Katie: The Before and After Shots

Here we go again...

2008-01-27T22:33:00.000-08:00

I used to be a committed blogger.

Ok...hardy har. Not that kind of committed, although I certainly had days where I probably should have been.

But alas, I began to neglect the blog. I lost the regular readers who were kind enough to check it with some regularity. And my life changed...a LOT. So suddenly my former blog full of wacky tales of the life of a student/single mom had nothing to do with my current life. I didn't know what to say anymore. I had so much happening in my life that you'd think I'd have a million things to write about, but all these changes left me so exhausted that the thought of writing about them made me want to go into hibernation.

So...here goes. Here's what you need to know about me for now.

There will be some weeks where I might post every day, and sometimes weeks will go by without a word at all. I'm just being straight with you now so we don't hurt each other later.

In October 2006, at the age of 36, I went on a blind-internet-date with the intention of getting over my shit-head younger man emo ex-boyfriend and having a little fun. I wound up meeting the man of my dreams, falling head over heels in love, and by April 2007, we were engaged. We got married on June 16th...my 7 year old son was our ring-bearer.

A week before our wedding, we found out I was pregnant.

Yikes.

I never thought I'd get married. I sure as hell never thought I'd have another kid.

But here's the thing. I love the kid I do have, and so far, he and my husband get along like a house on fire and my husband is a natural dad. There is no "your son" attitude at all. He is my kid's dad and always will be.

And marriage suits me. I was really great at the wacky disorganized single mom thing--I could have been a character in a chick-lit novel I was so good at it--but I am better at this married mom thing, even if love and happiness is boring for blog readers compared to the series of bad date stories I used to post.

And this baby? Well, it should be here in roughly 2 and a half weeks (Valentine's Day is our due date). And I am anxious and excited and scared shitless. And I'm pretty sure that I can handle it, but I can't seem to wrap my head around the fact that I am doing this whole baby thing again. Granted, this time I have a true partner, who is funny and kind and supportive. This time I won't be balancing single motherhood, full-time university and a full-time job and trying to squeeze in a social life too.

And I have a sneaking suspicion that as dull as I've been (on paper) during this whole falling in love and forming a family process that's occurred over the last year and a bit, throwing a baby into this mix will provide me with all sorts of new fodder for blogging.

So wish me luck, and please keep reading. I'll try to keep the posts about what's on sale at Baby Gap to a minimum!

I'm getting married!

2007-04-08T19:34:00.000-07:00

Last night, Sean and I were coming home after having a few drinks. I was wearing this ridiculous red bobbed wig that I'd bought earlier in the day, and we were holding hands and just talking and laughing and I was desperately trying to flag down a cab so we could avoid walking the whole ten minutes to his place. We'd had a really great day together, just drinking each other in, and I felt so completely happy. We were walking along the harbour, right across from Victoria's Parliament Building, which is beautiful at night because it's all lit up and it reflects on the water. We kissed a bit on the corner and told each other how much we love each other, and suddenly Sean said, "I had this whole big plan but..." and the rest is a blur. He got down on one knee and asked me to marry him. I'm pretty sure I said yes. I think I asked him if he was serious two or three times. I told him to ask me again the next day so I'd know it wasn't the drinks. He asked me as soon as I woke up.

I'm so happy. I love this man so much. I am feeling so grateful to the universe for introducing me to my best friend, and I can't wait to start the rest of our lives together.

Update from the invisible woman!!!

2007-02-06T22:49:00.000-08:00

I know...I've disappeared. I've probably lost all of the regular readers I had, but if some of you still check in from time to time....I'M SORRY!!!!

So...maybe I'll try writing more frequently soon. I feel a bit like I've been caught up in a tornado. A tornado of LOVE ;-)

Yes, still deeply in it. It's a miracle, I know. Who'da thunk that little old permanently single and cynical me would finally meet my match? I sure as hell didn't. But, despite all of my weird and annoying quirks, this man seems to really, really like me. I feel like Sally Field on Oscar night. He's funnnnnnnnnny...smart, kind, cool, interesting, patient, handsome, communicative...and a whole lot of other things I'm not going to discuss on a public site, but allllll good. I'm having fun. We're in love. We're moving in together in April and then heading to Mexico for a week as soon as the furniture arranging is complete. My son and he get along. No weirdness...nothing. Well, nothing between THEM.

The kid...well, he is still a source of much happiness and hilarity....maybe not so much happiness today, but definitely hilarity. I got called into the principal's office this afternoon and told by him, in the kind of grave voice one uses to tell someone her house burned down or her husband has run off to Cuba with his secretary, that my beloved angelic 7-year old child is suspended for two days.

What, you ask, could a seven year old boy possibly have done to merit such a severe punishment?

He MOONED his class.

I know.

You try not laughing when someone tells you that with an expression normally reserved for funeral parlours . But apparently, this is a VERY SERIOUS MATTER that the principal is VERY, VERY CONCERNED ABOUT.

So, the kid and I will be home for the next two days. Fortunately my boss has a sense of humour and laughed when I told him, and I can work from home. I will be mocked for months over my juvenile delinquent.

The tv, the Gameboy, the portable dvd player? All off limits, indefinitely. I'm not excusing the behaviour, but I'm trying to keep it in perspective. I hate to be too "boys will be boys" about this, but ummmmm....I knew some boys like this when I was a kid, and a few of them actually became reasonably productive members of society. I'm not quite ready to throw in the towel yet.

Tomorrow my pride and joy will be working on the mountain of homework that we were sent home with. On Friday morning I have an 8:30 appointment to discuss the boy's inappropriate behaviour. The school counsellor will be joining us. Anyone envious NOW? I called my mom for some sympathy and she dropped the phone because she was laughing so hard.

Aye yi yi. I'm too old for this shit.

I've been hypnotized

2006-10-31T13:00:00.000-08:00

So, maybe some of you were wondering where I've been lately. Or maybe not, but I'll tell you anyways.

I've met the man I never believed really existed. I never believed in Mr. Right or soul mates or anything of the sort, but Sean and I fit together so well, I feel like we must have known each other in a past life.

I knew by our second date that I never wanted to have another first date again for the rest of my life. He makes me laugh so hard. He makes me feel comfortable immediately. He is kind and caring and smart and strong and sexy and interesting and I find myself wanting to talk to him almost every minute of the day.

I had pretty much given up on ever meeting anyone right for me. I had totally abandoned the idea of marriage or of having another child, or of even ever really being in love. I signed up for an internet dating site because I knew I should get out and be a bit social, but I had incredibly low expectations, based on some past experiences--I've been single for a very long time, and I've grown used to it. Still, I knew I should date, and how else does someone my age meet someone in a town full of retired people and students?

Sean wrote to me the first night I had signed up. I was hesitant at first, but his letter was hilarious and stood out from all the ones I'd received and so I wrote back. We quickly developed a great banter and decided to skip the coffee date and move straight to dinner. We couldn't stop talking all night. Dinner led to drinks, drinks led to his place, and our date ended around noon the next day. Two days later we met for lunch on my break and when I left the restaurant after kissing him goodbye, I knew for sure that he was different from anyone else I've ever been with. I've never fallen for anyone so fast, so hard and so fiercely as I have with him, and the best part of it is that I know it's ok to fall, because he's doing it too.

So, that's where I've been. I'm sure eventually my cynical edge will return and I'll be back to blogging about my freak magnetisim, but right now I'm just enjoying being obnoxiously happy in love. I used to roll my eyes when people told me love would come when I least expected it, or say crap like, "sometimes you just know." But I guess they were right. I wasn't expecting it at all, and it hit me like a bolt of lightning. And it's true. I just know. I look at Sean, and the way he smiles at me, and I just know.

Blogger Technical Help Needed!

2006-10-03T11:36:00.000-07:00

Hey guys--does anyone know how I can fix my page? A few weeks ago I noticed all of my information and links were bumped down to the bottom of the page, but they used to be on the top right hand side, which is where I want them. I haven't messed with my template at all, so I don't know what's happening. I've checked the blogger frequently asked questions page to look for an explanation, but they didn't have an answer for this one, and my emails to the blogger help people have gone unanswered.

If anyone can give me an answer here, I would really appreciate it!

It's Fate

2006-09-26T21:58:00.000-07:00

So, nothing on tv was pleasing me tonight, and I got bored and started scrolling through a dating website that I haven't logged into in months, because I'm wondering if my recent contemplation about giving up men might be premature, and TA DA!

Angels sing, choirs in the background, picture the heavens parting....

Lo and Behold, there is a picture that makes me stop and look. It's someone I know. Not KNOW KNOW, but whose face I know, because he was an actor in a cult tv show that I was nuts for a few years back. The cancellation of that show, and the subsequent cancellation of the next show by the same producers (Blast you NBC and Fox) sent me spiralling into a depression for months. I mean it. I wept when those shows were cancelled. I joined fanclubs and went all fan geeky and wrote to the networks and swore I'd never watch any of their shows or buy any of their advertisers' products if they cancelled those shows.

Of course, I am suspicious. This actor/writer is doing reasonably well in Hollywood these days and has been in some very successful movies recently. Ok, he's not the leading man in them, but he's funny! And smart! So what would he be doing on a website like this? Why would he need a dating site to meet women? And what kind of guy would imitate him...as I said, he's not a leading man, and he's not a traditional beefcake (I have never used that word before in my life) sort. But he has appeal...he IS from near my area, and I hear he still lives there part time, so maybe it's possible.

At any rate, right this minute, I am going to believe it's really him. Ok, sure I'm way too old for him, and sure it would take a ferry for me to see him, and sure, his screen name at the dating site is the sort that would make me scroll right past him if he weren't someone I recognized, but the fact is I DID recognize him, because people, this is FATE.

I am going to marry him, and he and I are going to spend our lives collaborating on scripts and showing up unannounced at small town improv shows and we will laugh our heads off until we grow old.

Because that's the way it's meant to be.

P.S. Don't think for a second I'm going to post which site this is or what his screen name is. I found him FIRST!

A rose by any other name...

2006-09-24T23:40:00.000-07:00

I think I need to change my name. Katies are messy people. We are emotional. We are too into having a good time. We screw up. Accidents happen to us. We fall in love too easily and get our hearts broken often. We own copies of every season of Felicity and we can't choose between Ben or Noel either!

