)fortunately I've got a line on a potential job already. If all goes well, I may be interviewing for it this week. It comes with more money, more growth potential, full benefits, three weeks vacation, an on-site gym, and an office in Halifax (which could mean the potential of a future transfer, fingers crossed). It's not in a convenient location, and it probably involves more actual work and less time spent drinking Diet Coke and playing on the H&M site than my previous job, but I guess those are the sacrifices that adults make.

Yuck. Interviews. Being the new person. Telling a new employer that I've got trips and surgeries booked already. Good times. Man, being an adult can really suck sometimes.

Pretend

2007-10-20T17:05:00.000-07:00

Tonight we are going to an Irish pub. An Irish pub in Vancouver, that is. So it's actually a Vancouver pub dressing up like an Irish pub. I'm hoping it won't be lame and phony feeling. I'm hoping it will be quaint and lovely and fun. I'm hoping the Guinness will flow freely and fiddle music will abound. I'm hoping we don't spend too much money, mostly because of our impromptu spending party at H&M today. It's a pub we've never been to, and hadn't even known about until I noticed it about a week ago. It has a terrible, cheesy name, "Johnny Fox's Irish Snug", but it actually appeared to have an air of authenticity about it. Small, dark, lots of wood and such. I've read a couple of reviews online and people seem to have good things to say about it. We'll see. I'm going to pretend we're back in Ireland, passing through the charming little villages and relieving them of their beer and carb-laden fried foods.

Oh, and on the subject of pretend, I've got a pretend wedding night to prepare for. We're going to Vegas in a few weeks and I've decided to make the most of it and play bride for the night. I've still got the dress, I might as well get some use out of it. And who knows, if Simon loses our savings at the craps tables, at least I'll be dressed for it when I'm forced to run away and exchange vows with some wealthy Texan.

...A Neeeeew Car!

2007-10-02T08:36:00.000-07:00

You know how on the Price is Right, you could always sense when the prize was about to be a new car? There'd be that slight pause after Bob said something like, "Look what we have for you today" and pointed at the glittery fold-away stage screen, and then the shiny new car would be revealed and the contestant would jump and squeal and kiss Bob on the cheek and look out beseechingly to the person/people in the audience that he/she had come with? Well, apparently, in real life the new car-getting process isn't quite as glamorous. At least there's less jumping around in self-Bedazzled sweatshirts.

We are in the process of buying our first non-piece-of-shit car. Perhaps something made after the Reagan administration. Something that doesn't leak or squeak or stop moving for no apparent reason. It's cool, I mean, I'm no enemy of shopping, but it's scary, too. The only thing I've ever paid more than 20,000 dollars for was my education--and technically, I haven't actually "paid" for that. But they can't repo my education, I don't think. Unless there's something they can do with lasers... A car, however, is a different story.

After buckets of research, several visits to dealerships, and some memorable interactions with various blatantly cliched car salesmen (I use the gender-specific terminology because these guys were sooo "car salesmen" in the classic sense of the word), we have decided what we want. A 2008 Versa hatchback, with the upgrade to the automatic transmission, air conditioning, power locks/brakes, keyless entry, metallic Blueberry paint...etc. Now we just have to take the leap. I've been contacting all the Nissan dealerships and trying to get them into a bidding war, which isn't easy considering this vehicle is very popular and has a low profit margin for the dealers, but that's what my internet research told me to do, so I'm doing it. It's paid off a little, I do have one dude who sent me an email filled with car salesman catch phrases like "lowest price in town", "beat all other quotes", and "why pay more somewhere else?," but I can't get him to commit to an actual number without going to see him, because he says his "prices are so low that Nissan won't let him quote them over the phone or email." Nice try. I hope he'll give me a good deal on the undercoating, too.

Perhaps buying a car at all is a lame thing to do in this era of envirofashion and Al Gore's melting ice caps (I had a Tim Hortons' Ice Capp melt on me once, not a pretty sight), but I can come to terms with it. It's not like we're planning to drive around all day long, laughing maniacally and leaving a trail of baby seal roadkills in our wake, we just want a nice, fuel-efficient, safe car to get us from point A to point B. And occasionally, on weekends, point C. Let's face it, we're never going to own a home, or a kid, or a Marc Jacobs pea coat, so this may be our one chance to be consumers in the grand sense.

