And she goes and gets nostaligic on New Year's Eve

Who woulda thunk?

So, years ago, I used to work in this hotel in the middle of nowhere Yukon, miles away from anything, flat dab in the middle of the Alaska Highway. The No-Man's Land of Cruiseship Bus Tours. The town's population was 88 year round, our hotel housed about 80 seasonal staff members, and when the tour buses pulled into town at 6 a.m. each morning, our population tripled.

Our staff and the locals got close. We were stuck together. The nearest next town was four and a half hours over the shittiest, dustiest road you could dream of over the border in the states. You had to go that far to get a newspaper, since our town's only gas station didn't carry them, and neither did any of the 4 bars or 4 hotels that existed for a town with a population of 168 people. We loved each other, but we were all sick to death of each other.

The hotel company recognized that our small town's staff had a morale problem, based on the high number of employee attempted suicides and homicides, and sent an expert consultant from the home base in the U.S.A. out to "deal with us." In the three days she visited, she called each staff member into her temporary office individually, told us to call her by her first name--Anne-- gave us her phone number and cell number in Georgia, in case we "ever just needed to talk to a friend," asked us if we'd seen other staff members smoke drugs--she could "get them help", she "wasn't there to judge." She wondered if any of us were lesbians and if it bothered us that there were so many lesbians on staff. She wanted to know how we "felt" about that--whatever we felt, she wanted us to know it was "o.k." She told us that even though we might not think so, we were a HUGE priority at head office and an important part of the corporate team. She greeted us each by name in the staff cafeteria, loudly complimented the staff cook who had been attempting to hide grated carrots in every dish for 3 months, sat with us all and moved from table to table so everyone could feel a "connection" with her.

Anne declared it should be Christmas. We worked hard for four months a year. We were "like a family," and since we couldn't have Christmas together in December, we should have it together in July, she said. The management seemed super excited about this--they were all "right behind it." Boy, they looked like they were ready to jump up and down when they told us about it, the way they all stood in a line facing us and grinning madly; even Kerry, the mustachioed secret-stoner desk manager, who'd been up playing poker and drinking all night with the rest of us underlings with whom the management was discouraged from spending leisure time.

Many of us were Scrooge-like about the idea. Bah humbug and all that jazz. This idea was stupid. Who wanted to celebrate Christmas in July, when it was 33 degrees outside and we were being eaten alive by mosquitoes and old people from Florida and North Dakota?!

Then they told us there would be a talent competition. Each hotel's department would team up and compete. And there would be a $100 dollar prize for group performance, and another $100 for individual performers. Also, the hotel's general manager decided it would be open bar--on the house!--Christmas and all...

Suddenly the hotel was alive with the holiday spirit! We put up trees and decorated them. We cheerfully told bewildered tourists that in the Yukon we celebrate Christmas in July! They were confused and just wanted their prunes and whole wheat toast and a map before they left, but they seemed happy for us, and thrilled with the strange fine friendly Canadian youth they'd met.

All I knew is that my group, the waiters, were bound to win. We were the most talented and scrappiest lot of misfits in the whole town, and goshdarnit, we were going to win that money and get right fucked up while doing it! I was determined. And so I gathered the gang together.

"What do ya say gang--for old time's sake--have we gotta show, or have we gotta show?!"

"Hell yeah!" cheered the plucky waiters, and we all set to work making props, sewing costumes from the sheets we stole from the laundry department, and practicing our act.

I was ruthless as a director, but I knew these kids had it in 'em. We might have to eat this show, sleep this show and breathe this show for the next three days and nights, but by God, if I had to bleed it out of them, I was going to take this rag-tag team of ribs salesmen and make them STARS!

To be continued...

Um, wow--anyone else see this?

Just warms the cockles of your heart, doesn't it?

What's scary is I don't think it's intended to be funny.

The kid and Christmas

He just came running in from his friend's house, breathless and jumping up and down, and then he said, ""I'm so essited because it's dark which means it's night soon and that means Santa's coming, and I think I'm not on the naughty list, I'm on the good list because I've been nice to kids at school and because I got a whole bunch of stars and also I told his helper that I wanted a Gameboy and she told him and I know he was going back to the North Pole and I think she told him in time and oh mom what kind of cookies are we going to give him and how the heck is he going to get into our house when we don't have a chimney?!"

I Pity da Fool Who Tries to Bring Me Down This Season!

You know, I've never been one of those obnoxiously cheerful people who live for the holidays, but this year I'm in a good mood. I think it was bolstered by the fact that last week, I found the perfect Christmas tree. It is gorgeous, and as soon as I figure out how to work the digital camera, I will put a picture up. My house is reasonably clean, the presents I've chosen for everyone are hilarious and perfect, and soon it will be over and I can relax. Today I avoided all holiday shopping apart from one place--took the lad to the comic book store near our house and while he chose something for himself, I wound up finding the BEST stocking stuffer for my brother....it's a Mister T keychain, and when you press a button, Mr. T's voice says things like, "Don't mess wid me, suckah," "Quit your baby jibber-jabberin," "First name Mister, middle name period, and last name T," and of course, the all time holiday favourite, "I pity da fool!"

Merry Christmas, Happy Hannukah and a great Festivus or whatever y'all celebrate, fools!

YES!!!!!

I am finally finished this semester. Many down, one left to go. Just breezed through my last exam, and I have one more day of work left before a ten day break--I am psyched! This means I might actually write a decent blog or two soon--and I know I've been a lousy blog visitor too, but all that will change--can't wait to see what you've all been up to! Already I'm beginning to feel human again--this robot life of work, work, work is not for me my friends.

Freak Magnet

Go Freak Magnet you're burning up the quarter mile--Freak Magnet, go Freak Magnet!
You are supreme, the freaks'll cream for Freak Magnet....


In case you haven't already guessed this, I am a freak magnet of the highest order. If there is a freak anywhere within a ten mile radius, he will automatically gravitate towards me. Maybe it's something about my face...I don't think I have a kind face, but who knows? Strangers tell me their problems in line-ups. The wasted guy who is just about to get kicked out of the club? He's in love with me. Old ladies who want to talk about cats? Seem to think I want them to talk to me. The sleeping guys on my way to work? Know me by name--some of them have taken to trying to hug me as I walk by. Mimes stalk me...getting the idea?

Nowhere, however, is my freak-magnetism more powerful than it is on the bus. Ah, buses! Rolling cans of freaks! And trust me, my latest freak encounter only made me more determined to buy a Hummer and start polluting this planet as fast as I can. I would be doing humanity a favour.

Yeah, so as I mentioned last week, I went to Vancouver. I was planning to fly, but the whole city became blanketed in fog for days, and therefore I was forced to take the ferry. It wasn't so terrible on the way, but they way back? The worst.

First off, I just missed the last flight out of town, so I had to run to the bus station. I decided instead of taking a cab, I'd take the Skytrain to the station...during rush hour. Holy cow...if I'd been blindfolded, I would have been convinced I was in a Japanese subway, it was so packed. I almost missed my stop, it was so hard getting out the door, but after shoving a few old people out of the way, I was free again.

So, I run into the station and pay for a bus ticket to the ferry terminal, and I'm annoyed, because had I caught my flight, I would have been home in twenty minutes. Instead, I have to wait in a crappy bus station for an hour, then an hour's ride to the ferry, then an hour and a half to Victoria and then another hour to downtown and then to my house. Crazy. Yes, I know people LOVE taking the ferry between Vancouver and Victoria, but I am not one of those people. I live on this island, and I've seen enough killer whales for a lifetime. I just want to get out, and when I come back, I just want to be back.

Anyways, after much waiting (and after being given the hairy eyeball by several bus station freaks lurking about just looking for a freak magnet like me) the boarding announcement is finally made for my bus. I get on and make myself comfortable. Then realize I left my headphones (and my hairdryer, and my book and about twenty other little things) in my hotel (I was a bit foggy when I left, if you know what I mean) so I had nothing to do except stare into space. Which is fine. I'm good at space staring, and it was dark and the seats were comfortable, so I settled in, closed my eyes and then....

"HARUMPH!" This loud bark came from behind me. A huge force started thrusting my seat forward until my nose was almost touching the seat in front of me. Kick, kick, kick. Shove, shove, shove. This woman behind me appeared to be moving furniture back there. I cast an annoyed glance at her, but she seemed oblivious. Finally she stopped shoving and my seat went back to normal. Stillness. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes again.

Then the panting began. My God, I have never heard anyone pant like that by themself and I used to be competitive long distance runner and have a very healthy sexual appetite, so trust me, I know from panting. This was bizarre. I've never heard an elephant pant, but I imagine it would sound just like the noise coming from this woman. I tried to be patient. But this went on for ten minutes. Other passengers started looking at each other with this, "Can you believe this?" expression. Then her cell-phone rang.

"Hello?" she screamed. "Harold, is that you? Harold, I'm on a bus...Harold, I think we have a bad connection--can you hear me? CAN YOU HEAR ME, HAROLD?!"

Oh my God. I'm pretty sure half the lower-mainland could hear her, so Harold must be really hard of hearing.

"Harold, the funeral was AWFUL."

Oh no, I felt bad. This poor woman. Sure she was obnoxious and had no consciousness of space or sound, but wow...the poor thing had just been to a funeral. I felt horrible for thinking such awful thoughts about her.

"Harold, I have NEVER been to a more boring funeral in my life. Speech after speech after speech. It was terrible. I don't know who organized this thing, but they should be fired. I think every student he ever had spoke. It was just horrendous. I almost fell asleep....WHAT? Oh, she's fine. I mean, actually, she was in good spirits. I mean, sure she's sad, her husband just died, but actually she seemed really cheerful. Still, I don't know what she was thinking letting all those students talk on and on like that! Worst funeral ever!"

I stopped feeling bad for thinking terrible things about this woman.