I'm thinking Jenny. Jennys are cute. Sure, they're often blonde, but sensibly blonde. Jennys are fun too, but they make better choices. They don't just date anyone...they date promising doctors or lawyers or accountants. Jennys don't have to work--they work part time because they love it! They work with kids or animals or sick people. They take their 3 perfect blonde children to the park in the mornings and they smile at everyone. And when they get married, they switch to Jennifer, because Jennifers are taken more seriously, but all of their friends still call them Jenny, because Jennys are so cute and adorable. Jennys get married. It's the law.

Or maybe Abigail. Abigail is ok with the whole single thing. Sure, there might be a lot of cat hair in her perfectly sensible apartment, but Abigail is ok with that. Abigails don't need men. They might have one or two in their lives in a perfectly lovely and appropriate way, but they also go home to CNN and they eat proper meals--they don't stand in front of an ironing board wolfing down slices of bread because they forgot to go grocery shopping. Abigails are fiscally responsible. Their rents are always paid on time and they are dilligently saving for a deposit on a townhouse in a perfectly lovely area. Abigails are excellent daughters who never disappoint their parents.

Or maybe Lois. Lois is kind of mysterious and sexy, but Lois can keep her mouth shut, and if she's having a bad day, she just paints something--she doesn't get all dramatic like a Katie and blog about it or call all her friends and whine. She's an artist and men fall in love with her every time she walks down the street. Lois has a ton of other artist friends and her apartment is the kind of place you walk into and see a chair hanging from a wall by its legs and you think, "Hmmm...I never would have thought of that, but it works--Lois has such irreverent style!"

Jenny and Abigail and Lois would never go home with some guy from a party without knowing his last name. They would never spill red wine all over the slipcovers they'd only just had made for their white couches. They would not fight tears every time they hear a song that reminds them of their ex. They would not be content with a perfectly ordinary but boring job that almost pays all the bills. They would not have thousands of dollars worth of student loan debt. They would not be blogging about their crappy lives.

This Katie thing is not working for me. But I can't do the Katherine thing. Sure, technically, it's my name, but Katherines are too intimidating. Katherines are not like me. Katherines don't trip over ladybugs or do stupid things like buy white couches or let their passports expire.

Katies have freckles and they skin their knees beyond the age of 12 and they date the wrong guys over and over and over and they constantly have to pull their feet out of their mouths and they try to be good friends but they settle.

Katies are messy.

Maybe Susan. Or Anne. Or Grace. Or Rainbow.

Any suggestions would be welcome.

November

2006-09-16T00:32:00.000-07:00

We were drinking. Next to each other, leaning over the deck of an enormous house, both watching the stars and smiling into the dark sky. And he said something and I laughed, and then I said something, and pretty soon we had a lot to say to each other, even though we'd only met 5 minutes ago. And I was drunk from wine and fresh night air and nervousness, and I started to talk (and talk and talk) about every thought that passed through my brain and I could feel my cheeks were burning, despite the fact that the rest of my body was shaking from the cold, and I couldn't stop grinning and talking and grinning and I was in mid-story and he grinned back and leaned in and kissed me and then leaned back and grinned again.

And I fumbled for the railing behind me and stared at him and then laughed in shock, and he laughed back and said, "I had to do SOMETHING to get you to breathe!"

And I was done for.

But I sure didn't want him to figure that out right away, so I laughed again and said, "I like you. You want to know why?"

And he nodded, so I said, "Because there's nothing I like watching more than a man who gets turned on by a woman's brain."

And I kissed him back.

The "Nice Guy" Lie

2006-09-09T13:06:00.000-07:00

So, I was checking my mail on Myspace, and I noticed that one of my "myspace friends" had put up one of those annoying myspace bulletin posts, where people write some piece of crap and then tell everyone to cut and paste it and then repost it. This one was about "Nice Guys." Here is what it said. Rant to follow.

To every guy that regrets hurting or losing her.

To every guy who knows which girl he wants.

To every guy that's said, "Sex can wait."

To every guy that's said, "You're beautiful."

To every guy that was never too busy to drive across town (or across the state) to see her.

To every guy that gives flowers and a card when she is sick.

To every guy who has given her flowers just because.

To every guy that said he would die for her.

To every guy that really would.

To every guy that did what she wanted to do.

To every guy that cried in front of her.

To every guy that she cried in front of.

To every guy that holds hands with her.

To every guy that kisses her with meaning.

To every guy that hugs her when she's sad.

To every guy that hugs her for no reason at all.

To every guy who would give their jacket up for her.

To every guy that calls to make sure she got home safe.

TO EVERY GUY THAT WOULD SIT AND WAIT FOR HER FOR HOURS JUST TO SEE HER FOR TEN MINUTES.

To every guy that would give his seat up.

To every guy that just wants to cuddle.

To every guy that reassured her that she was beautiful no matter what.

To every guy who told his secrets to her.

To every guy that tried to show how much he cared through every word and every breath.

To every guy that thought maybe this could be the one.

To every guy that believed in her dreams.

To every guy that would have done anything so she could achieve them.

To every guy that never laughed at her when she told him her dreams.

To every guy that walked her to her car.

To every guy that wasn't just trying to get laid.

To every guy that gave his heart

To every guy who prays that she is happy even if you are not with her.

This is one bulletin for you...

Not many girls appreciate nice guys anymore... And because of this, there are not many left out there...

If you are a nice guy repost this with "Nice guys finish last."

If you are a girl that thinks every guy should try to acomplish even a few of these repost this with: "To the nice guys" and if you think the person who posted this is a nice guy or a girl who deserves a nice guy then send them a secret message

RANT!

GAG ME.

I am SO sick of guys who wallow in self-pity because they have no luck with women, particularly those ones who spout crap about how women just want to date assholes and don't recognize a nice guy when they see one.

I'm sorry, but genuinely nice guys don't go around telling people how nice they are. They don't have to, because people want to be around them.

So, maybe you're a guy, and maybe you've had a streak of bad luck with women, and maybe those women thought they were doing you a big favour by letting you down easy and they told you that you were just too nice, or they said something stupid, like, "I don't know what's wrong with me--you're too good for me! You're such a nice guy!"

WAKE UP CALL, BOYS. She was LYING.

I'm not saying you're not a nice guy...you very well may be one of the nicest guys on the planet. However, no woman in her right mind, in the history of the planet, has ever truly dumped a guy because he was nice to her. Many men seem to think that desperation is the same as nice. It's not. Desperation is unattractive. So is needy. Both smell funny and women run from it like it's the plague.

Here are some legitimate reasons why women may have dumped you or said no to you when you asked her out (I'm not going to sugarcoat it fellas, because I wouldn't be doing any of you any favours):

1) The idea of sleeping with you makes her nauseous because you remind her of her brother.

2) She doesn't find your extensive collection of Atari games from the 80s endlessly fascinating.

3) She's hot for someone else.

4) You bore her, but she feels sorry for you, so she lets you hang around.

5) You took so long to make a move that you've accidently landed in the dreaded "friend" category, and because you've listened to her moan on and on about all her problems for months now but haven't laid a finger on her, she assumed you weren't interested, began to think maybe you're gay, and even if she now knows you're not gay, she still can't stop thinking of you that way. In her eyes, your passiveness has reduced you to the level of sexless sounding board. She does not fantasize about you, because you've given her nothing to fantasize ABOUT. You've been a super great doormat, and let's face it, most of us don't find ourselves overwhelmed with the urge to fuck our doormats. Once you're in the "friend" category, there is almost no way out. Give up.

6) She probably wouldn't want to hurt your feelings, so she'll never say anything to you about this directly, but it bugs her when you show up for an event wearing jogging pants OR a shirt with a beer logo OR jeans that don't fit well OR running shoes with dress pants OR a baseball hat.

7) You have obvious nose hair.

8) You smell funny or you fart or belch in her presence.

9) Your apartment has nothing but a fake leather couch or a futon, a glass coffee table, a giant television set with three different game systems attached to it, shag carpeting with nacho chips embedded in it, posters of Jessica Biel on the wall and issues of Maxim all over the place.

10) You could use a day at the gym....or maybe 3 months.

Here's my list of things a "REALLY NICE GUY" does and doesn't do:

1) Really nice guys let a woman know she's attractive but don't act like they haven't seen a woman in ten years. That means he compliments her, makes it clear he's interested, but doesn't act like a drooling idiot.

2) Really nice guys don't make a woman wonder if they're into her. They let her know. They ask her out. They tell her how nice her smile/eyes/legs are. They initiate physical contact (hand on her back, hand in her hand, hand on her leg). Women like this because it makes them feel sexy, and they also know that this is the male equivalent to when a dog pees all over the neighbourhood. It's possible to be a feminist and admit that sometimes we LIKE it when a guy shows other people that he's with us, and that he's protective and proud to be seen with us. News Flash! Nothing makes a woman feel hotter than a guy who's not too chicken to let her know he thinks she's hot. That means that all the plucking, shaving, dying, working out, educating, makeup applying, lingerie shopping and other tortures that women go through in order to BE hot has actually paid off.

3)Really nice guys take care of her needs first, if you know what I mean, and I hope to hell you do. Twice. And if she falls asleep from the exhaustion of being totally and utterly satiated, a nice guy doesn't shake her awake and yell, "My turn!" Also, a nice guy never gives a girl "subtle" hints, like shoving her head towards his penis repeatedly. He ASKS.

4) Really nice guys carry condoms and not those shitty Trojans or Ramses that leave most women itching for days. Also, nice guys put them on without being asked, and they don't try to stick an undressed penis into an unsuspecting vagina one or two times before putting that glove on.

5) Really nice guys know that appearance DOES matter, even if we'd all love to live in a world where no one is superficial (ha ha ha ha). They keep up on current trends, they get decent haircuts, they put a little effort into the whole thing. There is nothing more annoying that listening to some whiny badly dressed loser moan about how superficial women are and how they overlook "nice guys" when everyone looking at that badly dressed loser knows perfectly well that if he got off his couch once in a while, showered daily, stopped eating fast food and take out, and shopped for clothing with a female friend who has some actual taste, he might finally get laid. Also, has anyone ever noticed that men who bitch about how superficial women are all seem to want a girl who looks just like Kiera Knightley or Angelina Jolie?

6) Really nice guys have lives. They have friends. They go outside. They don't spend all their time watching sports and playing video games. They know how to be social.

7) Really nice guys don't turn their noses up at new foods--they TRY things. It's polite.