Wayne Coyne is the Wizard of Oz

2007-09-21T21:26:00.001-07:00

Except you can't help but pay rapt attention to the man behind this curtain. The Flaming Lips show on Tuesday was soooooo good. The confetti cannons, the dancing Santas and Aliens, the huge balloons, the super heroes, Wayne Coyne scrambling over the crowd inside of a giant clear hamsterball...oh yeah, and the music. The fabulous, inspiring, huge, brilliant music.

When the show was moved from the Orpheum to the Malkin Bowl I was a little nervous. When it started raining three hours before the show I was very nervous. But once I'd had seven rounds at the pub and the weather cleared and the Lips took the stage, I wasn't nervous at all. I was very, very happy. And when they played "Do You Realize" and the sky filled with yellow confetti and balloons and everyone sang along, I was extremely grateful that the show had been moved and that I hadn't cheaped out and cashed in my tickets.

Oh, and I saw David Cross as part of the Comedy Deathray show at the Commodore last night. Not so memorable. Some good moments, but overall nothing to right home about. The beer was expensive, too. And my boss came and got food poisoning from the prawns she ordered. So don't order the prawns.

Okay, I'm going to continue my quest for fire now. I bought a firelog to accompany my bottle of wine in celebration of the new cool weather tonight, but I haven't been able to find anything to light it with. It hadn't occurred to me that now that we are non-smokers we don't have any firestarters on hand. I used to have lighters and matches stashed all over the joint. Hmmm, perhaps I could light a napkin on the stove and then run upstairs with it to light the fire...that sounds safe.

Three Things.

2007-09-14T20:46:00.000-07:00

It's Friday night, so naturally I am watching What Not to Wear, drinking light beer, and making a giant papier mache rabbit head. The papier mache is a prototype for my Halloween costume as one of David Lynch's rabbit head people (from Inland Empire and his website), I have no excuse for the light beer.

But, as I am sitting here drinking, viewing, and mache-ing, I figured I might as well take my multi-tasking to another level and do a little blogging as well. But what should I blog about? I could blog about how I may be postponing my oral surgery yet again because it turns out my dental insurance will cover 80% of it if I wait till Dec 1st; I could blog about how I went to H&M today and fell in lust with their latest collection of fall/winter coats; I suppose I could even blog about how my sister got some great new high-paying corporate job with three-weeks paid vacation and full benefits...but I don't feel like blogging about that stuff. So I'll just pick three other things.

1. Because of the civic strike The Flaming Lips show is being moved from the Orpheum to the Malkin Bowl.
I want to be annoyed about this, because I don't like my plans being changed on me with only a few days notice, but the Malkin Bowl is a waaay better venue for the Lips' awesome live show. The last time I saw them was at an outdoor show, and it was pure magic. So I guess I should thank the strikers, even if the lazy bastards are responsible for the growing mountains of garbage throughout the city over the past three months.

2. David Cross!
Yippee, I get to see David Cross at the Comedy Death Ray show on Thursday. If you haven't heard his CD Shut Up You Fucking Baby!, you really have to. So funny. And ruthless. I can't wait.

3. Gobble Gobble.
My mom is coming to Vancouver for two weeks. Semi against her will. My sister has to go out of town "on business" (how grown up), so my mom has been enlisted to come and babysit. Which means for the first time in 35 years my mother will not be making a big family Thanksgiving dinner. Personally, I'd be grateful, but for some reason my mother is bummed. Which means I will have to be the dutiful daughter and pretend like I care about Thanksgiving and let her make a turkey for me and stuff. Good times. Oh my God, the biggest skank is on What Not to Wear right now, I really need to devote more attention to it...

Friday, Sept 21st, 11a.m.