"Harold, tell me, how's Jane's breasts? How's the MASTITIS?!" she screamed. More looks were exchanged by fellow passengers. I tried my best evil eye on her, but she was fully entrenched in thoughts of Jane's breasts. "Harold, tell me...has the baby latched on yet? To the nipple. The NIPPLE! OH MY GOD. How are they feeding that thing?! No, no, no. No, they have to get her onto a bottle. Well, if you really think that they should keep breast feeding that's fine. Tell her to make the baby root. WHAT?! I said root! Make it want the nipple! The Nipple! Are they swollen? Well, they can try warming the nipple. Ok...ok, tell her to call me."

She hung up. All passengers collectively sighed with relief. Then the phone rang. "Jane? Jane is that you?! Yes, on the bus. AWFUL funeral...so dull! Oh, he would have loved it, he was such a blowhard...how are your nipples?!"

This conversation continued in that vein for the rest of the ride to the ferry terminal. She shouted through all of the driver's announcements. I was so relieved to get out of that bus, I didn't care.

The ferry ride was uneventful...I bumped into my old friend M and she and I had a good hour and a half gossip session, then it was time to go back to the bus. I prayed that the woman would be getting picked up at the terminal, and was thrilled to see she wasn't on the bus when I reboarded and made my way back to my seat. It was late and pitch-black out now, so I closed my eyes and prepared to sleep all the way to downtown.

Then THUNK. Thump, thump, harumph, sigh, sigh, kick kick kick, wriggle wriggle wriggle, shove shove shove. She was back. Still yammering on her cell phone, despite the announcement that no cells should be used until the ferry docked. She sat behind me. I closed my eyes again, willing her to move to another seat, but to no avail. Then it was quiet. Blessedly quiet. I began to drift off.

Suddenly I heard this horrible noise...it sounded like multiple cats being swung around by their tails. It was worse than nails on a chalk board. It was coming from her.

"AAAAAAAAAAVVVVVEEEEEEE MAREEEEEEEE-AHHHHH," she shrieked at the top of her lungs. She had headphones on and presumably was listening to a mixed cd of opera "hits." Everyone was staring at her, but she didn't seem phased at all. I dug my finger nails into the arms of my chair and bit my lip. I began to look for the hidden camera. I had to be on some kind of jokester reality show--no one on earth could really be this clueless and obnoxious in an enclosed space, right? I forced myself to ignore her, but the shrieking went on and on and on. Sometimes she would stop, and I would think, "Oh thank God, she's stopped," but then she'd take one of those giant elephant breaths and start up again. It was horrific. I have never heard a sound like that come from anything human.

Finally I couldn't take it anymore. Maybe all my years of passiveness in the face of freaks had come to this. I turned around and stared directly at her until she took off the headphones.

"Yes?" she asked.

"Stop it," I said.

"I'm sorry?" she shrieked.

"Everyone on this bus can hear you singing. Please, stop it NOW."

She stopped. Everyone on the bus shot me a look of gratitude. I am pretty sure I have finally broken my freak curse. I stood up for the good of all, and the Freak shut up. It was magic.

Vancouver Bound

Hey kids,

I know I've been a lousy absentee blogger lately. This full-time job, full-time school and single mom combo is killing me. The semester is almost done and miraculously, I'm still standing and managing to pass these courses. But every girl needs a break, so I'm taking one tomorrow night. My friend and I are hanging out in Van--I booked a nice suite in a 5 star hotel (I get discounts) and I got mailed a 2 for one coupon at my favourite spa in Yaletown, so we've got facials lined up on Saturday...good thing too, because we will be partying on Friday night and we'll need to detoxify!

After that, I have two more papers and a couple of exams to get through and then one more easy semester of film studies all the time, and that's it! Graduation! I never thought I'd see the day. Boy am I glad to be getting out of school. There's a girl in one of my classes who's 18. I realized the other day that she was only one the first time I went to University. A horrible, horrible realization, especially since I'm way too immature to be old enough to be this girl's mom!

My kid the Skaterpunk

Alright, I don't do the shameless cutesy parent thing very often, but humour me--how funny is this pic?

Dance, Dirtbag!

Happy Halloween

It's monsoon weather out there, but my spawn is die-hard and he and his cohorts in creepiness are determined to score as much candy as possible tonight, so I decked them out in face paint, fangs and rubber boots and sent them on their merry way. Hopefully I'll have VERY spooky pics to post later. I know there's nothing more mundane than a mother going on about how ADORABLE her child is in his Halloween get-up so I'll spare you until I have photographic evidence to prove it.

You know what I love about Halloween, though? I love when you open the door to find freaky grown-ups in costumes pushing their terrified children to the door. Nothing says Halloween better than a sobbing two-year old in a pink bunny suit.

I have a paper due tomorrow

It's a very important paper. So of course, because the paper is due tomorrow, and because it's important, and because I hadn't started it yet, today I:

1. Cleaned my kitchen, and reorganized all my cupboards.
2. Went downtown to do a bunch of errands.
3. Went to a medical clinic where it's first come/first serve in order to get a referral for massage therapy. I did not come first, therefore I was not served first.
4. Sorted out my closet, separating clothes by season and colour and then drove a bunch of things to Goodwill.
5. Took all my cans and bottles back for a refund. $4.15!!!!
6. Flossed my teeth. Twice.
7. Called my mom.
8. Called my friend who I never phone because every phone call with her lasts an hour and consists of her screaming, "Oh my fucking God, like you won't fucking believe this, oh my God," and me saying, "mmmhmmm....wow...yeah, mmmmhmmmm, whoa, wow....mmmmhhhmmm."
9. Called the loans people to find out why my student loan STILL hasn't arrived and spent 45 minutes on hold listening to instrumental versions of "My Heart Will Go On," while I screamed, "You %@!*$@#!!'s!!!!!"
10. Watched America's Next Top Model and Lost.

So, I'm kind of screwed now, I think.

So kids....

I'm just feeling really happy right now. In case anyone was worried, based on the lack of posts and the depressing tones of the ones I've put up recently. Yeah, I'm still tired and I'm still poor, and I'm still a bit bored...but who cares? I bumped into some great friends today, hung out with some other great friends, had a decent day at the JOB, one of my classes was cancelled, an old friend called and said she's coming for a visit, I found out two really great old friends of mine from another life are now living in the same city as me and I get paid tomorrow! And my loan is expected to be here on Wednesday, which will pay off my immediate debts! Woo hoo! Anyways, I'm going to take it easy tomorrow and try really hard to work up enough energy to go out at least once this weekend in order to have something so incredibly embarrassing happen to me that I'll have something funny to write about. See how much I love you guys? It's all about the love. I'm actually saving energy in order to publicly humiliate myself so that I can crack you all up. That's what love is, peeps. Don't say I never did nothin' for you!

My Life of Crime

1974: I was four. I stole a pack of Love Hearts from Wong's grocery down the street from where I lived. My mom had refused to buy me a treat that day, and for some reason my full-on tantrum didn't persuade her to change her mind. So, penniless and powerless, I did what any defiant sugar-addicted child would do. I took matters into my own grubby hands. I remember glancing around the store furtively, looking at Mr. Wong out of the corner of my eye, checking to see where my mom was in the store, looking to see if anyone else was watching...then slowly I picked up the Love Hearts and as discreetly as possible, I shoved them into my pocket.

Later that day my neighbour Stacey McCormick came over to play. Stacey had a voice so shrill she made Fran Drescher seem soft-spoken by comparison. My parents used to imitate her whenever she left our house. I couldn't stand Stacey, but I still couldn't resist the urge to impress her with what I'd done, so I pulled out the Love Hearts and gave her one. I explained to her in whispers that we had to hide them and she squealed, "WHY DO WE HAVE TO HIDE THEM?! I WANT ANOTHER LOVE HEART PLEASE!" My mother spun around, stormed over and pried the pack of candy from my clenched fist. The tell-tale lines of powdered sugar over our lips gave us away. I was busted.

My mom hauled me by my collar back to Mr. Wong's store and made me tell him what I'd done. I started to cry. Mr Wong smiled at me sweetly and waved his hands quickly.

"Is ok, is ok, she keep them--they free!"

"No, Mr. Wong, thank you, but it is NOT ok for Katie to steal from you. She has to pay for candy when she comes here," my mom said firmly.

"No, no!" cried Mr. Wong, embarrassed for me, "is ok--she good girl, she keep."

"No, Mr. Wong, Katie will pay for what she took," and she handed me a dime to give to Mr. Wong and made me apologize. I paid him and he smiled sympathetically at me, and I wanted to disappear on the spot because I was so ashamed.

1977: When I was seven, my family moved. My parents were busy getting the house finished. My sister and brother were in the grocery store next door, but I was killing time at Robinson's. Robinson's always had a bunch of cheap toys sitting in the front of the shop . It was summer and I remember being hot and incredibly bored. The girl at the counter was talking to a teenaged boy and laughing at everything he said. I looked around and no one was looking back at me, so quickly I grabbed a small ball, threw it in my pocket and walked out of the store.

I hurried around the corner and threw the ball around a bit, bouncing it against a concrete wall, but then I was hit by an overwhelming sense of guilt that made my stomach ache. I dusted the ball off, put it back in my pocket and went back into the store. I sidled up to the box I'd grabbed the ball from, and quickly dropped it back in. As I turned around the teenaged clerk was standing over me.

"I saw you take that ball!" she hissed.

"No I didn't!" I choked.

"I saw you!" she snarled.

I didn't have the ball anymore. I'd returned it. This hardly seemed fair.

"I don't have any ball! You can't prove anything!" I yelled and I ran out of the store. I was sick all night.

1986: I was sixteen. My friend Lee and I were hanging around downtown with nothing to do. We went into Fields and Lee shoved a pair of earrings into her purse. I stood back and watched her move through the racks of clothes like a seasoned pro--a scarf here, a lipstick there--I was in awe. When no one was watching I grabbed a training bra out of its box, caught Lee's eye and grinned at her as I shoved it into my own purse. We ran out of the store clutching each other and laughing hysterically.