8) Really nice guys don't bash their ex girlfriends. Even if their ex-girlfriends really WERE psychotic bitches. If the ex was a complete and utter nutcase, a nice guy says, "That relationship was painful and I've moved on and wish her well." Even if he wishes she was IN a well.

9) Really nice guys never beg. It's undignified. They also never whine about bitches who don't like nice guys, because nice guys don't refer to women as "bitches."

10) Really nice guys don't tell the woman they're interested in that her roommate/sister/or person she's sitting near is hot. EVER.

11) Really nice guys PHONE.

One note upon edit--a very wise friend of mine read my blog entry and let me know that she thinks I might be mistaking qualities of a "smooth" guy for those of a "really nice guy" and with some reflection I can see her point, so I want to clarify. I do not think every fashion challenged guy or shy guy who takes time to make a move is some kind of loser. The losers are those guys who refuse to step back and examine their role in being rejected. I don't expect a guy to look like he rolled off the pages of GQ, or to act like Rico Suave. But effort is appreciated. Attention is appreciated. If your wardrobe consists of only things made with fleece or t-shirt material, it might be time go shopping. If you're too shy to make a move, work on it, because the longer you go without expressing interest, the sooner she'll assume you aren't, and she'll move on. Being shy or unfashionable does not make a guy a loser, but blaming your failures with women on women and telling yourself it's because you're a "nice guy" is not going to improve the situation. It's only going to leave you frustrated, bitter and single for much longer.

A is for Apple, B is for Baby, C is for Cookie...

2006-08-10T20:31:00.000-07:00

Ok, the kid has been a very unpleasant little man to be around this week--VERY unpleasant--and I was steeling myself this afternoon for whatever his mood would be like when I picked him up after work, but thank God, he seemed to be in a very cheerful mood and tired out from swimming at his summer day-camp today. So I bought him a bag of pretzels on the way home. When the kid eats pretzels, he likes to hold up individual pretzels that have been broken or whatever, and he'll say, "Look mom--this is the shape of a D! This is an E! L for lucky!" and so on while I drive, and I'll nod at him in the mirror and say things like, "wowwwww--that's great honey!"

I've been very frustrated with the kid because of the sense of entitlement he's developed recently--all week he's been begging for more things, complaining about what his friends have that he doesn't, and just generally being a whiny pain in the ass, and I've been pulling my hair out trying to get it through to him that we are very lucky and there are many people in the world who aren't as fortunate as we are. It's been really exhausting to reason every minute with a pissed off 7 year old, and I'm almost at the end of my rope.

So, anyways, we're driving along and suddenly he says, "I think from now on I want to give all of my allowance to poor people."

I nearly careened off the road, I was so shocked. Is this the same kid whose recent battle-cry has been "gimme, gimme, gimme!"? So I say, "wow, that would be a wonderful thing to do. What made you want to do that?" and he says, "Well, because poor people sometimes don't have houses or any money or anything to eat and I wanted to share." And I'm feeling so proud and relieved that he really isn't the little monster he's been impersonating recently and I say, "You're right--and that's a very nice thing for you to think about doing."

More driving along, more pretzel eating, and then he pulls out a pretzel, holds it up and says, "Mom, look! A P!" And then, with the most somber expression I've ever seen, he says, "P. For Poor People."

I just about died.

Homicidal Katie

2006-07-14T18:46:00.000-07:00

I am normally mild mannered like Clark Kent, but man, my upstairs neighbours are my kryptonite. I HATE them. They are evil doers. Seriously, please, is it NORMAL to let your thirteen year old child play basketball in an upstairs apartment for hours at a time? NO, it is NOT. Is it normal to hide in your apartment and "pretend" not to be home when your neighbour downstairs knocks to kindly let you know that the basketball playing is just slightly annoying? NO. Normal reasonable adults do not behave that way. It is also not normal to leave a note under a person's door telling her that she had better never complain about your noise because you once heard her having sex, and it is not normal to tell a person to move her bed away from the wall or put a pillow over her face when she is as they kindly (and wrongly) put it "engaging in sexual affairs," or to tell her to "never bother" you again. It is NOT normal. Normal people thump gently on the floor to let a person know if he or she is being a little too loud. Normal people answer their door when someone comes to ask them to keep it down, and they apologize and try to avoid it again in the future. Normal people shake hands, try to be considerate of each other and my god, possibly try to be neighbourly. Normal people do not up their insane behaviour when you finally go batshit after weeks of this crap and complain to the landlord about them. Normal people don't stomp around in army boots or use fucking stairmasters or wrestle in an upstairs apartment.

These people are psychotic, and they're getting to me.

True Romance

2006-07-12T16:38:00.000-07:00

I've told this story about a thousand times to my friends (including the new one I just had lunch with today) and they're tired of it, so now I'll foist it on you.

After my first winter in the Yukon, I found myself single and bored out of my skull. The population in the town I was in is limited in the winter, and the men had all taken a pact not to shave until the river thawed. Apparently they had also made a silent pact to eat nothing but fat and not exercise, and needless to say, romantic prospects were slim.

Then one day in March, the ice in town began to melt. Spring fever was upon me, but there was still a very limited supply of men. Depressed and lonely, I went to drown my sorrows at the local tavern. Suddenly the doors opened and in walked the finest example of the male species that I'd laid eyes on in months. I looked at my friends, whose jaws were dropping, and said, "Dibs." Everyone knows that when you call dibs it is set in stone. Hot man would soon be my man.

Jacob was French Canadian and younger. He didn't say much, but he laughed at all of my jokes and loved playing pool and drinking free draft beer all day in the bar where I worked. And he was good in bed. Other than the sexual attraction thing though, I began to realize we didn't have much in common. But he was SO pretty. All the women in town were jealous. If only they knew how hard it was to pretend I was interested in anything he had to say. And he was always around. Always. Just sitting there, smiling and drinking and playing pool looking pretty.

Jacob hadn't found housing in town yet--there was a shortage for summer employees--and so he was literally living in a van by the river. I'm not kidding. Because of that, we spent our evenings at my place. Usually we would do something mellow, since by 5 or 6 pm, Jacob was full of draft and my shift at the bar was over. We rented a lot of videos. Well, actually, I rented a lot of videos, because I was the one with the house and the job. And I rented a lot of things that made Jacob's pretty eyes glaze over.

Finally I realized that Jacob's taste in movies might not be the same as mine, and I felt a bit bad. So I said, "Honey, tomorrow night, why don't YOU choose a movie you would like to watch, and you can come over, have a hot shower, I'll make a good dinner and we can have some wine and watch YOUR movie." Jacob seemed very happy. Oh hell, he always seemed happy, but maybe a little happier than usual.

So, the next night came. I cleaned up the house and lit candles. Jacob came over and got in the shower while I did something crazy like season a ham or something. I was so pleased with myself, pottering around in my kitchen in an apron like June Cleaver, making a man meal with meat and potatoes. Jacob, now fresh and clean, settled into the living room and I called, "Just go ahead and start the movie without me, dinner will be ready soon!"

Suddenly he shouted urgently, "CATTY! CATTY!" That's how French Canadians say Katie. "CATTY--You ave to come ere!" It sounded so important that I nearly dropped the lemon meringue pie I'd pulled from the oven. I rushed to the living room in a panic, wondering what the problem could be.

There sat Jacob, bare feet on the coffee table, bottle of Kokanee in his hand. He leaned forward and pointed to the television set, and said forcefully, as if he was telling me the most important thing he'd ever uttered:

"DAT is da raison I grow my air long!"

I was confused. He was watching Highlander. HIGHLANDER. Highlander changed his life.

Oh my God.

And then I felt sad. Because at that moment I knew that I had to break up with him, no matter how pretty he was, and I was going to be stuck with an entire ham to myself.

The gauntlet has been thrown down, or whatever the expression is

2006-07-10T23:23:00.000-07:00

That's it, Egan--tomorrow I am writing stories. Ha!

Bored at work.

2006-06-28T23:10:00.000-07:00

I got so bored at work today that I created a myspace profile (again) and you all know how I feel about myspace. So far the only "friends" on my list are a very cool woman who I met the other night at Victoria's jazzfest, 2 of the bands who we partied with later (really good show), some weird Russian guy who wrote me a poem (my friends list was looking skeletal when I added him) and a few bands from Victoria who asked me nicely for an add.

I have no comments in my comments section. I feel like such a loser. See what I mean about myspace being the high school cafeteria of the internet?

If any of you guys secretly have a myspace page that you haven't wanted to admit to, now is the time to confess your dirty secret. I can't have my profile looking so naked or I'm going to have to start adding more creepy Russian poets to my friends list and you don't want that! My username is Area Woman, based on a running joke I have with a couple of you guys here. If you can't find me, let me know and I'll send you my myspace url (I would post it here, but I'm a moron and I used my first and last name in it when I made it, not realizing it would be on display for all to see).

Find me. Say something witty. Make me feel like I'm not sitting at the loser table.

P.S. I'm going camping this weekend with actual human friends! See? See?! I go out! Sometimes! I swear!

The new neighbourhood

2006-06-13T22:18:00.000-07:00

So, I'm all moved in. Pictures will follow soon. We've been here since the beginning of the month. The first weekend I moved all the stuff in with the help of two hired hands, and then headed to Vancouver to meet some online friends for the weekend. Had an amazing time and was happy to find that my long-time online friends were just as cool and interesting in person as they are in writing. I feel so fortunate to know such great women.

I stopped off at Ikea before heading back to the island and picked up a whole bunch of furniture since I'd ditched a whole ton of crappy student furniture when I left the old place and wanted a few things that actually looked good together. So, I hauled all that out (have the bruises all over my body to prove it) and put every piece together that night. Except for the chairs that go with the new dining room table. The next day I battled the Ikea instructions and put together one chair. I tried on following evenings to put together the others. So far, I've managed one more. The other two are slowly driving me insane. I have all the same kinds of pieces I had for the other chairs, and they're all the same size. I have my Alan Keys lined up, nuts and bolts and washers, etc, but they still won't work! It is so completely frustrating. Seriously, I feel like I'm dealing with a Rubix Cube here. I feel like sending Ikea a bill for the stay in the mad house I'm confident I'll wind up in as a result of these stupid chairs.

Fortunately my mom has the kid for the night because he's got some grandparent's event thing at his school tomorrow, so he's bringing her to class. I remembered I had some of BC's finest hidden away, so I had a few deep breaths and then went for a walk.