2007-09-06T14:43:00.000-07:00

While you're sitting at your desks, or looking into the eyes of a loved one, or walking in the park, or watching Cheers re-runs on TV, please think of me at that time. Think of how little, high-speed saws are slicing through my gums and bone, think of how my giant, crooked wisdom teeth are being twisted and pried from my unaccommodating 33-year-old jawbone, think of the drool and the blood, think of the bruising and the swelling, think of the massive debt building up on my Visa, think of the drugs...no, don't think of the drugs, I don't want you to minimize my suffering. This is it, I'm doing it. Finally. So, if I don't survive the surgery, or if I jump out of the car and off the Granville Bridge on the way to the surgery, or if a nerve is severed and my face is all numb and saggy and I get TMJ and can't open my mouth...well, I just want you all to know it was nice knowing you. Say a prayer for me. Okay, maybe not a prayer, but a toast, at least.

Getting from here to there.

2007-09-06T10:40:00.000-07:00

So, it's 10:42am. I've been sitting around since 8am trying to work up the gumption to call the dentist and do this thing. In November it will be two years since I was told these bastards needed to come out of my face. In December, it will have been one year since I was told that because I waited so long, one of the impacted wisdom teeth can no longer safely be removed so I will need to leave it in and have it x-rayed every couple of years to make sure no cysts or tumours have developed. By tomorrow, it will have been one week since I've started to get weird "zaps" of pain in one of my molars (which already appears to be more filling than actual tooth). So, yeah, it's time. So I just need to pick up the phone and make the appointment. After two years of pain and stress, a one-hour surgery will make it all go away. Except of course for the one that can't come out. And the tooth that may need a root canal or god knows what. And then there's the recovery, the dry sockets, the no drinking for two weeks, the gaping holes in my gums....
10:53. Okay, I'll take a break, drink some diet rootbeer, give it some more thought and then I'll call.

Bumbershoot!

2007-09-03T18:17:00.000-07:00

Photos: 1. Rollercoaster at Seattle Center 2. Jonathan Ames 3. Aquaduct 4. Seaweed

In honour of the holiday, I have abstained from labour today. It wasn't easy, but sacrifice is its own reward.

We spent Fri/Sat/Sun in Seattle for Bumbershoot. It was pretty fabulous. There weren't really any big musical draws this year (for me, anyway) but I did get to see Jonathan Ames and Dan Kennedy in a storytelling performance that kicked ass.

And Aquaduct was great fun. And Magnolia Electric Co. were spot on. And Damien Jurado and Ian Ball were part of an interesting panel on Nick Drake. And Apples in Stereo looked old and one of them wore a space suit. And Simon made me go to see Seaweed after 12 hours on my feet, and their drunken meathead fans were jumping up and down and taking off their shirts and some chick stepped on my foot three times...so that was fun.

Let's see, what else? Simon sucked the beer gardens dry and I ate more than my fill of crab cakes and burritos. And apparently Eddie Vedder sat in with Crowded House after we left. No big loss, but it might have been interesting to see. Oh yeah, and we bought 6 beer (tallboys, no less) at a gas station for $2.99. Yes, $2.99!

Is it possible to love a cookie?

2007-08-28T18:11:00.000-07:00

I mean really loooove a cookie. Because I am completely infatuated with these new no-sugar-added lemon crisp Peek Freans. I love them. I really love them. In fact, if Jesus came down from outer space right now and told me I had to choose between a world without chocolate cake and a world without lemon crisp Peek Freans, I would have to kick the chocolate cake to the curb. Of course, this would be dependent on Jesus not knowing that I've never really been a huge chocolate-cake fan. Now, make me choose between Peek Freans and a golden cake with thick chocolate-fudge frosting, or a white Safeway cake piled high with roses made from that tooth-shattering frosting they use, and that'd be a whole other story...but Jesus doesn't have to know about that. So keep your mouths shut. Unless of course you're opening them to eat a lemon crisp Peek Frean...

Oh man, I've done something crazy. I doubt it will pan out, but if it did it would mean a huge change. I won't go into it until I know more, but it's along the lines of spending a year on a private island catering to the whims of a very rich couple and their visitors. And by "whims" I mean making their beds and doing their laundry. Gee, I hope that's what they meant by "whims."

