Bad, naughty Zut!

Oh, I'm procrastinating in the worst way today.
I have work coming out everywhere -- which is fantastic, but I just can't seem to get my ass in gear. Especially when there are so many wonderful and interesting things in the world to distract me. "Oh look -- a new video game! Oh, the mail is here. I must email back this person, and post a comment here. And what movies are coming out in September? Ah, there goes the laundry."

Meanwhile, I have massive deadlines due next week -- all paying. All requiring significant attention.

...Perhaps it's due to the copious amounts of caffeine I now drink in order to function through the allergy season. Perhaps my brain is drying up.

(Do you ever experience that? The terrible fear that you are, in fact, growing stupider year after year? At this rate, I'll be lucky to be able to print my name at the age of 40. By 50, I'll probably spend weeks being entranced by my opposing thumbs.)

Must. Work. Now.

No, seriously.

(Well, maybe after I have something to eat. And change the laundry. And email Keith back.)

What your music thinks of YOU

Yes, it's time for anothere Meme... But this is one is rather fun. Grab your iTunes (or generic music playlist) and put it on random. Or do what I did, and grab a generic mixed CD and play it on random. This is a mixed CD made expressly for the gym, so no laughing, you bastards...

Then answer the following questions (I've inserted my responses):

What do you think of me, Mr. Panasonic CD player? I Hate Everything
Will I have a happy life? Who's Got The Crack?
What do my friends really think of me? Galaxy Bounce
Do people secretly lust after me? Gossip Folks
What does a possible lover think of me? Headache (To be fair, I cheated on this one -- I didn't like the original response (too creepy), so I went for the next song.)
How can I make myself happy? Fuck The Pain Away (Thanks for the advice, Peaches)
What should I do with my life? Seven Nation Army
Why must life be so full of pain? Whatever
How can I maximize my pleasure during sex? Punk Song (Whatever Happened To My Rock 'N' Roll)
Will I ever have children? I'm Jeaous Of Your Cigarette
Will I die happy? Money Jane
Can you give me some advice? (Some song from Puffy Amiyumi in Japanese. Nice)
Do you know where your children are? Red Alert
What do you think happiness is? From The Inside
What's your favourite fetish? Some Lovin'


So who's next...?

My new secret shame...

Somtimes, I like to go to Craigslist. I look at the Rants And Raves section, and post saucy and insulting remarks when someone sparks my ire.

It's my new way of being confrontational. I'm trying to teach myself that it's OK to get pissed off at someone and tell them they're being an asshole -- instead of my usual close-my-mouth-and- avoid-the-person-entirely-before-I-punch-them approach. Now, sometimes I can be a little direct, but especially when dealing with strangers, or people I don't see on a regular basis, I find it terribly hard to find the correct words, turns of phrase or whatever it is you need need to verbally accost something who's behaving like an utter twat.

Well...
That's a lie, actually. It's just as hard with people I consider friends.

I'm not what you'd call a shrinking violet. I do have a wonderful selection of facial expressions that I use to indicate my current mental state. (I do thank my genes for giving the ability to raise one eyebrow -- handy for almost every occasion and mood.) But when it comes to actually getting angry at someone, I just can't do it. Then I get frustrated. Usually I just leave the room -- both figuratively and literally.

So this little venture of mine of Craiglist is mostly a tiny little step towards verbal freedom. Confrontation. Wussless-ness. Practicing my jabs. And of course, most of the posters on the site are wonderfully dull little test-subjects.

Which I appreciate.

Spare some change?

I never thought I looked like a homeless person.

I'm clean, and employed (well, self-employed). I rent an apartment on the east side near the beaches. I'm fairly well groomed and moderately accessorized. My clothes tend to be comfy but well maintained, and I usually carry a purse. Or my trusty Triple Five Soul Backpack -- which, granted, has lately been doing its best impression of backpack that wants to retire.

Last night, after a day of shopping, attending a press event, working out and topping off a late-ish evening with an amazing heap of lovely Chinese food (oh, Rol San... giver of tasty dish delights), I was sitting outisde with a friend. My other chum had left to go swoop and beguile her way around the Velvet Underground (gothy night). My other chum and I were sitting on a stair in the doorway next to the restaurant, full, content and lazy. Queen Street seemed dreadfully far away and we were trying to digest, while simultaneously mocking each other (a pasttime I seem to enjoy with most of my friends -- odd).

Two young gentlemen stopped. One looked at us and said, "Are you girls alone?" I looked behind us at the darkened doorway, and looked at my friend. We indicated that yes, we were alone.