Then we went to the grocery store. We didn't really need groceries, but there was nothing else to do. Lee's mom's boyfriend was over at her house and he was a jerk, and my parents were normal and that was too boring to subject my cool friend to, so we had few alternatives aside from hanging out in the Pay-Less Gas Station parking lot with the older stoners from our high school, and they scared the shit out of us. We fingered the different items along the aisles, commenting on what we liked or what was making us hungry, and I spied a pack of Chipits milk chocolate chips.

"God, I love those things," I told Lee. "I could eat a whole bag of those."

"Take it," she said.

"No, what am I going to do with a bag of chocolate chips?"

"You should," she said, rolling her eyes at me. "If you don't, I will." I laughed at her, but I was getting nervous. She grabbed the pack off the shelf and shoved it into the enormous pocket of the trench coat she was wearing. As we walked through the store she grabbed other items. Some candy, Teen magazine, a bottle of Ten-O-Six Lotion from Bonne Belle. Anything she couldn't fit into her enormous coat, she would shove into my purse. I was freaked out, but I wasn't going to do anything about it because I didn't want her to think I was worried about it. We continued down the aisle, and as we turned to enter the next one, I felt a hand land firmly on my shoulder. It was a tall skinny guy wearing a sweater vest who looked like Ichabod Crane. It was the manager.

He and another employee walked us into their back office. I could feel my pulse racing. I was shaking like crazy and I thought I was going to start crying. My parents would kill me. Lee would be fine. Her mom let her do anything. She used to drive her mom's car when she was fourteen and her mom told her if she ever got caught she had to tell the cops she'd taken it without permission.

He told us we had a choice. We could either call our parents and tell them what we'd done and get them to come and get us, or he would call the cops. He may as well have said I could either face a firing squad or run naked across a mine field while holding giant magnets.

He left the room. Lee called her mom and her mom said she'd come and get her. When it was my turn, I didn't know what to do. My parents would lose it. So, I dialed Lee's mom.

"Mrs. Mason, my parents aren't home and I need..." suddenly I heard a click followed by a dial tone. The office door swung open and the manager stormed in. He'd been listening to my call on another line.

"I told you you could either tell your parents, or I would call the police. You've left me with no choice."

Lee left with her mom. I sat in the office by myself, stomach churning, waiting for the police to arrive.

The police came and walked me out of the store. Everyone in the store, including kids who went to my school, stared as I left. When I got to the car, they put cuffs on me and made a big show of putting me in the back and locking it up.

At the station, they led me in and finger printed me, and then they stood me against a wall and took my mugshot which they displayed on a bulletin board with all the other pictures of juvenile delinquents. After that they moved me into a windowless office, told me my parents were on their way and that my dad was quite angry and said they'd be a while. I started bawling and a female cop crouched down next to the chair I was slumped in, smiled sympathetically at me and said, "don't worry, my sister used to get into all kinds of trouble when she was your age, and she turned out ok."

I don't know if this was supposed to make me feel better, but for some reason it did, and I gulped out a thank you through my tears and then waited for my parents. And waited. And waited. For three hours, in an empty office, with nothing to do except stare at the walls and worry about what they were going to say.

When they arrived they were very quiet. They thanked the officers and told me to go to the car. Neither of them spoke the whole way home. I cried, "I'm sorry!" They didn't even look at me.

After we got home and walked into the house, my mom burst into tears and yelled dramatically, "What did we do wrong?! First you fail algebra and now this! Why don't you move out if you can't follow the rules!" I tried to defend myself, but I knew it was a lost cause, so I ran to my room, closed the door and wailed miserably into my pillow for an hour or so.

I emerged from my room to find my parents sitting at the kitchen table looking very serious.

"We've talked about what we should do," my father said. "Grounding you seems to have no effect on you. I've called the manager of the store and volunteered your services. Every day for the next month you will report directly to him after school and you will work in their butcher shop until 6, at which time you will come directly home and do your homework."

There was no point in protesting. So, every day after school for the next month, I went to the butcher section of the town's only grocery store, donned a white coat and a hairnet and wrapped meat in the freezer while I shivered, surrounded by huge bloody cow carcasses. I was miserable and humiliated. Students from school who worked at the grocery would snicker and whisper when I walked past. A couple of bag boys would hiss, "Stop thief!" when they came by the counter and saw me working.

After I'd done my time, I refused to enter the grocery store for five years. By that time I'd moved away to go to school and only had to go in there when I was visiting my parents. Even then I still felt knots in my stomach just entering the place. I didn't eat meat for almost 4 years. I had a record until I was 18.

But, I didn't steal again either. I had finally learned my lesson. My life of crime did not pay. I'd been scared straight.

Well, almost straight, anyways.

Is it Friday yet?

Sunday night I went to bed, my head hit the pillow and I passed out as soon as I closed my eyes. The next thing I knew my alarm clock was honking loudly in my ear. I swatted at it blindly. How could it be beeping so soon? I had only just gone to bed!

But after hitting snooze five or more times, I knew I had to get up, and all I could think is, it has to be Friday, it has to be Friday, please God, whoever, just let it be Friday.

It was not. It was Monday. Oh Monday, I curse thee!

So I got up, went to my computer, started working (I start from home in the morning), had a shower, got my kid up, dressed and fed, and we left the house. I dropped him off with the neighbour who takes him to school, ran to the campus coffee shop (where I like to flirt with the coffee boy, who is oblivious or too polite to acknowlege my awkward early morning attempts to be cute). I grabbed my coffee, ran to the bus stop, hopped on a bus, read as much school stuff as I could, hopped off the bus, and went to work.

Around 10:30 I took a ten minute break to buy another coffee and a rice krispie square from my favourite close-to-work coffee shop. The owner is a young Chinese woman who wears a white frilly apron and looks absolutely thrilled whenever she sees a new customer--she's set up across from Starbucks--and every morning when I leave she sings, "Thankyouverymuchhaveawonderfulday!!!"

I love her. I'll never buy Starbucks when she is near.

Then I raced back to work, skipping lunch so that I could leave early to get my son from school. I left work, ran to the bus, read all my school stuff along the way, hopped off the bus, ran home, jumped in my car, drove to my kid's school, picked him and his buddy up, drove to the corner store to buy them a treat, drove home, ran and got the babysitter, kissed the kid goodbye and sprinted back over to the campus to get to my class, where I arrived sweaty and disheveled.

Then I sat through the class, tried to sound like I knew what I was talking about, managed not to fall asleep and was dismissed. Then I went to my next class. Listened to the world's most boring lecture and also managed not to fall asleep.

Class was over at 6:30, so I ran home, said goodbye to the sitter, helped the kid do his homework, made dinner for him, got him fed, let him play, got him in the bath, read him a story and kissed him goodnight.

I went downstairs, made myself dinner, grabbed a can of coke, sat in front of the tv and barely moved until 10. Then I did all the bedtime stuff (checked email, washed face, brushed teeth, removed clothing and jewelry). I started a little work that night so I could sleep in an extra fifteen minutes in the morning. Then I got up, and stumbled into bed.

And then I did this all over again on Tuesday. And Wednesday. And today. And it wasn't Friday on any of those mornings. I have it on pretty good authority, however, that tomorrow is Friday. I don't have any classes on Fridays.

So I think I'm going to get a little drunk.

An open letter to the morons on the road

Dear Morons on the Road,

I know, I know...you have a licence, but maybe they didn't tell you at the DMV, a driver's licence is not a licence to kill. It is not a licence to act like a complete moron on the road. There are other people out there. I know. I've been driving alongside you idiots for a while, and I've held my tongue, but apparently we need to go over a few things.

1) Signal lights: These are those things you use to let other cars know that you would like to change lanes or make a turn. They are a great invention! Use them! Trust me, you'll have loads of fun with them. They signal an intent to move. Are you writing this down? I hope so, because I am growing tired of drivers who assume I will know they are about to cut me off, or who decide on a whim, "oh, what the heck! Maybe I'll cross over three lanes and take the scenic route today!" Hey, I have no problem with spontaneity, really I don't--just give me a second to adjust, ok? A teeny little warning...a...how shall I put this....signal?

2) Cross-walks: See those striped white lines across the road? Yes, yes, I know, they're so very, very pretty, aren't they? I know you're probably not aware of this, but they're not just there for aesthetic pleasure--they actually serve a purpose! Here's a hint: If you are approaching some of these pretty striped white lines, and you see a nervous pedestrian standing at the edge of them (you know pedestrian? Those human things unframed by racing metal boxes?) then SLOW down and STOP. What's really cool is that when you do this, you won't kill someone who's trying to cross the street! It's win/win for everyone!

3) Cell-phones: Fabulous inventions, aren't they? Not so fabulous on the road. Spend the extra three bucks a month and get the messaging service or pull over if the conversation about Britney's c-section is just so important it can't wait. Please.

4) School-zones: What a pain in the ass children are, always wanting to stay alive long enough to see their next birthday! I know, I feel your pain, friend, but let's humour the rug-rats, shall we? I know you just can't wait to get to work, but how about slowing down when you see the signs with the teeny little children on them? It's really in your best interest. Scraping blood and hair off the grate of your BMW can really be a bitch, and something like that can ruin your whole week.

What happens when we die, according to my weird but adorable kid

I'm not very religious. Ok, honestly? I'm not at all religious. I call myself agnostic because basically I'm too chicken to write off the possibility, and aetheism seems like too much of a commitment for me.

But my kid has suddenly developed an interest in all things God. He tells me all kinds of weird stories about God, or asks me questions.

I'm trying not to discourage him. I believe that religion is a personal choice and I don't want to scare him from asking questions. However, I'm not terribly well-equipped to answer most of them, so I direct them to my mom who is Catholic but laid-back about it.