Low Rollers, High Fashion, and a Generous Offer.

2007-08-22T18:44:00.000-07:00

Hello, hello. Long time no chat, I know. Hope your respective summers are going well.

Things have been semi eventful lately. There was that Wilco concert in Stanley Park--fabulous. And the breaking of my toe--the little piggy that normally stays home decided to go for a trip when it met up with a flip flop/wet cement combo that it just couldn't resist. And then there's my upcoming first Bumbershoot experience on Labour Day weekend.

But the biggest stories of the summer are:
1. We booked a trip to Vegas. It's not till December 1st, but it's nice to have a getaway to look forward to. We got a killer deal. 478 bucks for flights and hotel, all taxes and fees in. Crazy, I know. Unfortunately, we cheaped out and went with Circus Circus instead of springing the extra hundred bucks for a really good hotel. But I'm hoping the kitsch factor will outweigh the possible bed bug/drunken clown assault factors. We may still book in at the Luxor or Flamingo for the second night just in case. We'll lose the money we've spent on Circus Circus--but that's only about 40 bucks. I can't wait. I'm going to win so much money. You'll see. And I'm going to tease the shit out of my hair and wear loads of animal prints. If only I still smoked...

2. H&M is opening here tomorrow!!!! Well not "here" so much as in Coquitlam, but it's a hell of a lot closer than San Francisco or Edmonton where the closest stores used to be. I can't wait. But I will have to, as we spent the fall fashion fund on the Vegas trip, so no new digs for me until the Sept 8th paycheque. H&M. 18,000 square feet of the best damned shopping this province has ever seen. And in the spring we're getting a 3-floor flagship store downtown. Amen.

3. You may not know this, since I hate to complain, but I've had some wisdom teeth issues over the past two years. Simon's boss has ridden in on his white horse and hooked me up with a dentist willing to do the surgery in the hospital pro bono. Pro bono--tee hee. This is a very good thing, as it will save me around $1200.00, but it still scares the bejesus out of me and makes me want to run away. We'll see what happens.

oooh Coronation Street is on, I'm outta here.

Take me Down to the Paradise City...

2007-08-08T13:10:00.000-07:00

I want to go somewhere. Anywhere. Venice would be amazing. I'd settle for a week on a beach in Mexico. Hell, I'd take a long weekend in Winnipeg. I just want out. Out from reality, from work, from Facebook and TV, from worrying about my wisdom teeth as they continue to anchor themselves in more painfully and I continue to look for distractions from them. Distractions like a vacation. That usually works.

True, I've got Labour Day weekend at Bumbershoot in Seattle, and then there's the great waste of money that is Christmas in Regina, but I want something better. Frontier Airlines has fabulous prices to Mexico, but that would have to wait till the new year. I'd loooove Thanksgiving in Halifax, but it's just too pricey now that Sunwing has forsaken me and stopped flying there. I need some inside info. My hours of scouring the internet when I should be working just aren't paying off like they used to. I need to reach deep into the belly of the travel-industry beast and pull out one of those Vegas weekends for under 500 dollars.

Oh, great, the dudes are back. I'm currently holed up in my bedroom pretending to not be here because there are construction dudes smashing up our livingroom to replace our patio doors. I'm not sure why, as our patio doors appear to be fine, but whatever--the strata gets what the strata wants.

The reason I'm hiding is a little sit-commy in nature. I was preparing lunch downstairs when they started banging their way in from the deck, and I guess they figured no one was home and started saying stuff like "Shit, they've got this stupid blind held up by a ribbon like you'd tie around a Christmas present." Now, I felt like going upstairs and pointing out that the ribbon was pink, so obviously it was intended for a birthday or shower present rather than a Christmas present, but then they started saying other stuff, like complaining about the other neighbours that were home while they were working. And then one of them asked the other if anyone was home here and the other dude said no, and continued to complain about our blinds and curtains and how we had complained to the construction liaison about them leaving garbage on our deck...so by that point I definitely felt like I couldn't show myself. So I grabbed my keys, abandoned my lunch, and quietly sneaked out of my own home to spend an hour or so walking around the seawall like a homeless person. And I say homeless person, not just because I was put out of my home, but because I looked like one as I had not had an opportunity to shower, do my hair and makeup, or put on "outside world" clothes. I also had no wallet, no watch, and no phone.