He pulled out his wallet.

Now, my first instinct was that he thought we were prostitutes (most girls who spend any time in the downtown area have been approached in some manner, shape or form), and was going for a handful of bills. But no. He was going for change.

My next thought was,"Change? What's he going to do, ask for a toonie blowjob?" (I was rather insulted. I mean, I never considered myself quite that cheap.) Beside me, my friend suddenly exclaimed, "Oh no, we're not homeless!"

"Are you sure?" asked the philanthropist, looking slightly bewildered. Fearing his embarassment, we quickly assured him that no, we were not homeless. But really, his gesture was very kind. I indicated the brown paper shopping bag beside me, apologizing for shopping at Whole Foods earlier that day. But really, that was very nice of him, but no -- we were reasonably certain that we weren't homeless.

His friend quickly tried to get his attention and steered him away. By which point, we had already leaned back in the dorrway and started howling hysterically.

"I mean," gasped my friend, "What is it exactly about my nice heels and pink purse which says 'homeless'?"

Well.
It was an experience indeed.

(And I wonder what does it says about us when we were far more insulted by skanky twats in their skintight pants, fuck-me-heels and trashy big hair who tried to giggle and wiggle their way in front of us at the bank machine line?)

Well, THAT'S just plain unsettling...

Pens feel unfamiliar today. Tried to jot some stuff down in my planner -- much to my discomfiture, it doesn't look like my usual writing.

I choose to blame hayfever for this rather unnatural possession of odd writing.

Sometimes I like to bang my head on the table...

...And just think about how much I don't feel like even reflecting, mocking or even remembering much of my life.

No, no.
I'm not depressed. Just one of those days when I wish I could morph into someone else for a while. Ever get the feeling that you're a passive bystander in your own life? Not so much like watching a car wreck -- more like standing on the side of a highway while the traffic flies by.

Life is what happens to other people. And sometimes, if you're fortunate, they'll invite you in for a while.

Unexpected company for dinner...

Was snacking on my chum's french fries at one of those mom-and-pop, greasy spoon-type places last night. While she was munching on her dripping burger (oozing green liquid, thanks to the lettuce, pickle and relish combo), I saw a cockroach scuttling down the wall a few tables over. After confirming for me that it was indeed a cockroach, my friend waved her half-eaten burger, grinned maliciously and said, "Crunch, crunch."

After she was finished, we sat back and chatted about all manner of things (such as our mutual geeky admiration of Nathan Fillion -- better known as "Mal" from Firefly.)

And a cockroach trotted across our table.

Now, contrary to understood standard roach behaviour (I'm sure there's a section on it in official etiquette guides), this little golden-brown fella picked the brightest table and sauntered across. No rush. No fuss. It just sort've twitched its long antennae at us and headed directly for the ketchup.

Was it a dare? Was it a rare species of showboating cockroach?

I suspect it was swollen with bloated arrogance. And with that, we gathered our things and left.

Who is this "Joy Division" band, anyway?

Got up this morning to find Chris listening to Alan Cross' "The Ongoing History Of New Music" this morning. I wasn't really listening intently to the bassy rumblings of Mr. Cross until Chris came up to me and we had the following conversation:

Chris: Do you like Joy Division?
Me: Well, yes... I like them very much.
Chris: Oh. I hadn't actually heard them before. You know, I always thought their name was kinda stupid -- until I found out what it meant.
Me: Yeah. Creepy now, isn't it?
(pause)
Me: So do you now know that they ultimately spawned New Order?
Chris: What? How could they? Their lead singer died.
Me (fighting back a smirk that comes with imagining Ian Curtis singing jauntily, "Up, down, turn around, please don't let me hit the ground"): You know, if you had just watched 24 Hour Party People with me when it was on TV, you would know all this.
Chris: Yeah, well. It's one thing to actually watch it. It's another to just have it going on in the background, which is what I prefer.


Sigh.

Welcome back to the Smelly City

Truth is, I'm delighted to be back.

Please take my advice -- unless you're into doing a road trip, do yourself a favour and fly out to the east coast. Between gas, which cost $106.9 out east, hotel, bad food (I'm so very weary of Tim Horton's), cramped car conditions with the windows closed up tight and topped off with a five-hour bus rode home from Ottawa... Well, not only am I flat busted, but I slept more than 13 hours recovering on Friday night. Saturday was spent doing nothing more than brunch at the Beaches Sunset Grill, and watching TV.