The rest of the time my kid comes up with some pretty interesting theories about God and the afterlife all on his own.

Tonight he said, "Mom, I have a really, really hard question for you, and I don't think even you will know the answer."

I asked what the question was, and he said, "If we die, and it turns out God isn't real, what do you think happens to us?"

I told him, "Wow, that's a very tough question. I don't really know the answer to it. Maybe we just turn into air or something and become part of nature, like the wind or the ocean or something."

Then he made this noise like a buzzer on a game show, "aaaaaah!"

So I asked, "What, did I get it wrong?"

And he smiled and said, "yeah, you were way off. The answer is leprechauns!"

I said, "You think if God isn't real we turn into leprechauns?"

And he looked at me like I was totally insane and said slowly, like he was talking to an idiot, "Noooooo, we go to the leprechauns."

Then I asked, "Ummm, what happens when we get to the leprechauns?"

"How the heck am I supposed to know that?" he cried. "I've never been to the leprechauns before!"

The Marriage Scam

Many years ago, I was in love. With a perfect boy. He was sweet, he was funny, he was attentive, he asked me to come to Costa Rica with him. I booked our tickets, I was happy, I was overjoyed.... and then I found out he was sleeping with my roommate.

My heart broke into a million tiny pieces. My face puffed up from crying everyday. I couldn't have a conversation without bursting into tears. Friends of mine started hanging out with him and his new girlfriend (my former roommate) because I was no fun, and they were such a blast to hang out with. I wore pajamas everyday, rarely washed my hair, cried into my tub of ice cream every night and had anxiety attacks over whether I should stay up and watch Letterman or go to sleep.

My mother, in her infinite wisdom, suggested I take my ticket to Costa Rica and trade it in for a ticket to London where I have lots of friends. Unable to make any sound decisions on my own at this point, I decided I would do just that. My ticket to London cost much more than the ticket to Costa Rica, so most of my savings went to paying the difference. But it didn't matter, I just had to escape. I couldn't be in the same city as that wretched happy couple and all of my back-stabbing fair-weather friends.

So off I went to England, with my shiny new ticket and probably about $800 Canadian dollars, which in my insanity I thought would be more than enough to last me 8 months. That's right, you heard me. 8 months! Yeah, I had free places to stay, but this is England we're talking about, not Thailand, and although it was about 12 or 13 years ago, even the most thrifty person can't make $800 Canadian last 8 months in England. Hell, most people would be lucky to last a week on that much.

My friend R and I decided to travel around together. Between the two of us, we barely had a cent, so we began sneaking onto trains and buses and crashing on couches until we got tired. R had a guitar and I can sing (well, I can kind of sing) so we began busking everywhere we went.

We did pretty well, and most days we'd manage to score about thirty odd pounds which would get us through until the next day.

But then I had an idea. An idea so fabulous that I know I'm going to regret sharing it, but you people have been good to me, so I'll reciprocate. This is like your grandmother's secret lemon cake recipe that she never shares with anyone, or like the secret to your mother-in-law's perfect lasagne, so I want you all to appreciate the value of the information I am about to pass on.

I call it The Marriage Scam.

R and I would busk until we had made enough to eat a nice meal in a decent restaurant. We would tidy up first though, because you can't pull a good scam unless you look the part, so we'd scrub our faces and clean the dirt out from under our nails and put on the cleanest clothes in our packs and then we'd go to dinner. Always a new place. Never the same place twice.

Then we would order our meals. Usually a salad to start. He would hold my hand on the table and I would smile at him like he was dipped in chocolate and diamonds. You know, like JLo does when she's trying to play the cute young ingenue type in any one of her many forgettable romantic comedies. Then I would leave and head for the washroom (the loo in England, for you international types). R would then flag down the waiter and hand him a ring (an old ring my grandmother gave me) and tell the guy he was going to propose to me. Then he would arrange to have the waiter hide the ring in my salad or on the plate somewhere.

Well, word carries fast in most restaurants, and generally by the time I got back to my seat, most places were buzzing with the news of R's imminent proposal. People at the next table would whisper and try not to be too obvious about staring. Kitchen staffs would gather at the swinging doors and peek out at us. And I would pretend to be oblivious to this happening all around me.

So, I would take a bite of the salad...sometimes two or three just to torture the crowd a little. And then lo and behold! I would "discover" the ring. Everyone loves a proposal, and I, the heart-broken cynic and theatre school drop-out, would milk it for all it was worth. I deserve an Oscar for some of the crying I did on these nights. And then R would get down on his knee, night after night, and say to me:

"Katie, the first time I met you I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. " Then, every night, he would go "off-script" and say something totally ridiculous designed to crack me up, like, "when I broke my leg in Nepal and you carried me down that mountain, I knew I couldn't survive without you in my life. You carried my body, now please, allow me to carry your heart forever. Would you make me the happiest man in the world and be my wife?" He should really be working for Hallmark, I'm not kidding.

And the best part about this whole thing is that women who've just been proposed to are nervous and crazy, so if I was feeling anxious about whether we'd pull the whole thing off, my shaking and laughing and crying only made it seem more convincing.

So I would stammer and cry, and try to get a reply out until someone in the room would say, "answer him!"

And I would shout yes! Oh yes R! I want to marry you! I love you so much! And the room would erupt and people would laugh and cry and clap their hands, and everyone around us would be so happy!

Every. Single. Night.

And, every single night, the restaurant would promo something--a bottle of wine, sometimes even champagne, a lovely dessert, and once or twice, our whole meal. And people at surrounding tables would send us drinks and start talking to us and asking how we met, and every single night we'd invent some crazy bullshit story and the room would be alive with happy people, celebrating the sweet young Canadian couple and their lovely romance, and they would order drink after drink after drink until most restaurant managers were in the back having orgasms over their liquor sales that evening.

And R and I would stagger out, holding hands and addresses of lovely people who insisted we come and stay with them while we were in England, our stomachs full, our livers hurting and our heads spinning.

Every. Single. Night.

Night guys--see you in a few days!

Alright, I admit it...I am having blogger's block.

That's not a gastrointestinal disorder, by the way...I have just had nothing to write about lately. Well, that's not entirely true. I've had lots of things buzzing around my brain, but now so many people I deal with everyday read this thing once in a while that it becomes really hard to bitch about them or talk about the stupid things they did. But trust me, there are some stupid things happening all around me, and one day when you all least expect it, I'll write the tell-all.

Anyways, it's been a stressful couple of weeks for me recently, and I'm heading to Vancouver to see a friend and decompress. I'm hoping some really weird shit happens enroute for me to write about...preferably something not involving mimes or patchouli. I get back on the weekend and I've decided to screw the whole camping thing and go to Ted Leo, who I really want to see. Besides, it's raining here, and camping? Not so much fun in the rain.

In the meantime, here are some things that I've been thinking of talking to you guys about:

1) My hair. This sounds like a boring topic, but trust me it's not. So get ready for this, because oh man, the stories I will share about the hair....wait for it!

2) The day I drove to some horrible town in the middle of nowhere B.C. and decided I would introduce myself to everyone I met as Lola and speak with a really bad French accent all day.

3) This weird guy I saw who was yelling into his phone on the street. He was screaming, "She has to wear the bikini or the deal's off! Fuck that! She said ten thousand and I won't pay a penny more!" As I got close to him I noticed he wasn't actually yelling into a cell phone, he was yelling into his hand. His empty hand.

So, get excited. There's some stories coming your way!

Cancelled plans last night, wish I had some tonight.

Yesterday I would have rather had my legs sawed off without anesthesia than go out on a first date. I would have rather poked my eyes out with flaming Q-tips than go on a first date. I would have rather eaten a pound of raw hamburger than go out on a first date...you get the idea.

Tonight? I am so bored. Still not into the whole first date thing, but that has more to do with who the date was supposed to be with than anything else. I want to go see a movie. I want to talk with someone interesting. I want to take my shoes off and run around on the beach at night. No one I know is around to hang out with and I could use a little positive energy.

Last night, having a couple of glasses of wine and renting a video seemed like a wonderful relaxing choice. Tonight it feels like this might be the rest of my life.

Why Hilary? WHY?

You're a pretty girl. You had a lovely smile. What on earth possessed you to do this to your mouth?! It looks like you had a head-on collision with a box of Chicklets!

Who did this to you? I want names. God almighty, girl, what's next? Scientology?!

I have one word for you.

Lawsuit.

Oh hang on...is that one word or two? Maybe it's a hyphenated word.

At any rate, call your lawyer now. Someone should pay for this.

Embarrassing shit that my kid has said loudly on public transit to the amusement of our fellow passengers

• (while pointing) "Is that a man or a lady, mom?"
• (again with the pointing) "Funny hair! Funnnnnneeeeeeee haaaaaaair!"
• "That man smells like granny."
• "How does a baby get in a mommy's tummy?" (I actually answered this question right there. There was a bunch of drunk college kids eavesdropping and I figured they might find some of the information useful in a couple of hours)
• "Mom, if you have a baby, then you will have two kids with two different dads. And if you have another baby then you will have three kids with three..." (Me: "that's enough now.")
• "Mom, you should shave your legs soon. They look gross."
• (To an elderly woman who smiled at him) "Stop looking at me! Stop looking at me! STOOOOOOOOOOP IT!"
• "My mom is 35! How old is your mom?"
• "I want a little brother, but if you won't give me one, then I want a dog."

A warning to computer geeks with low IQs.

If you have been staring at a computer all day and all evening until your eyes feel sore, and if you decide to go put Visine drops in your eyes, please, please, make sure you do so in a well-lit room. Or you might find yourself with the new KY Warming Liquid Lubricant burning holes in your retinas. Just sayin.

Apparently I'm going to have to repeat myself...

