Ah, the procrastinator's dream...

Had deadline tomorrow (or so I thought), but have been feeling very unmotivated as of late. Assigned a ton of reviews, all of which have been coming in, with a few to write myself.

Then the heavens opened up, the angels sang a high "C" with accompanying harmony, and pure white feathers danced on a light breeze -- a.k.a. the managing editor emailed to say that deadline was next Monday.

Halloween is the sort of holiday that truly understands what I need. Chocolate, mischief, and reprieve from encroaching deadlines.

And on a completely different topic...
In light of not having a beauty column in which to extoll and obsess the many virtues of wonderful girlish things, I have decided to keep myself up-to-date and working by creating a new blog, dedicated to things I like. Will keep yall posted.

(Sorry, boys -- perhaps I can find some nice pictures of boobies for you to look at instead.)

The worst part of Halloween...

Tomorrow is November.
You can't get much farther from spring than the first of November.

*sigh*

The gift of one hour

They say most people use the extra hour from Daylight Savings Time on sleep.

Tonight, I shall use my extra hour to watch terrible movies, any Simpsons' Treehouse Of Horror episodes I can find, and the new Nightmare Before Christmas video game (Oogie's Revenge). Also to eat chocolate -- Cote D'Or Intense chocolate bars. Refrigerated.

Because certain chocolate bars just seem to go taste better when they're cold and brittle.

Halloween is coming. I can feel it.
Perhaps that sounds odd, but there's just something about October 31 that always seems somewhat tangible to me. The potential of mischief. The expectation. The eerie few hours after the children have ended their bouts of candy-grubbing and gone to bed, while a few jack o'lanterns still flicker faintly and the streets are silent and somewhat sinister.

One of the few days of the year where I'd happily exchange my ambition to be an old-fashioned pirate for the ability to be a witch. Good or bad, there's something to be said for a bit of the old magicks on Samhain.

Autumn, life and potential aplenty

Maybe it's just the smell of the leaves or the cool night air, but am starting to sense a shift in the way my world works.

It was slight -- just a tiny little cosmic tilt caused by nothing at all. But was puttering about in Kensington with a friend, enjoy a hot bevvie at the Moonbeam cafe and just hanging out and people watching.

And I thought, "Yes, I am doing the right thing." Money would be nice, but things are starting to feel like they are clicking together. Creative juices are starting to flow again. Feeling the urge to write, but will let it build up and focus a bit more before embarking on a major project. The word "screenplay" seems to be blinking in my head quite a bit lately.

It's like someone handed you a photo of a year from now, and said, "This is you. This will be your life." And you like it. Suddenly you can't wait to be there. Your path -- for a tiny window of time -- seems obvious, and less cluttered with junk than usual.

And for the first time in ages, I have the apartment to myself this evening.
Let there be puttering.
Happy puttering.
And lots of it.

In the news today...

Toronto's news is a mixed bag today:

- Canada's largest lottery pot ($54 million) is likely to be shared by 17 employees in a small town in Alberta. They're 21-50 years old -- a nice change from the seniors who usually grab the pot.

- Halloween will not be removed from Toronto public schools this year, though some tried in order to be more "sensitive" to the Wiccan community. (Yeesh.)

- Some 25-year-old dude made a field goal at the Argos game and won $1 million.

- Sulu from Star Trek is out of the closet.

Of course, this is all amongst the usual chaos, death, strings of sexual assaults (new attacker lurks just north of my neighbourhood), and ominous readings for the future of the world.

The Joy Of "Twat"

It seems that due to some of my less-than-prissy language, I've started attracting visitors who like to dig for dirty topics and pics on search engines.

The poor little fellas (mostly from Texas, oddly enough) are just looking for nice images of bad girls and old men doing vile things to whatever manner of human/animal/orifice/dirtpile... and instead end up here. It has to be a disappointment for them.

I, on the other hand, find it rather amusing that my insipid little rants and ramblings are inflicted on porn-hunters. Take that, Pervy McChildPorn (yes, Mr. Texas, I saw what you were searching for).

(See, this is what happens you your have the word "twat" in your blog title. Perhaps my next blog should be titled something like "Great Big Cocks -- a Tribute to Oversized Roosters and the Women Who Love Them.")

Songs stuck on rewind

Fuck, I hate when you have a song stuck in your head for hours and hours and hours and hours...

There's a couple that always drive me nuts with their ability to grab hold and just repeat certain phrases non-stop (Peaches' "Fuck The Pain Away" is pretty bad, as is -- and you'll laugh, but just watch, it'll happen to you -- "Feliz Navidad").

But right now is particular one that rears its little head every few months -- Cab Calloway's "St. James Infirmary."

This is what comes of watching Betty Boop as a small child.

Sometimes I have to remind myself --

Received a nice little Halloween package from my mother (hooray -- my mum loves me!) this morning, full of chocolate goodies and assorted unhealthy nibbles.