Bad movies always delight me when I'm brain dead. Though I will say Shall We Dance? was far superior in its original Japanese version. (Although Stanley Tucci quite steals the show.) I will admit to the guilty pleasure of enjoying movies about dancing -- Strictly Ballroom is among my favourites, but I've been known to watch really miserable offerings... Alright, I do admit it. I watched Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights. (It left me with the worst urge to go to Cuba.)

Anyway, I digress -- which I suppose is the point of having a blog. I went whale watching with my family on Wednesday, and was treated to having not one but two humpback whales only metres from our tiny boat. Amazing thing, that. I shall post photos in the next day or two.

I will say this -- I just wanted to dive into the water with them, hold onto to one, and just drop down into the depths of the Atlantic. It was all I could do not to fling myself over the boat's railing. I worry about the day when my spontaneous urges to do insane and potentially lethal things on a whim are no longer kept in check by reason...

The fogs of Yarmouth

If you've ever had a chance to spend some time in southern Nova Scotia, there's a damn good chance you've had some experience with the rather bizarre fog banks. You can be reading outside, enjoying the hot sun and a light breeze off a small lake, when suddenly the sun fades. You feel a chill, which quickly grows cold with a touch of damp, and the horizon disappears. Then, much like some odd special effects fog-making machine, great wisps of fog steal around the trees and across the water. The houses across the lake recede into nothing, and you're surrounded by a veil of mist that seems corporeal.

And there's silence.

It's kind of cool. Even better is when this happens on a beach at the edge of the Atlantic. You stand on the sand, and watch the dunes behind disappear. If the tide is out, all that is visible is a small stretch of sand in every direction. Occasional a figure will emerge from the fog, smile and greet you (I'm still getting used to this friendly thing they have here -- I'm very suspicious of it), and then continue past and disappear again.

The beaches themselves tend be long, clean stretches, flanked by seaweed-draped rocks and sweet-smelling grass on the dunes behind you. Some beaches collect odd refuse, lost and abandoned remnants of fishing that parted ways with with the fishing boats and pushed ashore. Pieces of rope, rubber gloves... underwear.

My parents say with a smirk, "Do you have beaches like this in Toronto?"

"Of course," I say. "Who doesn't?"

"Something is licking my feet..."

While we were enjoying a late breakfast today, we noticed the kids next door (actually, more like young adults -- maybe in their late teens, early twenties), wandering up and down the road. The one guy was knee deep in the bush across the road, while a young woman sort of wandered distractedly further up.

About half an hour later, I heard my mother shriek, "Argh!!!! Help!!!!!" and immediately page the entire family. I heard the screen door to the deck open (my poor mother still shrieking), and next thing I knew, some wee furry thing came trotting into the living room.

It was a tiny little puppy (I've posted a photo below).

Seems my mother was hanging laundry outside when she felt something furry licking her feet... and had no idea what it was.

Well, the entire family became enamoured of the little guy, who was really quite... well, lick-y. He was delighted by my six-year-old nephew's face. And also into chewing fingers and hands (and my dad's beard, for some reason -- perhaps the pup thought it some kind of sinister enemy, or furry toy). We grudgingly brought it outside, and handed the fella to the folks next door.

Seems they were dogsitting for someone -- and lost the dog. (Note to self -- do not leave anything with people next door... especially small animals and children. Or rare works of art.)

The Culprit

Naughty little fellow.

The Mystery At Bartlett Beach

Found this unusual phenomena in the sand just outside of Port Maitland, NS yesterday... I suspect witches. Bad witches -- the kind that sneakily create miniature Stonehenges on innocuous looking beaches on the eastern coast. And when you're not looking, they steal a lick from your delicious "turtle trails" ice cream.

Actually, I have no idea who did it. Hopefully it wasn't the twit-ish American couple who were filming each other dancing on the near-deserted beach, camcorder in hand...

Bonjour, La Nouvelle Ecosse!

Yes, it's true... I am still alive, and free. I have not been jailed for homicide.

I have been a naughty blogger, though, and have not updated in several days. All I can say is that a two-day road trip through Ontario, Quebec, New Brunswick, and Nova Scotia is its own little treat. I now despise gas, hotels, tourists and anyone who thinks that precisely driving the speed limit is an acceptable thing to do. I also learned that my French is crap, crap, crap... And Quebecers think so, too. I will also add that some people should never be fed more than their prescribed alotment of caffeine while driving.

I shall endeavour to post more, but in the meantime, have decided to post some wonderful images of the trip. (Why is it that Maritimers dedicate their towns and cities to thing like, "Home of Confederation," "Home of the Giant Lobster" and "Home of Canada's First License Plate"?)