NO SPAM! DO NOT SPAM ME!

I will be all like the Ukranian Mafia on your ass if you try to use my blog to shill your shitty wares! I am not kidding. In case you still think I am, read this: http://goodkatie.blogspot.com/2005/08/spam-me-and-youre-asking-for-trouble.html

Is it possible to be fascinating all the time?

I don't think so. I mean, you know, unless you're Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes or Angelina Jolie or something. I've been trying to figure out what to write here recently, and haven't had much luck coming up with anything interesting. Part of that is probably because a lot of people I know have discovered the blog, and that's preventing me from saying much about what's going on in my life. Part of it is that I'm just kind of wiped out.

But anyways, here is an update/explanation for why I haven't been a posting monster this week. I'm heading back to school, full-time. I'm also keeping my job, almost full-time. And of course, the reason I do all this is to make a better life for my kid and me, and he takes up a lot of my time as well. And man, I am worried about keeping up. One false move and I am certain I will collapse from exhaustion, or have a nervous breakdown or something. I have 8 months left and then I can join the human race again. Until then though, I won't have any kind of time or any kind of money for any kind of social life. Which sucks, because that's usually where I get my best material.

Fret not though, fellow bloggers. I'll probably need to vent a lot, and I'm funnier when I'm pissed off, I think. I expect I'll probably be pissed off a lot more in the next few months.

Of course, before I sell my soul to the university and the man, I am getting one last weekend of freedom away from this dull little city. And you can bet I'm going to enjoy it as much as I can.

P.S. The "Tell this couple's prom night story" challenge is still on! Enter! I dare you, mofos!

Why, WHY, when I actually have plans, does every other cool opportunity pop up?

Ok, Crazy Polish Kate and I have planned another trip to the beautiful island of Cortes, but this time figuring out when to go was a nightmare, because we're meeting our former neighbour who lives in Vancouver, and trying to balance all our schedules and decide on a meeting place took a lot of work. We're taking the kids too, but we're considering inviting our teen neighbour and her friend along as babysitters so the moms can go out and tear up the tiny town. We finally decided, after much debate, on an upcoming weekend and all was well again.

BUT BUT BUT!

I'm walking past a telephone pole covered in posters today, and suddenly I see the words "Ted Leo and the Pharmacists with Ghost at ______on______":the exact same weekend we're not going to be in town!!!!

Ted Leo! Ted Leo!

Of all the weekends, why must it be this particular one?

The world is sometimes so totally unfair.

3 more things I cannot abide

1) Cutesy expressions: like "anyhoo." WHAT IS THAT?! For example, "So, anyhoo, we'll all be at the barn dance with Marge later if you don't see us at karaoke night!" Or, "Anyhoo, my mom bought me the cutest pink sweatshirt with a fluffy white kitten on it." I don't understand this at all, but it's even worse when I hear a man say "anyhoo." See my reaction to short robes below in the previous post, and you'll understand what this does to me.

2)Fashion from hell: Ok, we've all made fashion mistakes. I know I have. Once in the 80's I actually went out in public wearing a neon pink beret, a baby pink angora sweater dress, neon pink fingerless gloves (!!!!) and white keds with neon pink socks peeking out. I must have been on drugs. I was walking down the street and a bunch of guys in a truck drove by screaming, "turn it DOWN!!!" So much for expression. So, yes, humiliating, but I learned my lesson.

3)Email chain letters: You know the kind--"if you send this email to five people in five minutes you will have love and laughter in your life forever. If you delete this, a strange person will rip all your pubic hair out from the roots!" Well I'm not worried. I've already had all the pubic hair ripped out from the roots once, and I PAID someone to do it! So don't threaten me with weird horrid fates because I don't want to pass on your sentimental crap...I'm tough.

P.S. I know Marky Mark in his Calvin Kleins has very little to do with any of this post, but I cannot abide a day without seeing a picture of my future husband (back off Melly!) in his tighty-whities.

5 Things that I cannot abide

1) Guys in short robes: You know, the terry-cloth ones that hit mid thigh? I was once dating a fabulous man--wonderful in every way. He was funny, smart, interesting, not bad looking, shared many of my interests and loved to travel. We hit it off and I heard wedding bells in my future. Then I saw him wearing a short robe. And it was never the same after that. It was like feeling my ovaries dry up in less than sixty seconds.

2)Ass-crack revealing jeans: Do I even need to explain this one? Have you ever looked at a girl in ass-crack-revealing jeans and said to yourself, "Wow, she looks like a class act!" No? Didn't think so.


3)Cheesy music: Any song by Jefferson Starship or the Eagles makes me want to thrust sharp objects directly into my eardrums. Also, I really, really hate the songs "What a Wonderful World" (Yes, even the Louis version) and "Unchained Melody." I know, people love those songs. A lot of people also like Celine Dion, so a lot of people don't always display great taste.


4)Yippee moms: Take a hippy, give her a whole lot of money, a bearded Jesus-look-alike husband and a doula and watch her spend the rest of her miserable life attempting to make other mothers feel like shit for not breast-feeding until their kids are 5. She always sounds so peaceful, like she just had the most transcendental spiritual experience, and that makes you feel like a frantic unhinged, selfish, superficial, consumeristic moron when you're around her. My advice--skip the date you have with her to drink organic chai tea and discuss diaper-free parenting, and go get a greasy burger and a stiff drink with someone whose company you actually enjoy.


5)Friends who aspire to be Pablo Neruda: People who write really bad emotional poetry and then beg their friends to read it. This is not right. It is just not right.

Spam me and you're asking for trouble

I'm not kidding. I am overjoyed to see that there are people out here who are actually reading my stuff, and who might even enjoy it a little. It makes me think that one day, when I decide to grow up, maybe I could be a REAL writer. So, you can imagine how depressing it is when I come across a comment that says, "Wonderful blog, nice job," and I begin to get jolt of happiness, and then I scroll down a little further and see that the commenter has also written, "I sell adult diapers, check out my site--it's KOOL!"

So, to all future readers who feel the desire to try and sell me something, I am not interested, unless you honestly have bottled the secret to eternal youth. And I'm feeling lazy at the moment, but this is a warning: spam my blog with your crap product, and I will INVENT an equally useless product and I will spam you right back. And I will spam your friends. And I will spam your family members. And yes, if your dog or cat has its own website (and I'm sure it does) I will spam that too.

I don't make idle threats. I have a dull job, a great imagination, a serious evil streak, and lots of time on my hands.

You've been warned.

10 bad things about being a single mom

I have a wonderful online friend who has expressed a desire to maybe possibly have a baby one day. It's just an urge right now--she hasn't done anything about it (not since we last chatted anyways), but she jokingly asked her online friends today to talk her out of her current baby craze. We're not sure she wants to be talked out of it, of course, and between you (the 1 or 100 people who may or not read this) and me, I think she'd be an incredible mom.

So, although I absolutely love my kid (99% of the time) I thought I'd help her out.

Here ya go!

10 Bad things about being a single mom

1) It's 8:30 at night. You look in the fridge and realize there is NOTHING to eat...baby is sleeping (probably for the first time in hours, which is why there is no food in the house, because you are completely exhausted). You can't go out to to store without waking the baby (oh dear God, no) so you eat crackers.

2) Friends invite you over. They insist you bring the baby, because they want you to feel comfortable and realize your social life isn't going to change (ha!). Baby freaks out the whole time (or worse, toddler freaks out the whole time) and you don't know if you should stay and deal with it or leave. You, who have always felt comfortable with these close friends, suddenly feel self-conscious about how you're handling this. You, the capable woman who has always had a ton of self-confidence, are now a mom. Plus, your breasts are leaking and you cry all the time and you feel fat.

3) Everyone you know loves babies and tells you they will babysit for you anytime you need them. Until you actually get up the nerve to call and ask them.

4) You are tired ALL THE TIME, and you cry more than you ever have in your life, and you wish you had a partner who could give you a fucking break or just hug you or rub your back because sometimes you hate this kid with every fibre of your being, and you hate yourself for hating this adorable little crying pink puff-ball who seems to be out to get you and you look at it and it's all red and puffy from crying for who knows what (you've tried everything) and you just want someone to hug you and tell you it'll be ok, you're a good mom, and maybe it would be nice if the person hugging you had sex with you later.

5) Except you don't want to have sex. But you do. But you really don't.

6) Your stomach is poochy and wrinkly.

7) Babies spit stuff on you and then they laugh at you.

8) You're at a cafe, because for the first time in months, a friend has given you a break. You are totally freaked out about leaving the baby with someone but you know rationally that the baby will survive. Still, your breasts aren't listening so you have to wear three disposable pads on each side and you still have leakage coming through your shirt. You are flirting with someone and he/she seems interested and then somehow the baby comes up in conversation and suddenly he/she finds a reason to disappear. Instantly.

9) You might be forced to hang out with people you don't like at all because you have children the same age, and they want to talk about Baby Gap and nutrition all the time.

10) You begin to feel like your mother.

But of course, there IS that nice baby head smell, and the giggling, and the way they cling to you and nuzzle up like Koala bears and all that other stuff to think about too. =)

Oh now hold on here

I was walking down the street today, feeling a little down, feeling a little tired, stressed out, broke, confused about my future, etc.

And I thought to myself, "this is not what I'm supposed to be! I'm 35! This is not what I thought I would be when I was 7."

It's sad, you know? I would have been a kick-ass ballet-dancing-crime-fighting writer/lawyer.

Return of the Scary Mime

So, I'm walking down the street after work, and out of the corner of my eye, guess who I see? (Yeah, yeah, I know, it's in the title, I'm a genius)....but humour me....give me a drum roll or something, will ya?......

That's right! It was the scary psychotic stalking mime!

Surely this could not be a coincidence?