Anyway, eventually I came back and they appeared to be on lunch, so I grabbed the remnants of my own lunch and ran upstairs to barricade myself in my bedroom with the computer all day. And now they're back. This is so weird. I feel like I'm hiding in the bathroom on Three's Company or something. Perhaps I'll over hear them talking, and mistakenly infer that they are gay or one of them is dying. Oh, the madcap antics that would ensue...

50 Cent and Mark Twain are practically the same person...when you think about it.

2007-08-02T18:28:00.000-07:00

I mean, they're both entertainers, they both have "t"s in their names, and they're both known for their masterful use of the English language. Still not convinced? Check out these quotes:

Mark Twain: "Chastity--you can carry it too far."
50 Cent: "You gonna back that thing up, or should I push up on it?"

Mark Twain: "It's not the size of the dog in the fight, it's the size of the fight in the dog."
50 Cent: "Don't start nuttin' there won't be nuttin,' uhhhh."

Mark Twain: "A delightful woman--looks just as if she'd stepped out of the new testament, and hadn't got used to her surroundings yet."
50 Cent: "Isn't it ironic how erotic it is to watch them thongs?"

Mark Twain: "From the time a woman is seven years old till she dies of old age, she is ready for action, and competent. As competent as the candlestick to receive the candle."
50 Cent: "We'll be up in this bitch till we break daylight."

Freaky, I know. If 50 can channel the Twain so strongly, perhaps there are other contemporary "artists" in on this too. Come to think of it I always thought Britney had a certain Ella Fitzeraldness about her...

You know who shoud go to Hell?

2007-08-01T15:04:00.000-07:00

The bastards who use the Nexus line to cut into the non-Nexus lineups at the border between British Columbia and Washington, that's who.

Oh my God, I wanted to injure them on Sunday. We spent the night in Seattle and then returned early Sunday afternoon. And we got in the giant border lineup and waited to be subjected to customs scrutiny (I was two packs of sugar-free Bubble Yum over my 24-hr dutyfree allowance--it was just like Midnight Express). Anyway, as we're sitting in the painfully slow-moving line of weary border-crossers, I kept noticing these jerks driving up the empty Nexus line (the line for the special people with Nexus cards that don't have to wait with the unwashed masses) and then cutting into our lines where everyone had been waiting for a near eternity. The nerve! What makes these idiots not have to wait like everybody else? Why do they think they can just bypass the rules and escape their due punishment? And it's not like there were one or two of them, there were a bunch.

Sure, people honked, people yelled, people made snotty comments from the safety of their own vehicles (my route of choice), but nobody put a stop to it. It's not right. Forget sick kids and ozone holes, my new mission is to make these line jumpers pay for their sins. This is a civilized society. We have rules. I won't stand for this passive agressive anarchy.

Blech

2007-07-25T16:52:00.000-07:00

Goddamned heat. I know, I know, last week I was griping about the rain, but seriously, this heat sucks. I'm done with summer. Bring on the fall shopping season. Ooh, and H&M opens in less than a month. Perfect timing.

Good Lord, Jerry Springer is on Days of Our Lives right now. Wow.

I'm sick. Not in the depraved way. Or in the way the cool kids use to describe being cool. I'm sick in the way that means my head is filled to the brim with snot. Hot, I know. My eyes are watering, my ears are popping, my nose is alternating between running and stuffing up, my throat is sore, and I'm even more easily annoyed than usual (yes, apparently it is possible).

My lovely boss gave me work to do from home tomorrow, which is awesome, especially if I want to be ship shape in time to go to Seattle on Saturday, but kind of sucky since there are going to be work dudes in our living room replacing our patio doors. I'm not likely to shine in the awkward-small-talk-with-tradespeople arena. Or with any people, for that matter. Just ask my hairdresser. Or the dude from the dog park the other day. Or my father. Or anyone with whom I've ever shared a small-talk interaction.