And that is what I needed to do. I felt immediately calm and happy and yet at the same time excited--hopeful. I feel like I'm living in the right place. This neighbourhood feels like the kind of place I want to be in. My son seems pretty happy so far and is adjusting well to the new space--he's discovered the joy of riding his scooter down the hill along narrow sidewalks--I chase after him shouting, "Watch that lady! Don't cross the streets! Wait for me!" It's a small nieghbourhood, but busy and bustling, and then there are quiet little side streets full of grand old Victorian houses with stained glass windows and chairs on the porches, craftsman bungalows with fairy lights on their decks, wildly colourful slightly rundown houses with toys in the yard, or small groups of people playing guitars on their decks or driveways with guys fixing their engines or painting. You know these are streets where people feel safe and have their friends and families near, but they've learned to ignore the occasional noisy party from next door or the occasional waft of marijuana outside their windows.

And the flowers! Everywhere, and trees and stars overhead, and scents that tickle your nose and change with every step--cherry blossoms, lavender, freesia, lemon, salt water, tar, oil, pot, roses--and the food! As you walk down the hill, first you smell that soapy herbal smell from the Natural Foods Store and then that starchy smell as you pass the laundromat, and then baked bread and rich spicy smells from the Ethiopian place, followed by that hunger-inducing spicy slightly greasy smell from the Thai cafe behind you, and grass and pine and beer and suncreen and coffee--lots of coffee.

The population here is diverse--young families, dogs dragging owners behind them, sports fans (a world cup party tonight in the fake British pub on the corner where my friend D tends bar), cats curled up in bookstore windows, hippies, hipsters, old couples, musicians, bikers, university students....lots of people sitting outside the cafes and people selling jewelry (and probably a few other things) outside the park. Everyone smiles or says hi around here. I lived in this neighbourhood a couple blocks up about 11 or 12 years ago with a series of insane roommates before I got one (Hi Carol!) who turned out to be a perfect roommate and a great friend. I have a lot of happy memories in this neighbourhood, and I am so excited about the prospect of making more.

For a long time I've had the urge to leave Victoria. I spent my twenties moving from town to town, province to province, and managed the occasional jaunt overseas. I am not good at staying in one place. I get depressed when I think of how much of the world I still haven't seen. I know I'll see a lot of it one day, but I've felt stuck here for some time now and it's been tough. Right now, though, I really can't think of any place I'd rather be, except in that dreamy, "Oh I'd like to be in the South of France eating grapes and bread and drinking wine and making love to an artist," kind of way.

I finally tracked down a copy of Nina Simone's The Blues on cd today. I've had it on tape since it came out in 91, but the tape has been played to the point of abuse. So I returned from my walk and sat back and closed my eyes and listened to the best Nina compilation EVER. I'm serious--I think I own 7 or 8 of her albums now, and listened to any other I could get my hands on, but The Blues is a perfect, perfect album.

Anyways, I'm happy. I've got Nina, I've got the neighbourhood, and the Ikea chairs can wait a few more days.

In an effort to shock Egan even further, I will post twice in ONE day!!!!

2006-05-24T18:51:00.000-07:00

My son F just came into my office--the sitter (A) is downstairs asking his mom to pick him up, despite the fact that I've offered to drive him so he won't be here all fucking night--and whispered, "Mom, do we have any treats?" I tell him no, but maybe we can get one later. Then he looks at me suspiciously and says, "Please, just tell me where they are--I promise I'll share with A." I say, "F, there are no treats. We'll get some later." He says, "Well, can I just check and see where you're hiding the treats?" and I say again, emphatically, "F, there are NO treats. I'm not hiding anything!" He is totally exasperated and says, "Well, can I just check?!" and at this point I'm just about insane and I say, "F, you can't check for something that doesn't exist! I do not have treats. There is no point in checking for something when I say they aren't there. I am not lying--there are NONE." He lets out this huge sigh and says, "Ugh! It's like you're speaking a different language or something!!!"

What not to wear EVER.

2006-05-24T10:16:00.000-07:00

This morning I saw a woman who looked as if she was vying for the front cover of Glamour Magazine's Annual "Don'ts" issue. I have never seen anything like this ensemble before. From top to bottom, every inch of her would have made Clinton and Stacey clutch each other in horror. So, let's start with the top.

Long brown hair with about 5 inches of roots where the blond dye had faded. A big chunk of that hair was gathered at the top of her head in a pink shiny scrunchy that had a trail of pink feathers hanging from it. The rest of the hair hung loose.

On her neck were many strands of genuine plastic colourful mardi gras style beads.

Her chest appeared to have magnets in it, since as she walked she seemed strangely led by her breasts. It was like her breasts had a mind of their own and were taking her somewhere whether she liked it or not. That's the only way to describe this walk. Like the breasts were on a mission and were dragging her along. She had them contained in a VERY low cut t-shirt with some kind of beer logo on it, and on top of that was a black "jacket" that hung to her knees and was made of some kind of mesh netting.

On her hind quarters she was wearing pedal pushers that appeared to be intended for someone at least 4 or 5 sizes smaller. Said pedal pushers were white and covered in huge blue cabbage roses--did I mention the VERY visible pantyline?

Underneath the pedal pushers were black fishnet stalkings. Yes. I'm not kidding.

It's possible her odd walk had a little to do with the shoes she was wearing. Black "leather-look" platforms with big chunky heels (at least 3 inches) on which she balanced precariously. A dainty "gold" ankle bracelet on one leg.

She kept dashing to the curb as if she was going to jump into traffic and waving furiously at cabdrivers whose mouths opened as they drove near--none of them stopped. The well-dressed man next to me at the crosswalk glanced my way and mouthed, "Oh. My. God."

I've never seen anything like it.

Oh God no.....

2006-05-12T17:27:00.000-07:00

When I was growing up in a small town on Vancouver Island in the seventies, I used to dream of living somewhere that an ice cream truck would visit. We were too far out of the city--there were no ice cream trucks to be found in our neighbourhood. I had seen them on tv and knew that the ice cream from those trucks probably tasted better than ice cream from anywhere else in the world. I wanted to hear that truck music and grab some money from my mom, and run to the curb with all of the other neighbourhood kids and get myself an ice cream from the most magical truck ever. I grew up feeling ripped off--I should have had that perfect childhood experience--the joy of chasing that musical version of heaven on wheels after a day of sitting in the hot sun with my friends on the curb pretending we were Charlie's Angels and discussing our love for Shaun Cassidy. I resented my parents for making me live in the country on a safe no-thru road. The pleasures I was denied because of their selfish desire to raise us with good wholesome small town values! It was a travesty from which I am not certain I have ever fully recovered.

Now I live in a suburb in the city in a neighbourhood full of small children, who play outside all day and discuss important issues such as who has the most Yu-Gi-Oh cards while they run around and scrape their knees and climb trees in the summer. And yes...there is an ice cream truck. My son has not been denied his right to the most important aspect of an idyllic childhood. He and his friends chase the truck as it slowly rounds our neighbourhood several times every afternoon.

My opinion of the ice cream truck, however, has changed over the years. I think it started the first time I took the kid to get an ice cream. The tinny repetitive jewelry box music that echoed through the streets still charmed me, and I couldn't wait to see how magical this experience would be for him. But the driver didn't look like the kind of guy I always imagined would drive the truck. He wasn't wearing a pink stripey hat. He didn't have an apron on. He wasn't super smiley. He had a big pot belly, a too-tight t-shirt and about 3 days worth of stubble on his face. And the cheapest ice cream in his truck was $4 and was barely frozen.

Realizing that I could buy a box of 6-8 ice cream treats for just a little more than the cost of one treat from the truck, I decided that visits to the ice cream truck would be reserved for very special occasions, like after a long day at the beach or something. But not all my neighbours have the same policy. It sucks to be that parent who says to her kid, "I'm not paying 4 bucks for a half-melted Fudgsicle from a truck when we have a whole box of treats in our own freezer," and then has to watch him as he stares mournfully at the chocolate-smeared faces and sticky fingers of the happy neighbourhood children whose parents aren't horrible stingy jerkfaces.

Summer is coming and with it comes the truck. Today I saw one of our neighbourhood rugrats licking some kind of caramel concoction off his fingers and wiping them on his t-shirt. I could hear the tinny truck music floating through the air. My son looked at me pleadingly and I shook my head. We have a box of ice cream sandwiches in our freezer. He glared at me and stomped inside the house.

I could still hear the music as the truck drew closer to our block and made it's tenth round in the hour...and it began to sound strangely like the theme to Jaws.

Did you ever have that nightmare...

2006-04-29T18:38:00.000-07:00

where you suddenly realize you're one credit shy of graduating, one exam away from finishing a course...but you find this out well after you thought you were done? I mean, you've been going around living your life, thinking you were finished, celebrating the fact that you're all done, and then you find out that all along you were wrong?

I'm living that nightmare.

I just discovered that despite all of my careful checking and double checking and planning and everything else, I miscalculated the amount of senior credits I have. I am not finished after all. I am, to my surprise and dismay, one class away from graduating.

I celebrated finishing school last week. I started kicking back with magazines at night--finally able to enjoy a light read without feeling guilty that I should be doing something else instead. But wait! I SHOULD have been doing something else instead! Like actually taking the right number of courses!

The worst part about this is is the fact that I actually DROPPED a senior course last semester, thinking I had more than enough, because I didn't need the added stress. Ha!

And there are so few classes in the summer that I can take that will work around my job. My boss has been really patient so far about my being in school, but this might be the last straw.

So, today I registered for a month long third year poli-sci course about American politics. I know nothing about poli-sci. I know nothing about American politics apart from the fact that I hate George Bush and Karl Rove. The textbooks cost a fortune.

Am I crazy? Or should I audition for the music department and take a month long course about singing for the stage? I'm serious. Input is required friends. I know I've neglected the blog, but please, if you don't mind dusting away the cobwebs in here with me, I'd sure appreciate advice from anyone who has any poli-sci knowledge.

This is so depressing.

I love this.

2006-04-09T15:31:00.000-07:00

Darth Tater

He rocks. I want to take him to Paris and photograph him in front of the Eiffel Tower, or take him to Washington and snap him in front of the White House, or New York in front of Lady Liberty...or, or, or...you get the idea. World domination by potato!