And he followed me again, I swear to God. He spared me all his mime manoeuvers this time though--it was hot outside--maybe he'd had a long hard day of MIMING. But a couple of times I hastily glanced at him over my shoulder, checking to see if he was still there, and yes, he was STILL THERE, grinning at me like the Joker or something.

Did I do something evil to a mime in a past life? What did I do to deserve this guy? I'd ask him what his problem is, but he'd probably mime the answer.

WARNING!

Ok, to the 2 or 3 people who I don't know who are actually kind enough to read my blog, wow--thank you so much for reading--the next few posts will be new to you. To the rest of my wonderful friends who I've been bullying for months to read my stuff, well, I'm really sorry, but you've probably already read the next three entries (or at least pretended to) back when I only blogged at myspace. But man, I really get creeped out on myspace. I like this place. I want my stuff here. So, it's yet another moving day. A rearranging day. And I'm kind of bored. So there you go!

Lavalife limitations

OK, yeah, so I have a profile up at Lavalife--what's it to you? Just putting out some feelers, ok?

And, you know, there seem to be a lot of nice, gainfully employed, really desperate available men out there, which should make a girl happy, right?

But here's my problem, and it might seem silly to you....I just cannot bring myself to date a guy, no matter how great he might be, whose profile says, "I'm spontanieus, and i want a girl who likes adventiure."

If this is wrong, I don't ever want to be right.

Cuddle Parties--what fresh hell?

That's it. I give up. I am officially dropping out of the twenty-first century. I don't belong here. I've suspected this for some time, but it became crystal clear to me today when I was flipping through a Marie Claire, and tucked in between an informative article called "Prostitution Gives Me Power" and and a fascinating piece about Angelina Jolie's love of tattoos and international adoption was a story about the latest hot trend in New York:The Cuddle Party
"What is a cuddle party?" you might be wondering. Well, if you haven't read about it in Marie Claire, The New York Daily News or The Free Republic yet, chances are you're as clueless as I was. According to Marie Claire, "Cuddle Parties are touted as the new way to explore nonsexual intimacy. Adults rarely touch without it being eroticized--here by exchanging simple hugs, we experience a more innocent kind of contact."

I'm sorry, give me a second, I need to wipe up the coffee that I just sprayed all over my monitor.

OK, yeah, I know, it's nice to be hugged. We miss it when we're single and it's not always comfortable asking our pals to give us long full body contact bear hugs. For me the absence of good hugs is the most difficult thing about not being in a relationship. Perhaps, in my twenties, when I was giving it up to anyone who bought me a drink just so I could get a good hug once in a while, this might have been a helpful service...I can see why this might seem appealing at first. But let's get real. We're talking about lying on smelly sweaty yoga mats with a bunch of strangers in pajamas. We're talking about lying in very close proximity with people we might not talk to if they approached us in a bar. We're talking about getting "nonsexual" backrubs from people who might think patchouli oil smells good! We're talking about my worst nightmare.

Hugs from people of the opposite sex (and occasionally the same sex) have two effects on me. They either make me feel vaguely uncomfortable, or they turn me on. Oh, I don't need to jump into bed with anyone who gives me a good hug, but to me, a really good non-familial hug can't possibly be nonsexual.

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm just narrow-minded. I guess you'll have to decide for yourselves. Go ahead, read the cuddlemonials (I am shitting you not). I'll be over here in my time machine, with my arms wrapped tightly around myself, rocking back and forth.

Friends and nails

Crazy Polish Kate called me the other day and asked me if I had any polish remover. But she pronounced it PO-LISH, not PAW-LISH. So of course (and admit it, you know every single one of you would probably have done the same if you had a wacky Polish friend who was always walking into your house uninvited like some kind of sitcom neighbour) I could not resist saying the obvious:

"Kate, if I had Polish remover, don't you think I would have sprayed it on you years ago?"

Badap bam.

(I'll be standing by for your hate mail)

Adventures in online dating profiles

I love cats so much. I have seven of them. Mitsy, Misty, Bitsy, Penelope, Scratchy (he scratches a lot), Blackie and Mrs. Peacock Feathers. They are my babies, and my trailer would feel and smell so empty without them.

I've just joined A.A., but it's really cutting into my drinking time, and since my cats are with me constantly, I wouldn't really say I drink alone. If you love me, you have to love my kitties too! We're a package deal!

I love long romantic walks on the beach, but since I've topped out at 300 lbs, I can't walk too far without stopping a lot, especially if I'm huffing on a Virginia Slims. But hey, that just gives us more time to roll around in the sand together and gaze into each other's eyes now, doesn't it?

I'm still great friends with my ex. In fact, he's the manager of the burger stand where I eat breakfast every day. He's actually the guy who got me into this whole internet thing--I think we still have a video floating out there in cyber-space! Sure wish we'd made the money that Pamela and Tommy Lee made!

I'm looking for a man with a job. Also, you must be incredibly good looking, like Fabio, and maybe drive a muscle car. I've always wanted to meet a special guy who knows how to treat a lady, say by treating her to a candle-lit dinner at a classy place like Red Lobster (hint hint for future reference!).

I'm a real fun person and I make the best tuna casserole you'll ever taste. Also, I'm a whiz with a glue gun and I'm saving up for a Bejeweler (Santa, can you hear me?) so if you ever need anything sequinned, just ask!

I can't wait to meet you! Toodle-Ooo!

P.S. No long distance please. My parole officer gets antsy if I leave town for too long.

P.P.S. Don't be shy--you can see me. If you want a smile, have a pic. That way I can see if you look like Fabio, or Michael Bolton (swoon!).

What a wonderful WHAT?

I'm listening to 89.5 The Current from Minnesota (Thanks Ro!) and now I'm wondering, were Shane MacGowan and Nick Cave completely wasted when they recorded What a Wonderful World?

On second thought, don't answer that.

Things that go bump in the night

I should warn you in advance...this will not be one of my better postings. I have no interesting insights today, no funny stories, no stoner revelations to share.

I just have this one nagging thought coursing through my brain.

I hope there are no moths in the house tonight.

Holy shit am I freaked out by moths, and I am telling you, last night, the mother of all moths got into my house and everytime it hit a window, I thought it would crash right through it. It was terrifying! It kept flying right at me, and so I had to huddle under the covers, petrified, shrieking to myself and hoping it would go away.

I turned a light on in another room to see if I could draw it away from mine, but the moth-bat was too fast for me, and right before I could slam my bedroom door shut, it flew in and nearly took out one of my eyes.

It was a hideous creature too...a HUGE giant body under its mottled gray wings, and I swear, I could see its beady little eyes staring me down. It wanted something from me. Maybe it was my sweater, maybe it it was my child, maybe it just wanted to wreak havok because of something its mother did to it in its youth.

A couple of times it lulled me into a false sense of security, and I would pull the covers down just enough to take a peek and see if it was still in the room. Everything would be silent....eerily silent...and then just when I thought it was safe to take the covers off my face, psycho moth would start dive bombing me again. I don't think I slept all night!

More vacation pics, plus one of my all-time favourite guy

So, that's me with the super-dark hair at a place called Hollyhock, which is a wellness retreat on Cortes Island. It has the most fantastic garden (these pics don't do it justice) and it overlooks the ocean. The girl in the purple skirt is my famous and fabulously beautiful friend Kate. Finally, this is F, looking as sweet as he can next to Cuddles the daycare rabbit.

By the way, if you click on these pics, you can see them larger. In case you didn't already know that. Maybe I'm the only one who didn't know that was possible. I got all excited about it. I'm seeeer-eeee-osssss!

Talkin' 'Bout My Revelation!

Your neighbours, your friends, limiting what you say, wanting to feel proud and yet wanting to talk about what's real to you, what you experience, wanting to make the writing pure, wanting to love your friends and still reveal those goofy quirks you observe that you hate and you adore, wanting to share what you are doing, what you are excited about, what you are most proud of, and what you are most ashamed of. Wanting to be true to what you felt happened and still respect that this is only your perspective and possibly not everyone else's experience of the subject.

I felt all this, with such sadness and affection, and wanting to be true to my experience of my friend and still knowing that one day she might see this and feel hurt by the way I recall an experience we shared, and I ask myself, did I need to share this experience? Do I have to put this out there? Was this really something that happened to me that is important for people to respond to?

I want to write about my experiences. I want to share my experiences because I love them. I need to write because I need to see my perspective in the written word in order to make sense of it. I need to share how I feel on paper and yet not feel limited as to what is safe to write about. And that scares me. Because if I really write what I think, and if I really write from the purest part of me, I might be fucking great. And people I meet might be terrified of revealing their personalities. And I would have no friends. And I would no longer have anything to write about.

What I did on my summer vacation.

"We have to be out of here by noon, we have to be out of here by noon, we have to be out of here by noon," is all that Crazy Polish Kate says to me for the two days leading up to our little road trip. So, I pack the night before. One bag. Cosmetic-y stuff, a bikini, underwear for three days, a dress, a skirt, some jeans, shoes, condoms, 3 t-shirts and a sweater in case it gets cold.

She calls me at 5:00 pm the night before we're supposed to leave.

"Are you packed yet?!"

"Yeah, I packed about an hour ago," I tell her.

"Ok, because we have to be out of here by noon," she says for the hundredth time.

I resist the urge to scream and tell her not to worry, I have the day off, I can leave earlier if necessary, everything is cool, it's all good, RELAX! She's bringing the cooler and sleeping bags, tent, etc, so I have done as much as I can do. I ask if there was anything I can do to help and she says, "don't worry baby--it's all under control!"

The next day I take F to daycare, kiss him and hug him enough to last him all weekend, and go home and clean the house so I won't have to come home to a complete disaster. At 11:30 I call Kate. She's still packing.

I repeat. SHE IS STILL PACKING.

So, I walk over to her house and peek inside the van. It's empty. No tent, no cooler, no nothing.

I open the door to her house and yell, "Yo bitch! What the hell are you doing?"