A cougar in leopard's clothing.

2007-07-22T00:46:00.000-07:00

Wow. I just got home from the "dance party", which turned out to be in some warehouse in the worst neighbourhood in town. And it was filled with 19 and 20-year-old skateboarders and ramps and such. And the band didn't go on until midnight. At least that's what we were told would happen--we left at 11:50 for a nightcap at the Tiki Lounge. It was cool being at the Tiki Lounge, actually, though sad since the last time I was there was for my wedding. I can't wait till Simon gets home.

But the saddest part of the evening was the "other" kind of sad. The lame kind. Which was when I walked into some warehouse where ten shirtless dudes were skateboarding and about ten or twelve other hipster kids in leggings and off-the-shoulder tees were standing around trying to look cool, and I was wearing red patent leather heels and a leopard print satin wrap dress. Holy out of place. Although the little girl working the door said my dress was "awesome." Who knew kids still said awesome, I thought that was an old person word.

Whatever, I'm old. I don't really feel old, and I'm not sure when it happened exactly, but I was soooo in the old person group there tonight. I was the person I used to make fun of when I was on the other side of that coin. Damn.

Ugh, and now I've been mixing the cheap Pilsners at the skater place with the Seabreezes at the Tiki bar. I sense an old person hangover coming on.

Let's Dance

2007-07-21T16:41:00.001-07:00

Well, I'm probably going to regret this, but I'm going to a "dance party" tonight. It's to raise money to save some building and Chow Nasty are performing. I even bought a new dress.

As a single dog step-mom this weekend, going out is a bit tricky. I feel guilty about all the alone time Stella has had with Simon gone this week, plus I don't look forward to walking her when I get home. You know, because it'll be late and dark and all the killers will be out looking to get me. But, whatever, I gotta do what I gotta do. And tonight I gotta dance.

Oooh, only two more sleeps till Simon comes home. From what I can gather from our daily phone calls, the tour is going well. Good for them. And I mean that in a sincere way, not a bitter way. Really.

This time next week we'll be in Seattle to meet up with my brother Ira and his wife. Looking forward to it. I wish I was there tonight, going to the Lava Lounge and the Night Light instead of this dance thing. But it'll be awesome. Awesome. Okay, better go set my hair.

Happy Saturday night.

Time Travelling on Facebook

2007-07-21T00:56:00.001-07:00

So, I don't know if it's bad form to talk about Facebook on Blogger, but if it is I'll live with it. Cuz I've got nothing else to talk about. Mostly because I've been spending too much time on Facebook and not enough time doing that other stuff...what's it called, oh yeah, thinking.

Facebook is weird. It doesn't really "do" anything, it's just a place to stick photos up and "poke" people, and yet I find myself constantly checking in with it. Of course, there was that chick on the radio the other day who said she found the son she gave up for adoption 20 years ago via Facebook (meaning she found him through Facebook, she didn't adopt him out through it). And Simon did reconnect with his half brother on it. But mostly it's a time waster. Just ask the I.T. dude who banned it from the editorial computers at work.

Irrelevant timewaster though it may be, today I had kind of a cool Facebook experience of my own. The fella I went to grad with 16 years ago messaged me. I hadn't seen or spoken to him since I was 17 years old. And truth be told, I didn't really see or speak to him much then either. It was just a blip in time, a few weeks, many years ago. And I was a bit of a retard back then (shocking, I know). Anyhow, back in the day, I was very intimidated by him because I thought he was way too cool to be hanging out with me, and I figured he'd figure out how big of a loser I was pretty quickly--which made me act like an even bigger loser. Self-fulfilling prophecies are a specialty of mine. Anyway, even though it was ages ago, and I don't remember much more about him than the fact that he was into skateboarding and photography (and I think he had a Public Enemy hat or hoodie or something), I still occasionally cringe at the thought of how lame he must have thought I was.