So, I promise to update soon. Had my last class ever at University last week, and once I get my last bloody essay done, I'll be finished school forever. Eeeek. I'm looking for a new place to live, my son turned 7 last weekend and we've had houseguests and all kinds of craziness around here, so I am flat-out tired. I had a terrible email mishap in which an intensely personal email of mine was--through my own ineptitude--accidentally sent to about 20 people in my address book (do not ask me what I did--I couldn't repeat it if I tried), so that's an embarrassment I'm struggling to recover from right now. Ah well. Such is life.

See you soon.

Potatoes Unite!

What is it about my face?

2006-03-21T18:57:00.000-08:00

I got on the bus today and recognized the bus driver. He's the friendly guy. He knows my name. He knows everyone's name. He can talk down a pissed-off passenger. He's nice to crazy old people. He smiles and thanks everyone when they get off the bus. When he asks you how your day is going, it seems like he's actually interested. Sometimes he's very chatty with me, which is nice, except it means that I get stuck standing at the front of the bus talking to him while he goes on and on about his kids. Still, he's friendly and he has one hell of a hard job, and we all need a little civility on this planet, I think, so what's the harm in standing for 15 minutes, right?

So today he starts telling me about his best friend who happens to be a woman, and how she did something years ago that really pissed him off, but he never told her what it was. He walked around carrying this anger at her and resenting her for it, and the whole time she was totally unaware that he was even upset about this. I have no idea why he decided to unload all this on me--we only have a superficial "how's your day going?" kind of relationship. But he obviously needed to tell someone, so I listened while he went on about how she was so surprised that he'd been angry with her and she asked him why he never said anything, and then he realized if only he'd communicated this to her, he could have stopped walking around with all this anger. Which is great--good for him. He and his friend are now back on track and he's asked her to forgive him for not trusting her enough to let her know he was upset with her. But still...kind of a weird thing to tell a passenger, right?

Ok, though. He's probably bored. All he does is drive around all day and talk to strangers and many of them probably act like he doesn't exist, even though they put their lives in his hands once a day. Again, no skin off my back if he wants to unload a bit on me.

Then he starts telling me about his kids and how he and his wife home-school them. That's cool. Not my bag, but then again, I don't have a partner at home who could give me this option for my son. Still, it's all interesting--he's really into it. He tells me all about the bible stories he and his kids read together and how it's great because the kids learn to read, but they also learn a "moral lesson" based on "factual events" that they can draw on when they run into problems in life.

Um, ok. Again...so NOT my bag, but he's a nice guy. Obviously he loves his kids and is proud of them, and who am I to judge?

So I make the mistake of telling him I'm not religious. Because I'm a moron.

Then I have to listen to him explain how it's not about religion. It's about spirituality and values and God's love. Again, hey man, that's cool for you. Good on ya and all that jazz. I so don't want to be discussing this on a bus, but whatever. He seems really happy to be talking to me. And that's good for him. I'm glad to help, even though I'm becoming a little uncomfortable.

I try and steer him off the spirituality talk and back to the homeschool stuff because I figure that's safer territory and I can more easily feign interest in that. I ask about field trips. He gets excited and tells me about all the cool stuff they do, and I have to say, it does sound fun. They go on nature hikes, fishing, they visit fire stations. So I tell him about how I've heard the recycling depot does field trip tours for schools, and he is psyched about the idea and how it would really stand out in his kids' minds and make them understand how important it is to recycle. And I'm pleased that he's so excited to learn about this. And we're at my stop at the university, where the buses sit for several minutes.

So, I'm at the exit of the bus right next to him, ready to run and get a coffee before I head to class, and he tells me about his friend who owns a cafe and they run a fair-trade coffee co-op. Very cool. I'm into that. And he says he's really into supporting small business, especially those that respect cultures and make an effort like those that sell fair trade coffee. Again, right on. I'm down with that.

Then he says he doesn't like these big businesses like Starbucks. I nod. Lots of people don't like Starbucks. I'll admit to buying a cafe mocha there here and there, but generally, I do make an effort to buy coffee from independent places that sell fair trade brands, so I have no issues with what he's saying. It's all good. Nice guy, smiley friendly bus driver. Loves his kids and supports small businesses. Good for him. And he says, "I don't like the kind of lifestyle Starbucks promotes."

And I think, "Yeah, a lot of people feel that way. Big business, squeezing out the moms and pops, popping up on every corner of our ever-growing consumeristic more more now now bigger better culture. It's not a great lifestyle to promote, I guess. I should be more aware of this stuff. I should be more determined to think about what I consume." So I keep nodding and smiling. I'm thinking about running to the independent coffee place on campus right now actually, but he's talking into the short time I have between departing the bus stop and class.

Again he says, "I don't like the lifestyle Starbucks promotes," and I nod and smile and step towards the door again, hoping he'll take a breath for a second so I can say, "nice talking to you, I've got to run!" but he keeps going. "I might be overstepping my bounds," he says, so happy to have a kindred spirit in me, "but gay marriage is wrong. A child needs a mother and a father--a boy without a dad will not grow up to be masculine. A girl without a mom will not be feminine. That's a fact. That's the kind of lifestyle Starbucks promotes."

I'm stunned. I stand there, literally speechless. What is it about my face that makes someone think that I might possibly agree with that? Why on earth would he say something like that to someone he barely knows? What do I say?

Nothing. I said nothing. I was so tired. I had to get to class. I didn't know what to say. I thought about the fact that I'm a single mom whose son doesn't have a man and a woman raising him together. I thought about the fact that I have more gay friends than straight, and they deal with shit like this all the time. I got off the bus and felt sad and defeated. I waved to my former favourite bus driver, who smiled happily at me and shouted, "It was great talking to you, Katie!"

I bought a coffee from the independent coffee seller on campus and told the cute coffee guy about it, and we shook our heads and rolled our eyes at each other.... then I wandered across campus to my queer film studies class feeling totally disturbed and angry at myself for not speaking up.

It's safe to hit the "Next Blog" button if you:

2006-03-18T15:00:00.000-08:00

• Are hoping to buy a motorized wheel chair
• Really into purchasing large amounts of fertilizer
• Are intensely interested in hearing why Mary-Jo and all of her neighbours in their trailer park in Wichita think that abortion is murder.
• Are into Spanish cartoon porn.
• Really want to increase your website traffic and don’t mind having your blog covered with crap from advertisers.
• Love America. I mean, REALLY, REALLY love it. Like you love it so much you want to marry it.
• Know what “Diem dam chinh thuc lop Tin 04b1” means.
• Want to improve your spanking techniques.
• Don’t mind that your computer will freeze for half an hour when you stumble upon a 13 year old Japanese girl’s tribute to Hello Kitty!

Geek Girl Breaks Down

2006-03-17T14:39:00.000-08:00

Hi, my name is Katie, and I'm an internet geek.

I've been posting on various chat boards for over 7 years. I'm addicted to Alias and Veronica Mars and can spend hours online snarking about the hilarity that is America's Next Top Model (who here thinks Jade's makeover served her right?).

I used to have a myspace page and actually own cds by bands who asked me to put them on my "friends list."

I once pitched in with a bunch of people at TWoP to send a plane and banner over the Big Brother 2 House in order to drive houseguest/professional cook Nicole even more insane than she already was.

I collect Pez dispensers.

When internet neophytes send me annoying chain e-mail that suggests something tragic might happen to me if I don't pass it along to 5 of my closest friends, or when they send me stuff about kidnapped children from Wisconsin, I immediately send them a nasty note containing a link to About.com's Urban Legends page. It never stops them, by the way.

But last night, I broke down, and purchased the ULTIMATE in Net Geek Chic--I bought the unofficial Snakes on a Plane t-shirt!

I love that there are already unofficial t-shirts for a movie that isn't out yet. I love that a movie with a premise this stupid is actually being made. I love that it's being made by people who seem gleeful about their involvement in this movie precisely because the premise IS so stupid. I love that it stars Samuel-there ain't a damn thing you can do about it-Jackson. I love the stories behind this movie.

I love my t-shirt.

There's no elegant way to end a hiatus

2006-03-11T18:03:00.000-08:00

Unless of course your life is written by the same people behind Arrested Development or something, because damn, those guys came back from a hiatus every few weeks with such panache! It's intimidating.

Alas, you fine folks have me, and I have not felt like writing at all lately. I'm finishing the last two months of the degree that I started way back in 2000 or 2001--it's been so long I can't remember when I began. I am so not into school at all anymore. I've stopped caring about grades, I've stopped participating in discussions, and I've even stopped checking out my male classmates, because yes, there's no getting around it--they're all way too young for me. I've sworn off men who don't know what Schoolhouse Rock or ABC Afterschool Specials were. That rule includes men my age--if you don't know what those things are, you were probably raised on a commune or in some weird religious community, and we'd be doomed anyway. I need a man who knows the words to "Conjunction Junction." A girl has to have some standards, right?

You know what sucks about getting writer's block? You think people might miss your blog, but what happens is that all of the people who regularly check it get sick of waiting between posts for weeks and they stop checking. And who can blame them, really? But it's going to take me a while to get back in the swing of things again....so come by! Check! Send me notes like Anna did, and yell at me to get my shit together and write something. I need the pressure. Without you, I'm nothing. Ok, that's not entirely true....without you, my BLOG is nothing. You are the wind beneath my wings, guys.

I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.

I'm on hiatus for a while

2006-01-26T19:18:00.000-08:00

I know, I promised I'd finish that story, but the truth is, after all the alcohol consumption, all I remember is I won $100 bucks, I donned a nun's habit, crawled around on a piano genuflecting, and ripped the habit off to reveal some rather un-nunnish wear. After that, it's all a blur.

I'm refreshing, regenerating, renegging, re-whatevering until I have some new stories to share. Until then, I'll keep reading and enjoying your blogs, guys, and I'll see you soon!

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

2005-12-31T23:25:00.000-08:00

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?

2005-12-25T15:26:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-24T17:23:00.000-08:00

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!

2005-12-24T14:57:00.000-08:00

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!!!!!

2005-12-15T21:20:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-02T19:39:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-24T17:40:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-12T16:12:00.000-08:00

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

Dance, Dirtbag!

2005-11-12T16:08:00.000-08:00

The Break-Up

2005-11-05T16:58:00.000-08:00

We met when I was eighteen and it was love at first sight. Since then, we've shared everything--our ups and downs, our fears, our deepest secrets, our greatest hopes. We could always count on each other, and through the years, we grew closer. Our trust could not be broken.