She staggers down the stairs and explains that she wasn't feeling well last night, and didn't feel like packing, no energy, etc, but she'll be ready in about ten minutes. Uh huh.

Now, I've probably never mentioned this, but Kate has more clothes than God. Assuming that if there is a God, he/she wears clothes. Hmmmmm....ok, she has more clothes than Madonna. Anyways, for her, just going to 7-11 requires a fashion consultation. I'm not kidding. She'll come over to my house and parade around in 2 or 3 outfits, and once I've helped assure her that she looks fine, hot and totally cute, she'll try different combos of the outfits. Then she'll pull out the accessories. Holy fuck. At this point it is everything I can do not to kill her. Except she is hilarious when she does this and it's kind of fun, but don't tell her I admitted it. I have a curmudgeonly rep to maintain.

So, she showers and finally comes outside. I'm helping her load up the van, and she looks at my backpack and says, "is that all you're bringing?"

Then she goes inside again and about twenty minutes later she comes outside in a new outfit. In her arms is a mountain of clothes and a full backpack. She starts putting outfits together and asking what I think. It's 12:30 now.

I say calmly, "Kate, I thought we had to leave by noon or else."

She blushes, "yeah, I know, I was tired last night, yada yada yada..."

Ok, I don't want to continue in this vein, but suffice it to say, she changes 3 more times, re-applies her makeup twice, decides to unload the van and vacuum it out and reload it again and finally we hit the road at 1:00. There is no point in my getting upset over this, I tell myself, because we're on the way!

"Ummm, I just have to make a couple of stops before we hit the highway," she tells me.

My head is going to explode.

So, we get out of town at 2:00 pm. It takes 3 hours to get to the ferry, which is probably backed up because it's Friday. But again, I tell myself, do not waste your weekend getting upset on the road.

So we crank up the tunes and hit the open highway.

"Oh YEAH, babay!" she screams. "Cortes, here we come!"

It is nice of her to warn Cortes in advance, I think.

Apart from the fact that she is always late, Kate is an awesome person to travel with. She takes turns playing DJ. She lets me drive and doesn't freak out when I'm behind the wheel. She laughs at all my jokes and punctuates every hour on the road with, "We are going to have such a great time! Oh yeah, babay! This is the weekend of fun!"

Here is a sample of dialogue that occurs on the road:

Crazy Polish Kate: "I am going to hypnotize the men of Cortes this weekend."

Me: "Oh yeah? How do you aim to do that?"

Kate: "I will seduce them by hypnotizing them with my belly-dancing."

Me: (spit-take on the dash board, Coca-Cola up shooting out of my nose).

Kate: "I'm seeeeer--ee--osss!" (no one pronounces 'serious' like Kate)

Me: "Hmmmm, so when did you start belly-dancing?"

Kate: "Oh, I've dabbled in it for years, and when the men of Cortes see me dance, their sperm will shoot across the floor--I will raise penises like snakes from baskets!"

I can't argue with that. Kate thinks she's the best dancer in the world. Once she and our other neighbour Jen had a fight that almost came to blows over who was the better dancer--Kate or Usher. Jen was astonished that Kate would make such an outrageous claim, but Kate, determined to prove that she was more skilled, insisted on showing us some of her "moves." I think I probably lost five pounds from laughing so hard.

I'm not going to bother giving you a long drawn out description of our trip up there. So, briefly, lots of highway, lots of gas stations, lots of junk food, a great seaside meal, 5 outfit changes (all Kate's) and one long ferry wait, and finally we were on the second ferry to Cortes, drinking wine and watching a fantastic sunset.

We drove around the island for a bit and finally parked in a spot near an outdoor music festival--a real hippy scene--lots of drumming and didjeridoos , lots of barefoot kids with face paint, lots of pot wafting through the air, and yes, lots of patchouli.

But despite the patchouli, it was amazing. People were incredibly friendly and we had a group to sit with almost immediately. We partied into the wee hours and then crashed in the back of the van because we were too tired to set up a tent.

The next day we hung out at a little lake with a sandy beach. The water was incredibly warm. Kate somehow hypnotized me into getting into the kayak with her, and we paddled around an island and then spent the rest of the day sunning, eating, admiring the island and flirting with the local boys at the music fest.

My flirting paid off, and I met a really sweet cute guy who took Kate and me to an after-party at some local beach way in the middle of nowhere. People dragged their instruments down to the beach and jammed for hours--the music was incredible, I don't think I've ever heard anything like it, and I got a little garden tilling taken care of if you know what I mean, wink wink, nudge nudge.

So, I'm back. Sunburned, a little poorer, but so glad I went. Sun, sea, and lots of action for me--what's not to like?!

If you don't hear from me by Tuesday....

Call the authorities. Crazy Polish Kate and I are heading to Cortes Island to camp all weekend. Now, those of you who know me might have noticed that I've never mentioned my love of camping. That's because it doesn't exist. The last time I went camping with friends I got so drunk I passed out and the next thing I know my friends were dragging me out of some kind of wicked rainstorm. Later I was huddled up shivering in a sleeping bag near the campfire, trying to get warm again, and the sleeping bag caught on fire. Not pretty. Ok, I'll admit, this was many years ago, back in my days of drunken debauchery, long before I had a child.

But...the child will not be coming with me. He will be safe in an undisclosed location. Which means there is nothing to stop me from partaking in a little tiny bit of debauchery. And Kate tells me that this island is inhabited by "the BEST looking men in the WHOLE WORLD!"

I am only a mere woman, and we all know about my weakness for the opposite sex. Well, if we didn't all know, we do now. It's a disease. Men make me act silly--they make me do silly things. So, ladies, start clutching those pearls in fear and disgust, because who knows what kind of trouble I may get into? Unless I smell patchouli oil. That stuff is like kryptonite to me.

Two girls in a car with a backseat full of kids

Crazy Polish Kate is such a teenager. We went to the beach tonight and she was totally excited that her ex is going to take our kids camping next weekend so that she and I can have a girl's retreat out on Cortes Island. She blathered on and on about all of the wonders of Cortes, how the place is like some kind of utopia of pot and alcohol and lakes and hot easy men. I'd say, "I don't care what it's like as long as the weather is nice and I can get a drink and a burger," and she'd cut me off, saying, "Ohhhh, you can get the BEST burgers in the world there!"

Nothing about the place is mediocre, according to Kate. Everything is the BEST, the most BEAUTIFUL, and apparently I am going to have THE GREATEST WEEKEND EVER.

She became so excited that she did her cute breathless Polish thing and began dropping words, so she'd say, "Don't worry! I have tent, I have cooler!"

On the way home she started checking out every guy we passed and on occasion would scream out the window things like, "Woo hoo cutie--nice ass!" or "Hey baaaaaaa-bay, give us summothat sugar!"

Keep in mind we had 3 kids in the back, covered in sand and staring at us freakishly with their wet bathing suits and goggles on.

Eventually she noticed them and said to me, "those kids are really cramping our style. Wouldn't it be great if we could just throw a blanket over them?"

I'm pretty sure she was kidding. Well, I'm at least 30% sure.

My future husband

My crush on Mark Wahlberg has reached epic proportions. Of course, the truth is, my crush is actually on the guy with whom I had the brief fling who looks like Mark Wahlberg, but (in my humble opinion) is cuter and less simian. Still, since I didn't have the foresight to take a picture of him when he was here, I will just have to post yet another picture of my future husband, Mr. Marky Mark, for my viewing pleasure when I log in here. Humour me. Mrs. Katie's Brain-Marky Mark. Has a nice ring to it, n'est pas? Ok, I know, I know. I should really start dating again. This can't be healthy! When did I become a 12-year old girl?!

A Myspace observation

You know what I love about Myspace? I love it when I see profiles from guys who are earnestly trying to meet women through myspace (you know, the ones who have six hundred pictures of various lap-dancers on their friends lists).

But more than anything I love it when they write, "No pyschos please."

What a clever way to weed out psychotic women! I imagine a woman scanning the fella's profile and excitedly saying to herself, "Yes, I have big tits and blond hair and I love giving head, I like hockey, sure I don't mind that you're unemployed and can't spell for shit....oh, now, hang on a minute! No psychos?! Damn. I guess that rules me out. Too bad--we were perfect for each other except for that whole psycho caveat."

I blame Paris Hilton

For making me wait in club line-ups filled with identical Mystically-tanned women whose hip-bones jut from their low-slung jeans like prehistoric weapons and whose hair has been tortured and bleached to a colour not found anywhere in nature and straightened until it's the texture of hay and then shined up with a mountain of serum.

For making me wait in line-ups with girls whose pastel cell-phones are so imperative that I believe eventually humans will evolve to the point where baby girls are born with cell-phones already attached to their ears.

I blame her for an entire generation of people who think that a deep conversation revolves around the subject of how much money a guy makes and what time is the fucking cab going to be here, bitch?!

I blame her for every g-string I am exposed to on a scrawny faux-tanned ass, for every tube top, every prairie skirt, every crotch-flashing mini, and for every nasty cotton-candy pink concoction on the streets right now. I blame her for Hello Kitty purses, and for women who carry designer dogs in Fendi bags.

I blame her for the fact that men seem to think that Barbie is real. Or interesting, for that matter.

I blame her for the fact that women like Daisy, on myspace's cool new people list, think the best first impression they can make is a tit shot.

In the words of my co-worker, Paris Hilton has a lot to answer for.

What's my motivation?

Ok, the neighbour who is addicted to karaoke? She's also addicted to self-help. She is constantly looking for a quick fix to her problems, a solution to what ails her, some kind of guide to life, some perfect label to give herself (right now she's ADHD with a touch of the bipolar, but that's just this week). Anyways, last night she insisted that she and crazy Polish Kate and I needed to get our shit together and listen to some Tony Robbins, or as my co-worker Tim calls him, the Man with the World's Biggest Teeth. She figures that listening to Tony Robbins together while writing notes in journals that she bought us would be just the ticket to happiness for all three of us.