Well, whether he meant it or he was just being nice, he said in his Facebook message that he hadn't thought I was a crazy loser. Which is cool. But I was surprised how much it meant to me to hear it. It's funny how these blips from the past that you thought were irrelevant can actually manage to burrow their way under your skin. Now if only I could Facebook message the 17-year-old me and tell her not to waste time crying along to Morrissey songs in her bedroom and wondering why she couldn't be normal and likable like the other happier, blonder girls. Or can I? Do they have that function on Facebook yet--I'd better go check.

Moral of the story? It's nice to hear people say they don't think you're retarded, even if it takes 16 years for you to hear it. Oh yeah, and Facebook is weird.

To Bumbershoot or not to Bumbershoot.

2007-07-20T18:16:00.000-07:00

Well, it's that time of year again. Time to look into my soul and make that age-old decision. Should I make the effort to go to Bumbershoot or not? The line up this year is good--not great--but good, and Seattle is always worth the trip for the Happy Hours and sugar-free Hubba Bubba alone. But I hate having to commit to something so far away. I've already shelled out so much for concerts that aren't until August and September, so throwing more cash on the future-concerts pile isn't very appealing. And, if I want to use Priceline for a hotel that means I'll need to book and pay for it now, too. Seems way to "planny" and "organizy" to me. But I can't take another year of waiting too long and not being able to go. So, yeah, I think it's a go. Right.

Abandoned

2007-07-16T19:39:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow morning Simon leaves me for one week to go on tour with Pender. It sucks. But technically he's already been gone for a few weeks what with all the time he's been spending on the computer making posters, trying to book shows, researching car rentals...perhaps if I booked Pender to play a show for me then I would get to spend some time with him. I'm not bitter though, I'm actually quite happy for him. And jealous--I wish I were heading out on a summertime road trip tomorrow. But I'm not. I'm going to work. Work, work, work. We can't all be rock stars. Especially those of us who can't sing or play an instrument.

Do You Realize?

2007-07-10T18:45:00.000-07:00

That The Flaming Lips are playing at the Orpheum on Sept 18? Well, they are. And I'm going. Soooo excited.

It'll be the third time I've seen them live, and I'm looking forward to another evening of total happiness. There are few moments in my life when I can say I've experienced total happiness--the Christmas morning I unwrapped my Cabbage Patch doll, the first time I saw Martin Tielli in person, most of August 2003, my wedding day, the first pint of Guinness I drank in Ireland, and the two times I saw The Flaming Lips perform.

If you've never seen them, you should. When they play "Tangerine" your heart will soar; when the audience sings along with "Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots" your heart will burst; when the confetti and giant bubble balls start flying--well your heart will regrow, but at least three sizes bigger than it was before. These dudes are in the business of making great things happen, and they are sooo good at their jobs.

But happiness will have to wait--the show isn't until September 18, so I guess I'll just continue being frustrated and miserable till then.

A wedding, a cell phone, and a dead car

2007-07-03T19:22:00.000-07:00

Canada Day long weekend has come and gone. It turned out, despite all the predictions to the contrary, to be a beautiful sunny three days. The wedding was beautiful. Such a great party. It's not normally recommended to get completely blotto at your boss's wedding--especially one where you are the photographer--but I am fortunate enough to have an exceptional boss, with an exceptional open bar. My God was I over my limit that night. I danced like a fool, and I have the broken red patent high heel to show for it. The photog gig wasn't so scary either. With two cameras and Simon's help I managed to get many, many great photos of the happy couple. And more than a few incriminating ones of myself.

Unfortunately, in our rush to check out of the fabulous Maple Ridge Travelodge the next morning, we (okay, mostly I) left our cell phone behind. We still haven't got it back. And we don't have a land line. I'm not one for the telephone machine, but it's amazing even to me how inconvenient it is to be phoneless. Especially when your car breaks down and leaves you stranded in the parking lot at the video store.

Yeah, that sucked. Just days after Simon commented on how low-maintenance our latest vehicle has been, it decided that we were taking it for granted and stopped working. Early predictions point toward a faulty fuel pump. Simon called a mechanic who suggested "banging the gas tank with a hammer", and yes, he is still taking it to this mechanic. I just hope the prognosis isn't too negative. I really want to go to Seattle to meet my brother and his wife in a couple of weeks. And it's kind of a long walk.