But lately, I feel like something has changed. There's something missing. We don't communicate anymore. I don't feel understood. And though it kills me to say this...

I think I might have to break up with my hairdresser.

I met her when my high school boyfriend dragged me to a Supercuts so he could get his hair cut for a school photo. I had been to several high-end salons that month, trying to get my hair cut super short, but all of the hairdressers I went to refused to cut it--they wanted me compromise and get a long bob, or come back in a week after I had thought about it. I'm not one to ponder a haircut. I wanted it short and I wanted it done now. So while the boyfriend was getting his hair trimmed, I walked over to the other hairdresser in the place, sat in her chair and said, "Can you cut it all off?!"

Her grin lit up the whole room. Well, actually, it was probably the flourescent lighting that lit up the room, but we had a connection. I could feel it. We had chemistry. She understood what I wanted, and she was willing to give it to me. That kind of hairdresser doesn't come along every day. It was magic. She snipped away furiously and we talked non-stop. I told her all about my boyfriend and she gushed about what a cute couple we made. Halfway through the haircut she turned my chair away from the mirror so I'd be surprised when she was done. I knew it would be ok. I trusted her. She took her time, avoiding the dreaded razor and clippers that so many lazy hairdressers are quick to reach for when cutting short hair. We laughed hysterically about boys and tv shows. Finally she was finished, and she spun me around to face myself, minus the 8 inches of hair I'd walked in with.

It was perfect. It was short like Mia Farrow's and it made my eyes look huge. My boyfriend just about fell over. And the best part? It cost me only ten bucks. Supercuts, remember?

I continued seeing her. When I dumped the high school boyfriend she said, "He was never right for you," but she liked the sound of my new boyfriend. She really GOT my hair, and she was always excited when I wanted a change. When I arrived at her salon, she would aways say, "I was so happy when I saw you on the appointment list and I have some pictures of haircuts I think would be amazing on you!" The weird part? We had always chosen the exact same pictures. It was kismet. We were perfect together.

She became quite popular and her client list grew, and over time she moved up and on to newer and better salons. Sure, it would cost me more, but a good haircut from someone like her was worth it, because I always knew I'd walk out thrilled.

But then I moved to the Yukon, and I would only get to see her every six months or so. You would think the distance would have taken a toll on our relationship, but somehow it just made our love stronger. She would plan haircuts for me that were so well-thought out that I wouldn't have to visit another stylist the whole time I was away. Whenever I grew my hair from short to long, she styled it so perfectly that I never had that in-between look.

One day I came home from the Yukon and called the salon where she worked, and the unimaginable happened. The receptionist told me she'd left. I begged the girl on the phone to tell me where she'd gone, but she would only tell me that my beloved hairdresser had fallen in love with some guy and moved to Calgary. How could she do this to me?! How could she leave me?! No note, no phone call...nothing. My heart was broken.

For three years I suffered through inferior haircuts. Ok, sure, some tried...I had some good times with a few hairdressers, but none of them got me like she did, and I always felt a little dirty after each cut, like somehow she would know. None of them had that magic we had together. I grew depressed, knowing that no one would ever really understand my hair like she did. It was devastating.

Then one grey and gloomy afternoon, I was walking past a near-deserted mini-mall in town, and as I passed a salon there, out of the corner of my eye, I thought, "My God--it's her!" Could it really be true? How could she have been in town without me knowing? It seemed too good to be true. I steeled myself for disappointment, and then I opened the door to the salon. The little bells on the door twinkled and she turned towards me and we both screamed in joy!

"They told me you'd left and fallen in love and gone to Calgary!" I cried.

"No, I've been here the whole time! My boss canned all the staff and hired a whole team of Aveda graduates and then stole our client lists! I had no way to call anyone! I will never let this happen again! I tried to find you but you aren't listed in the phone book!"

I was on top of the world. Fate had brought us back together. We nearly cried catching up--she was shocked and thrilled to learn I'd had a child and had returned to university. I was blown away to find out she'd finally left her live-in boyfriend who kept dragging his feet whenever the M word came up. Life was good. Everything was finally as it should be.

Except my hair.

I don't know what happened in those three years we were apart...maybe it's too painful for her to speak of-- maybe her old boss's actions killed something inside her--but she had become obsessed with layers, and convinced my hair looked great with them. The worst thing ever began happening...I would look fantastic in the salon and then an hour later, when I tried to style it myself, my hair would look limp and ordinary. Sure, I still love seeing her. We still talk, we still have that connection, but she really likes my hair short and she really likes these layers. In the entire time I've known her, I've never had to put limits on our relationship. I never had to say "not too short and cut it out with the layers." But now? Now I'm not so sure.

I've been avoiding her. A few months ago when I was getting my hair coloured at Aveda, I even cheated on her a little and let the stylist cut a quarter of an inch off my hair to get rid of the split ends. I'm riding a slippery slope, I know.

My hair is past my shoulders now. It needs a cut. I'm thinking something shoulder skimming and kind of blunt with slightly long bangs that I can comb to the side if I hate them. But how can I communicate this to her? Can our relationship survive this?

I'm not sure I'm ready to find out.

If you don't have anything nice to say, come sit next to me!

2005-11-02T18:37:00.000-08:00

That line is just about the only thing I found palatable in Steel Magnolias. Today it suits my mood. I feel like a bitch. A complete and utter bitch. Not because of anything I've done recently, although certainly I've repeatedly had to stifle the urge to hurl myself at various morons and prevent myself from angrily gnawing their flesh apart with my teeth, or at least resist my desire to give them a sound dressing-down. No, I feel like a bitch because I have let myself get run-down and the universe is apparently out to get me. I know, it's so boring to read people's complaints, but c'mon, it's me! We're friends, right?

So here's what's bugging me. I have an inner ear infection. Do you know how embarrassing it is to be 35 years old and have to call work to take the day off for an ear infection? Because, you know, I'm really four. I should have just told them I had lice, and then they wouldn't want me there for the whole week. Anyways, it's making me feel dizzier than usual and everything is muffled and I can't quite decide if this is what makes me feel like I've gone crazy, or if I really have gone crazy. I mean, honestly, how many crazy people are actually that self-aware?

What's worse though is that I wrote a ten page essay while feeling like this, and though I'm prone to self-criticism, I am almost certain that I just handed my professor a piece of what the French call "ordures." I don't know how I'll be able to hold my head up in class, given that I'm embarrassed and dizzy and one side of my head is heavier and about to start oozing something nasty.

To top it all off, despite my current state of crappiness, I decided to press on and attend my mid-term exam for my Gay Lit class this afternoon. I was on fire, whipping through a fabulous essay about performative behaviour and how society's rules do not apply to a culture forced to invent itself due to its rejection from the mainstream (or something like that) and my cell-phone rings. My emergency cell-phone, which NEVER rings, because generally, there are never emergencies. It was my son's old kindergarten. Not my favourite place in the world, by the way, since I think the Principal is a condescending cow, but guess who it was on the phone?! Seems that my little angel decided to bolt from his babysitter, and he grabbed his skateboard--sans helmet--and rode on down to his old school to have a little pow-wow with his old pals. The babysitter was in hysterics, the kindergarten wouldn't release my son to him because they didn't know him, and only I would be allowed to get the kid. So, I apologized profusely to the professor and left. And now the exam which should be behind me is still in front of me.

Merde.

Happy Halloween

2005-10-31T17:17:00.000-08:00

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.

Don't give up on me!

2005-10-25T23:23:00.000-07:00

I know--I suck. I just haven't had time to update in a while--life is a little insane around here. I plan on doing something dramatic or humiliating any day now, I promise, and I'll be sure to let you all know the gory details as soon as possible!

Oh, any Mike Doughty fans? I finally bought Haughty Melodic and I love it--it just puts me in the best mood--had to dig around for it and finally found it in the last store I looked at under punk, which I think is kind of weird. I've been playing Ted Leo's Tyranny of Distance and Shaking the Sheets to death and made the mistake of buying one of his self-titled album (bloody expensive too) but it's way too early experimental and I'm not big on shitty sound and reverb for effect, so I haven't listened to the whole thing yet.

The Fabulously False Confessions of Katie Pom-Pom-Hands

2005-10-20T19:20:00.000-07:00

So, to begin with, let me explain the Katie Pom-Pom-Hands thing. I was recently in a heated debate in an online forum I like to think of as my brain's second home, and feeling as if I was expected to be a bigger cheerleader for something than I am I declared, "I'm sorry I wasn't born with pom poms in my hands!"

Later a funny friend (who I will refer to as Insane Creative Muse) wrote to me, "You were SO born with pom-poms in your hands!" And suddenly I imagined myself as a kind of female counterpart to Edward Scissorhands; a forlorn pasty brunette with bits of fuzz stuck to her through the magic of static cling, staring sadly at her great big giant red wooly pom-pom hands.

And thus, Katie Pom-Pom-Hands was born. Clearly I have too much time on my big giant red wooly pom-pom hands.

So, just for fun, I am going to share with you all the online conversation I had in which I finally came out to my friends as pom-pom handed.

***Katie Pom-Pom-Hands Comes Out***

Poster friend #1: How do you type with pom-pom hands?

Katie Pom-Pom-Hands: I use my toes. Please, don't mock me. Last time I cried, I wiped my tears with my big giant red pom-pom hands, but they didn't dry properly and now they smell moldy.

Poster friend #2: And you wonder why you're stalked by mimes...

Katie Pom-Pom-Hands: It is a mystery.

Poster friend #3: Mimes love pom poms!

Katie Pom-Pom-Hands: They ARE very useful if you're expressive. And mimes do like expression. Maybe I need to rethink my mime aversion. Maybe the love of my life, the one man who can accept me and my big giant red pom-pom hands, is out there, hiding behind a sad white clown face, wishing he could say the words to let me know how he feels. Maybe he feels too "boxed in" or "trapped" somehow by his emotions. Oh great. Now I'm crying all over my big red pom-pom hands again. Can someone please spray some Febreze on me?

Poster friend #3: oh, god, Katie, I am losing it big time over here. I can't stop laughing, even though it's so Very, Very Sad.

Katie Pom-Pom-Hands: I am glad my tragic obstacle in life amuses you so, Poster friend #3. I would punch you in the nose, but it would probably be too soft to hurt.