Now, despite my neighbour's weird affection for karaoke and motivational speakers, I like her. She is incredibly sweet and warm and kind, and has gone out of her way for me on more than one occasion, so the least I can do is hang out at her house, eat a few h'ors douvres while we huddle around a stereo and listen to some shiny-toothed cheeseball tell us how we're all essentially lazy and how we need to find successful role models to mentor us. I mean, it couldn't be worse than sitting at home thinking about the nasty and entirely predictable response to my email that J sent me, could it?

Well, it came close. It was painful. What made it worse was that my two crazy neighbours started acting like they were in a Baptist church, and anytime Tony Robbins said anything that rang true with them in any capacity, they would yell out, "Oh yeah!" "Sing it Tony!" or my favourite, "Mind juice! I gotta write that down!" They kept glancing at me and wondering why I wasn't writing things down, and finally I told them, "I'm an aural learner," to which they nodded and sighed, "ooooohhhhh!" as if that made complete sense to them. Dodged a bullet there. I'm quite certain the two of them are looking at their notes today, which seemed to consist of shiny little phrases which appealed to them both, and are wondering what they mean--neither of them bothered to jot down any kind of context for these catch-phrases, so I can see them both sitting at home, trying to stay motivated and reading their notes and thinking to themselves, "what was he talking about when he said "integral force fountain?'"

I have nothing against Tony Robbins--I'm sure he's a great guy. I just don't want to dip fruit in yogurt and listen to him make me feel like shit on a Tuesday night. Maybe it's just me. The dude sure does have big shiny teeth though.

An open letter to the obnoxious sixteen year old girl who sat next to me on the bus today:

Dear Obnoxious Sixteen Year Old Girl Who Sat Next To Me On The Bus Today,

Let me speak to you in a language you might comprehend.

So like, fuck, dude, thanks a fucking lot for like totally making me turn into my mom, alright? Because, like, when I saw you get on the bus in that outfit, I was all like, DUDE, it's a lot sexier to leave a little something to the imagination, you know? I'm serious! I'm so fucking serious bitch! Yeah! Like, that is so totally something that my mom would say, so like, thanks for making me think that, ok, bitch?

Oh, and yeah, thanks so much for sitting right next to me even though the bus was empty--I was totally into hearing your entire phone conversation dude. Like, I can't believe that George was so completely wasted on Saturday either! That's fucked up! And you're right, his mom does sound like a total whore--thanks for telling me all about that too! I am so excited for you that you scored some E...that was so fucking nice of you to tell your friend Keisha what to expect when she does it the first time. She's like, so fucking lucky to have a friend like you who can warn her all about the like, tracers and the way it like, you know, makes you think that someone is drawing on you with magic markers. Seriously. And I bet you're right, she may only be 15, but she probably is like, totally fucking cool for a 15 year old. I bet she totally has her shit together--I'm serious! No fuck you! No, shut up, I'm serious! FUCK YOU! Oh my God, that IS hilarious.

So like, yeah, I also think that it's great that you and Chad are back together--he sounds so amazing! OK, sure, he like totally had sex with Staci and Robyn when they were drunk (bitches!), and ok, yeah, he did get busted with horse tranqs in his locker, but like, he's a guy, and that bitch Robyn has totally been like, throwing herself at him obviously, for like months now, so what was he supposed to do? Totally, that is so mature for you to ummm, forgive him, you know? She is such a total whore. Like, seriously, that is such a sign of a healthy relationship, you know, that you can like forgive him and like totally move on? You guys are like, the cutest fucking couple--you sound like you're so good together! Seriously, it's like you were meant for each other.

Ummm, but listen, when you were talking about the whole plastic surgery thing? I swear, like I so, so wanted to respect your thoughts on that, dude, but you are so totally not fat! Not even! No, I'm serious. No, seriously, I am fucking serious--you so totally do NOT need liposuction. Maybe just get implants and a nose job, dude, but seriously, lipo? People have fucking DIED from that.

Man, it was so great meeting you! I'm so glad you chose to sit next to me on the bus even though like, I might have looked like I wanted to put my feet on the seat because I was like sick, and you know, almost like vomiting from the flu, and there were like thirty empty seats so I totally thought no one would mind. I mean, seriously, if I had to have someone sit next to me when I'm like that, you know, on an empty bus, I am so fucking glad it wasn't some total LOSER, you know what I mean?

Oh yeah, PS: I totally agree it is SO fucking unfair that your mom won't let you drive her Audi just because you don't have your learner's permit yet--I mean, seriously it is just a piece of paper, and you totally could just tell the cops that you stole it if you got pulled over--it's not like she'd get in trouble, and dude, you're like 16, and it would totally be like a first offense, so they wouldn't be able to do shit to you. Your mom needs to get laid, I am fucking serious! Talk about uptight! I know! Ok, fuck you beyotch, I fucking love you! No fuck you! No, seriously, fuck you! You're so hilarious!

Things I've concluded

I have come to the conclusion that it is wrong for persons of authority to make book, movie, restaurant or music recommendations. There are a few exceptions of course. It is ok for an English professor to recommend a book, if it is related to course material. But most of the time, people who have any authority over other people should not be going around recommending things.

Why is this, you may ask? Because later when they ask you if you agree with them that this place-sound-actor-writer is just the greatest thing since sliced bread, what the hell are you supposed to say?

I have a perfectly good example of this. My boss writes poetry. I have been dreading the possibility that she might offer some of it to me to read, since I haven't ever read any modern poetry that has touched me, moved me, or impressed me in any fashion. Most of the time it has the opposite effect on me. Reading peoples' poetry makes me want to mock them. It makes me feel sorry for them. It makes me uncomfortable looking them in the eye. I'm not saying any of these feelings of mine are fair, but they exist, and I don't think good friends ask their friends to read their poetry.

These feelings of discomfort are multiplied when the person asking is someone I have to impress on a regular basis. This is what I would consider an abuse of power.

Fortunately, the boss did not ask me to read her poetry.

She asked me to read her best friend's poetry.

Fuck me.

When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie...

Today I curled my hair and put on a swingy black dress, and a woman on the street yelled to me, "Great dress!" Later another woman I've never met who looked like Patricia Clarkson (mmmmm, Patricia Clarkson) whispered, "FABULOUS shoes," to me in the elevator. Anyways, all of this has put a little bounce in my step. I'm feeling very La Dolce Vita today, so I think on my break I will sit at an outdoor cafe drinking espresso, but I will drink that espresso with a rose clenched in my teeth the entire time.
Ciao Bellas.

Stalked By a Mime!

I'll bet you're thinking I'm speaking metaphorically, right? I'm afraid not. I was stalked by a mime today. The weird part is that it's not the first time this has happened. Who gets stalked by a mime twice in their lifetime?!I do. I must have some kind of weird mime magnetism. I'm pretty sure it was the same mime who stalked me last time. The last time was years ago. He followed my friend and me around Granville Island for HOURS, moon-walking next to us, trying on "pretend hats" while we shopped. It was so fucking annoying.

But today was worse.I just so wasn't in the mood for a bloody mime today. Come to think of it, is there ever REALLY a good time for a mime? Clowns and mimes creep the shit out of me. Seriously, I am probably going to have mime-infested nightmares tonight.And it was raining. I was on my lunch break. I'm guessing when it rains business is slow for the mimes of this world, because before I knew it, he began following me. At first I thought it was just my imagination, because as I've stated before, mimes creep the shit out of me and I DO have a history of being stalked by them, so I realized it was possible that I was just being a little paranoid.

Turns out I wasn't being paranoid. He followed me as I sought a little retail therapy. He walked alongside me and began to imitate my walk. I gave him a terse smile, meant to convey, "good job, ha ha, move along now, mime," but it only seemed to encourage him.Then he followed me into the Gap.He sidled up to me as I picked up sweaters. I tried to pretend that he wasn't there, but I could see that other people noticed him too, because they all smiled at me uncomfortably--some with pity in their eyes, some with glee at my misfortune, and some just wondering what kind of freak willingly goes shopping with mimes.

To get away from him I grabbed some clothes and dashed for the change rooms. I figured I'd take my time, and he'd give up and go mime for someone else.WRONG. When I came out, he was waiting for me. He dropped to the ground, genuflecting (aside: I love the word genuflecting. It's so Catholic and sounds just filthy). I was mortified. He pretended to give me a bunch of flowers. "Ooooohkaaaay," I said to him slowly, "You've had your fun, clown. Go bug someone else now, please."

He pretended to be insulted that I called him a clown and threw his beret to the ground. But he kept up right behind me as I went to the till.

I was starting to get very annoyed."I mean it!" I hissed at him. "Piss off!" He mimed being shot through the heart with an arrow, and then pretended to pull the arrow out, and then he mimed crying. People were starting to laugh hysterically.

Once my purchase was complete I walked quickly out of the store. He was right on my tail, pretending to ski behind me. I broke into a run. He kept up. People on the street turned to watch us.

I just don't get it. What the fuck is up with the mime community these days? I mean, does anyone at all like mimes? Why would somebody purposely choose to pursue a profession where the whole world hates you? When this guy was filling out aptitude tests in highschool, did he get results telling him he'd make a great mime?! I did not see that box on the test!

Anyways, I had to sprint. In a dress and heels. And I lost the freaking mime eventually, but when I arrived at the office, I was sweaty and disheveled and in a bit of a panic, so the new guy at work said with great concern in his voice, "What's wrong with you?!" And I told him, "I was being chased by a fucking insane mime!!!!" Everyone in the office started howling at me, and for the rest of the day, whenever it got too quiet, someone would scream, "I'm being chased by a fucking insane mime!!!!!"

Who has a life like this?!! Why do things like this happen to me?!

Goddamn I hate mimes.