Poster friend #3: ooph! Aw, that was sweet, Katie. More, more, more!

Katie Pom-Pom-Hands: You are truly sick, my friend. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go and visit my friend John CornCob Feet now. He understands my pain.

Poster friend #4: Careful KatiePPH, if those pompom hands are made from tissue or crepe paper, you have to worry about the colors bleeding if you cry all over em.

Katie Pom-Pom-Hands: No, they're wool, Poster friend #4. Something terrible has happened. I went over to John's and he'd been attacked by crows last night. His poor feet.

Poster friend #5: OMG, I. am. dying. here!!!

Katie Pom-Pom-Hands: You're dying?!!! Think of John and his poor nibbled corncob feet! I really can't get over the selfishness of you people!

Poster friend #3: I hope that wool is well processed. It could shrink and felt and you could just have itchy little tufts. Be careful, Katie PomPomHands! Be very careful!

Katie Pom-Pom-Hands: Finally, a little concern. It takes a village, people. Poor John Corncob Feet. He could barely hobble to the door when I went over there, and I can't turn the knob with my pom-pom hands.

Poster friend #5: I can see where that would be hard to do, Katie.

Poster friend #4: I'm glad that your hands are more substantial than tissue or crepe paper. I had visions of you with two sodden rolls of colored toilet paper on your arm stumps if you ever went swimming. On the other hand, you can wash and dry your dishes without a dishcloth or towel.

Katie Pom-Pom-Hands: You are all evil. I have to leave for a while. Auntie Jemima-Jello-Legs is here.

(Later that evening...)

Katie Pom-Pom Hands: I'm back. Auntie Jemima-Jello-Legs is such a hooooer. She drank a bunch of vodka earlier today and when I answered the door a bunch of frat-boys were on their knees, licking her feet. She's what we like to call "loose."

So I guess I never really told anyone except Insane Creative Muse until now about my big giant red pom-pom hands. I guess I just wanted you all to accept me, and think I was "normal." But what is normal, anyways? How do we define that?

This is something I have lived with all my life. Kids at school growing up were merciless. One girl used to shake my hands, but she'd hide gum in her palm. In high school one boy I liked pretended to kiss my hand and then he lit it on fire. It smelled horrible for days and then all the kids chanted, "watch out for Katie Burning Smelly Pom-Pom Hands!" I was ostracized. Even my piano teacher told me I was useless.

I was terrified that my son would be born the same way, because you know, I ate a lot of lamb when I was pregnant. God help me, I know I shouldn't have, but it was a craving!

Fortunately he turned out fine. He has been wonderful. He helps me wash my hands (cold-water hand wash with gentle detergent only) and then he air-dries them with my hair-dryer. This is a huge responsibility for a boy his age--if he doesn't do it right away, the hands get moldy as you all know. One time he accidently dried one of my hands on the hot setting. Oh God, at the time it didn't seem so funny, but now I think of it and just laugh and laugh. My right hand/pom-pom shrunk up to the size of a golf-ball and the other one was still the size of a volley-ball! I panicked a bit but then I called a knitting hotline (it's really hard to dial a phone with your toes) and they told me to rewash the hand and then stretch it out. The poor kid will never live that one down!

Poster friend #5: In this case...you piano teacher had a point.

Katie Pom-Pom-Hands: See what I'm up against? I knew you wouldn't accept me as I am!

Poster friend #6: Katie, you need to do something to raise public awareness of your...uh, differently-abledness. We should make little red rubber bracelets that say something like, Give a Hand to Someone with PPH. Or someone could even come up with a slogan that's actually catchy.

Katie Pom-Pom-Hands: Rubber?! Are you all too good for wool, Poster friend #6?!

Poster friend #6: No, I'm not too good for wool! I love wool. In fact, I wear it all winter. But I thought you may want to capitalize on the rubber bracelet craze while it's at full throttle.

Poster friend #5: I have lots of bulky red yarn. I could braid some bracelets for all of us, Katie PomPomHands.

Katie Pom-Pom-Hands: I am overwhelmed. You guys!

Poster friend #6: We just want you to know that we care, Katie.

Katie Pom-Pom-Hands: Is anyone here allergic to wool? I just want to hug you all!

And lo, Katie Pom-Pom-Hands admitted the truth and faced her greatest fear and she discovered that her friends didn't care that she had big giant red pom-pom hands. They just cared. They loved her, and her big giant red wooly pom-pom hands, and she knew she was the luckiest pom-pom handed girl in the whole wide world!

The End.

* Disclaimer: Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Void where prohibited. Some assembly required. List each check separately by bank number. Batteries not included. Contents may settle during shipment. Use only as directed. No other warranty expressed or implied. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment.

I have a paper due tomorrow

2005-10-19T23:05:00.000-07:00

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:

Cleaned my kitchen, and reorganized all my cupboards.
Went downtown to do a bunch of errands.
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.
Sorted out my closet, separating clothes by season and colour and then drove a bunch of things to Goodwill.
Took all my cans and bottles back for a refund. $4.15!!!!
Flossed my teeth. Twice.
Called my mom.
Called my friend who I never phone because every phone call with her lasts an hour and consists of her screaming, "Oh my fucking God, like you won't fucking believe this, oh my God," and me saying, "mmmhmmm....wow...yeah, mmmmhmmmm, whoa, wow....mmmmhhhmmm."
Called the loans people to find out why my student loan STILL hasn't arrived and spent 45 minutes on hold listening to instrumental versions of "My Heart Will Go On," while I screamed, "You %@!*$@#!!'s!!!!!"
Watched America's Next Top Model and Lost.

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

Some humiliating revelations about me...

2005-10-09T20:41:00.000-07:00

1) I try to avoid it like the plague, but if for some reason there's nothing else on tv and I watch Extreme Makeover Homeowner's Edition, I always wind up weeping.

2) I have never mastered chopsticks. The utensils, not the piano piece, but I can't play that either. Do you know how embarrassing it is to be the one dork in a Chinese restaurant who has to ask for a fork?

3) There are a couple of BeeGees songs that I like. I know. You don't have to tell me how wrong this is.

4) Whenever I see ice skating during the Olympics, I spend the next hour pretending to do double axels in my living room.

5) I also voluntarily watch American Idol and its Canadian counterpart, and then I sing "Stop!" by Sam Brown for about half an hour after each episode and curse the show's age restrictions. I coulda been a contender!

5) Ever since I saw an ABC afterschool special in the 80s about a bunch of "popular kids" who make over a homely classmate who winds up being the prom queen, I've been addicted to cheesy movies in which a girl is made over and winds up winning everyone's heart. I mean cheesy. Like Pretty Woman. Or even worse, that piece of crap Freddie Prinze Jr movie where his dorky sister makes over a girl he likes--she looks like Winona Ryder with glasses and a bad haircut--but wow, a little lipstick and some mascara and (it's a miracle!) she's suddenly a knock-out! And come on...that scene in Breakfast Club when Molly Ringwald teaches crazy Ally Sheedy about the power of brown eyeliner? That's gold, baby. I have a disease. I was channel surfing and actually slowed down to see homely Mandy Moore turn into pretty-but-fatally-ill Mandy Moore in A Walk to Remember. I need help.

My name is Dipshit and I'll be your waiter for the evening...

2005-10-07T23:00:00.000-07:00

Ick.

I went for dinner by myself because I decided impulsively that I wanted a steak at a place I like and it was too late to call anyone. I was disappointed when I arrived and saw the menu had changed drastically, but I ordered something anyways.

Then the cheesy waiter started in: "How're thing's love? Is anyone joining you, hon? Would you like a drink, hon? How's your salad, hon?"

I kept wondering if I was sitting across from a guy would WaiterBoy have been so quick to drop the "hons" on me.

It annoyed me even more because he was 25 at the most and I don't know...it seems a little presumptuous to me to be going up to single women in their thirties and calling them "hon."

Anyways, after about the 7th time it set my teeth on edge and on the 8th time he called me "hon" I looked at him and said, "You know, SWEETIE-PIE, normally I don't allow anyone to call me hon all night until AFTER we've had sex, so if you want to whip it out, we can go at it.... or you can stop calling me hon."

He went bright red, mumbled an apology about how sorry he was for offending me, and then got the busboy to serve me for the rest of my meal. And the funny thing is, I wasn't offended for some great feminist reason...I was offended because it was like being forced to spend the evening with Ryan Seacrest.

So kids....

2005-10-06T21:23:00.000-07:00

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!

An open letter to the motherfuckers at the Royal Bank and Canada Student Loans

2005-09-28T14:54:00.000-07:00

Dear Royal Bank Student Loan and Canada Student Loan Centre Motherfuckers,

I am writing to express my dismay and disbelief over the incomprehensible level of incompetence to which I have been subjected by you. I am afraid that you have me a wee bit riled-up. So please, please find it in your teeny-little stone hearts to forgive me for what I am about to say.

Please, don't tell me you didn't receive my fucking faxes that I sent you last week. Don't tell me that my Canada Student Loan was held because I failed to make a payment at the Royal Bank, when some dipshit at the Royal Bank told me outright not to make the payment until I received my Canada Student Loan.

Don't tell me it will take 5-9 business days to process any of this information, since I've been hearing this for 5-14 fucking business days already.

And please, don't you fucking dare tell me it will take 5-7 business days for the Royal Bank to process this shit which I gave them 2 weeks ago, but they apparently couldn't be bothered to look at until yester-fucking-day, and then another 5-9 fucking business days for Canada Student Loans to release the money after they're received information from the Royal Bank!!!!!

GODDAMNIT! I want Supervisors to call me. I want to see some fucking follow-through. I want my bloody money now so I can pay my student fees, pay my rent, drop the class I'm in that I don't want and pay for the one that I do want. I want to stop having to worry about goddamned forms and faxes and sitting on hold for hours at a time listening to elevator music while you people with your heads up your asses tell me fifty different fucking stories!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

If you have any more questions, please contact me. I will be happy to clarify things even further if you asswipes so require.

My Life of Crime

2005-09-22T22:33:00.000-07:00

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?

2005-09-22T18:57:00.000-07:00

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

2005-09-16T20:24:00.000-07:00

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.

A big dilemna

2005-09-12T19:53:00.000-07:00

I found a joint tucked into a toy that my son recently bought at a garage sale--this would be more disturbing, but he had no idea what it was and it was quickly confiscated by moi. No idea how old it is. No idea who originally owned the thing. No idea what exactly is rolled into the joint...not without unrolling it, at least. Yes, it does have a vague marijuana scent, but who knows? Maybe it contains other things that could make me have a heart attack, right?

Sigh. I know, this isn't really a dilemna. But it does seem like a bloody tease, doesn't it? I feel like Tantalus sometimes.

Winner of the Tell This Couple's Prom Night Story challenge!!!

2005-09-10T21:38:00.000-07:00

Well, we had two fine entries, and probably about twenty people told me they were "going to" enter (sorry losers, it's too late!).

It was an extraordinarily tough race, but after much deliberation, I have decided that the winner of the Tell This Couple's Prom Night Story challenge is Katie!

No, not the same Katie as me. We just happen to both be named Katie. And yes, I'm aware that might have swayed me in my decision, but I strove to be as fair as I could.

And what does Katie win?

My eternal admiration, of course!

So, without further ado, here is the wonderful entry that Katie contributed.

Misty was originally supposed to go to prom with her boyfriend Kevin, but two days beforehand she had gone over to his house to make sure his cumberbund was the right color, only to catch him sucking on her best friend's toes.

So then her church youth minister asked her to do a good deed by going with Todd. Todd always had difficulty talking to girls, because he was self conscious about his glass eye. He spent most of his Friday nights playing Bingo for M&M's with his grandmother.

So Misty did the Christian thing and invited Todd to the prom. When they showed up, Kevin--who had already consumed most of a bottle of coconut rum--had a fit. "You came with Cyclops intead of me?" he yelled.

Misty tried to ignore him and instead asked Todd to dance. That was when Kevin took off his shoe and threw it at Misty, but he missed and hit Todd instead, hard enough so that his glass eye popped out and landed in the punch bowl. The prom pretty much ended right there, even though it was only 9:30.

Kevin had to sign up for a sensitivity workshop the next week. He would go on to become a Kinko's manager.

Todd moved to Las Vegas and opened his own casino when he was 30. he called it "One-eyed Jack's."

Misty became a stewardess and mother of four. She sent Todd a card every year at Christmas but never returned his calls.

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

2005-09-10T19:33:00.000-07:00

I'm not very religious. Ok, honestly? I'm not at all religious. I call myself agnostic because basically I'm too chicken-shit 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

2005-08-31T00:21:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-08-31T00:04:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-08-27T20:05:00.000-07:00

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?

2005-08-24T14:29:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-23T23:10:00.000-07:00

(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.

2005-08-22T22:23:00.000-07:00

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...

2005-08-22T19:24:00.000-07:00

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?

2005-08-22T17:58:00.000-07:00

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?

2005-08-17T14:43:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-16T16:32:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-15T21:00:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-10T23:05:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-09T21:10:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-09T18:31:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-08T17:42:00.000-07:00

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!

2005-08-05T20:14:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-05T20:13:00.000-07:00

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?

2005-08-05T20:05:00.000-07:00

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

2005-08-05T17:57:00.000-07:00

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 Speed Dating

2005-08-04T10:45:00.000-07:00

So, I convinced my friend and cohort in craziness, Miss Crazy Polish Kate, to come with me to the speed-dating fundraiser my brother's team was hosting. Her ex babysat our kids, but we had to tell him that we were going to my office's dinner party or he never would have said yes. As Kate and I were getting all dolled up he showed up and started quizzing me about what we were doing, but I stuck to the story even though he was convinced we were going on a double date. He would have flipped if he knew we were both about to go out with 17 different guys.

As some of you already know, yesterday was a really stressful day for me and my head was not in the right place for extreme silliness, but I was determined to shake it all off, so when Kate and I found the place my brother directed us to, we each went straight to the bar. The place was tiny--it was a little shack bar at a marina with a tin roof and stuffed fish all over the walls. And it was packed, full of dressed up men and women wandering around looking terrified.

A giant authorative-looking redheaded woman spotted us and yelled, "Kate and Katie?" so we wandered over to her and she slapped name tags on us, and handed us each a brown bag with a check list for the guys we would choose after the dates, a pen, and a whole bunch of condoms. Subtle. I'm betting my brother came up with that one.

We tried as discreetly as possible to check out the selection of men involved in this thing: a couple of cute guys, a few not bad guys, and one or two who--how do I put this nicely?--were just not my type. At all.

It was hard to be discreet because clearly we were also under the microscope, but I think we looked pretty good. We got a few nervous smiles and a wink or two.

We also did an assessment of the competition: a few sporty younger girls who you could tell were on the paddling team, a few older girls who had that strange sad secretary look going on that some women resort to in their late thirties, and whoa, three girls who had the craziest Texan hair and makeup I've ever seen. We're talking shellacked. The higher the hair, the closer to God group, if you know what I mean (shout-out Bethy!). They were wearing tight floral low-cut dresses and stilletos and about a pound of makeup each. I am not entirely sure they weren't drag queens.

My brother was pretty dressed up, and looked very nervous and very serious. I heard a few guys whisper, "I think that's Rob's sister. He said no touching!" Great. Thanks bro.

Finally, after much aimless milling about, giant red-headed woman told all the "ladies" to go sit at the table with the number they're wearing, and told the men to do the same. She explained that we would talk to this person for three minutes and then the women would all move to the next number up. This did not seem well thought out to me, since most of the women were carrying giant purses which we had to lug to each table, and the men were not, but screw it--I threw my purse on an empty table and hoped for the best.

I found myself sitting across the table from a cute rosy-cheeked young guy who looked like he was so nervous he might throw up. At least I hope that's the reason he looked like he might throw up. Kate was at the next table with some shlumpy French Canadian guy in a brown t-shirt with pit stains, and she was already gabbing loudly...about me. I looked at her and yelled, "woman, talk about yourself! You only have three minutes!" Our dates laughed and exchanged sympathetic glances.

My date asked me what I was drinking and since I had a glass and a bottle I offered him a sip from the bottle. That did the trick, and soon we were chatting away. He was in the navy (I later discovered that the bulk of these guys were navy men, which isn't really a surprise since my brother is contracted by the navy). He was very young and had moved from Montreal, so we talked about Montreal a bit, which is easy to do because it's a fabulous city. As soon as I felt relaxed and began to enjoy the conversation, the whistle blew, so we shook hands, I ticked the yes box next to his number and I moved on to shlumpy French Canadian guy, where I wound up talking about Montreal for another three minutes. He was incredibly nervous, and was sweating profusely. I tried to ignore it, but I was relieved when the whistle blew again.

Next I headed to table three. Kate had not yet left the seat, so the guy at table 4 was waiting for her, and I stood at table 3 waiting patiently. But let's face it--a three minute date ain't a long time, so finally I said to her, "Yo, step off bitch, you're cutting into my date!" I'm not certain that table three guy was aware that Kate and I were friends, but the whole encounter seemed to really turn him on and he was very chatty and attentive.

The next three dates were pretty blurry (on my third drink) but there was one Phillipino guy who spent three minutes explaining to me that it was possible to meet the love of your life at a speed-dating event and that's why he was there. I hate to make sweeping generalizations, but every Phillipino guy I've ever met has been kind of into the cheesy-romance thing. You know, hearts, flowers, the soothing sounds of Enrique Eglesias. He seemed more than a little desperate and admitted it had been a long time since he'd been on a date. You know, navy guys, all that time at sea, etc.

Finally I got to table 7. I could tell Kate wanted to linger longer, but I had already spotted this guy earlier in the evening and there was no way she was getting any of my three minutes with him, so I gave her the evil eye and she jumped up and moved on. He was hot. Tall, short dark hair, great smile, a few freckles and a crooked nose--just my type. He asked me what I did for a living. This was the seventh time I'd been asked this, and I have to tell you, I was boring myself trying to explain public relations and media monitoring, so I told him I was a spy. He leaned in and asked me if I'd ever killed a man. I told him, yes, but I couldn't name names. He asked me what it was like the first time I'd ever killed someone, and I explained the strange combination of disgust, fear and excitement that I experienced the first time, but how now it's like nothing at all, a walk in the park, yada yada yada. We talked about Prague (because, of course, that's where SpyKatie is based) and then the whistle blew. Definitely a connection on my part. I really hope he checked my name too.

Then I moved on to table 8. Can't recall anything about this guy for the life of me, but he asked me what I did for a living. I could see 7 eavesdropping so I said quite loudly, "I test condoms." Out of the corner of my eye I could see 7 choking with laughter.

By date seventeen I pretty much gave up trying to pass myself off as sober. Please know that I hadn't actually had that much to drink...but I also had an empty stomach and coolers have a lot more alcohol in them than most drinks, which is something I always conveniently forget. Date seventeen seemed pretty happy to see me. Big smile. So after a little drunken banter I leaned forward and said, "You seem nice," and he said, "I AM nice," so then I said, "We are probably going to have pretty amazing sex, don't you think?"

And then the whistle blew...

Adventures in online dating profiles

2005-07-30T19:16:00.000-07:00

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?

2005-07-29T13:51:00.000-07:00

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

2005-07-28T20:39:00.000-07:00

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

2005-07-26T20:38:00.000-07:00

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!

2005-07-25T23:58:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-07-25T17:56:00.000-07:00

"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....

2005-07-21T17:28:00.000-07:00

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

2005-07-18T19:56:00.000-07:00

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

2005-07-16T16:56:00.000-07:00

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

2005-07-15T21:35:00.000-07:00

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

2005-07-15T21:33:00.000-07:00

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?

2005-07-15T21:28:00.000-07:00

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:

2005-07-15T21:19:00.000-07:00

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

2005-07-15T21:15:00.000-07:00

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...

2005-07-15T21:13:00.000-07:00

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!

2005-07-15T21:06:00.000-07:00

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.

Well, it's time to move

2005-07-15T20:54:00.000-07:00

I tried to blog at Myspace, but to be frank, myspace is for morons. I would get a few comments from interesting people who I hope will continue to follow my blog here, but overall, the myspace experience has been underwhelming. Browsing Myspace is like paying a huge cover charge to get into a dance club and immediately hating the music and knowing just from the way people are dressed that you don't belong there. Anyways, I guess right now I'm going to move a few of my old blog entries from there to here and hopefully the quality of posters here will inspire me to write a little better than I have been lately.

So, I guess I'd better make this place look cozy, hey? The housewarming will be announced soon. Candles and flowers will be appreciated--BYOB.