As I peeled the foil from my third Lindt chocolate ball, part of my brain chastized me.
"What are you doing?" it snapped. "This is not a proper breakfast or lunch. And you've had neither! Put down the chocolate. Walk away slowly. And go eat something more suitable."

And I, ever unrepentant, popped the delicious little piece of chocolate in my mouth. After all, what's the fun in being an adult if you can't break the rules once in a while?

I may be ass poor, but...

... I have a pretty damn good life, I think.

And while my poor little soul has had some damage done to it in the past, it is still relatively whole. Twisted -- but whole.

I went to The Meeting. Sat at a table with about 10 other people while an aquaintance went through her Itinerary for her magazine proposal. As I fully expected, The Itinerary was shot to shit. She was barely able to keep things together, let alone on schedule. She would make a point or discuss a story idea, and suddenly voices everywhere would argue, shout and create three or four different conversations.

It was rather amusing.

It would have been much more fun if I hadn't been tired from earlier events of the day (nothing interesting... though on the geek side, I did get to see a teaser trailer from the game Too Human, which made me delighted). I gave my input and even a good idea for a regular feature (that couldn't be pitched to another magazine anyway).

Now I am tired. I am weary of talking to people, and being kind to strangers.
I am a full-time writer. And it's a fine thing...

Even if the pay sucks.

Bad ducks. Bad!

I find unsettling that no one has been able to trace the origins of the H5N1 (bird flu) virus. All officials have said is that domestic ducks had a "central role in the generation and maintenance of this virus." (Story here.)

Seriously, ducks? That's the best you can come up with?
Why don't you just say the bloody thing was genetically engineered and be done with it?

"Uh, yes, we've traced to origins of this particular virus to... uh... er, ducks. Yeah. Ducks. Domestic ones."

This is what comes of reading up on the Black Death and all its subsequent economic benefits. Only with things like the bird flu, they avoid anything that involves postules full of blood and pus, and blackened skin. Airborne flus are ever so much nicer-looking.

To borrow, to use... to steal?

And no, not as in, "Goodness, officer, I have no idea how these lovely Nike Tailwind trainers ended up under my coat. Are they magnetic, perhaps?"

Recently, an old chum who I have little contact with has called together a number of writing professionals and activists for a brainstorming session for a project she's working on. This evening, I received The Itinerary for this meeting, which I expected to be a casual exchange of ideas and possibly groundwork for this publication. It seems I was wrong.

After reading The Itinerary (which was graciously slotted into 15-minute slots including arrival, introductions, etc), I discovered that the bottom-line plan is to have the editorial planned -- story ideas, regular sections, etc.

I have the sudden feeling that my brains will be harvested for someone else's project. A sort of "thanks for your ideas... sucker!" At no time has she mentioned actually inviting people to work for her. Or how she's planning on funding the thing.

And this woman has control issues up the wazoo. So what was previously supposed to be a fun, casual exchange of ideas has been solidified into a formal editorial meeting avec gavel-thumping. I suddenly find myself wanting to avoid the whole thing. And keeping my mouth shut.

Which is a difficult task for one such as myself.

I mean -- we're writers, for fuck's sake. We talk, we curse, we gossip... and most of us couldn't give a rat's fart about sticking to The Itinerary. (Although it could be interesting just to watch the personalities clash. Fight! Fight!)

Perhaps I will be suddenly struck down by a terrifying and temporary strain of the Bubonic Plague, which will keep me in bed from 8-10 pm tomorrow.

'Tis a fine thing, a mullet

I saw a most handsome specimen from the window of my streetcar on my way home (Koei event -- avec gifts!).

It was a male version of the species, the upper levels fluffy and bouffant, but yet not feathered back. No apparent hair product used. The hair itself was streaked salt-and-pepper style, while the long stresses went halfway this fellow's back, trimmed neatly and bluntly.

'Twas hard to miss, and I silently applauded this veteran of the '80s.

Was also treated to a serenade for half my streetcar ride -- by a fellow who sang loudly, clearly and pointedly about how Satan was a loser, and he was going to ruin Satan's day because Satan couldn't make him be quiet. Then as he headed for the doors, he got close to some poor woman and sang about how he loved to ruin Satan's day, and her day too, because she was obviously sad and blue.

Sometimes it's hard to keep a straight face among the Toronto crazies. Fortunately, I had a build of Infected to play on my PSP, so I just kept shooting the hell out of zombies.

Because Satan can't make me put down me video games. Satan is a loooo-ser.

So long, mi amore...

Dearest Toronto Craigslist,

For the last several months, I have indulged in a guilty affair with you. I read over your many offerings, and found myself posting to the Rants & Raves section with guileless passion and amusement. You were a guilty pleasure, and you made me feel naughty -- knowing as I did that you harboured such miserable ceatures in your mist.

But the glow has faded, my dearest. I know longer seek out your petty posts, and bait the misogynists, idiots and stupid ones. I find myself skipping past half your topics, choosing instead to quickly scan your job ads -- which are mostly people wanting professional services with piss-poor pay. Your "gigs" section is full of starter projects, money-making scams and people looking to make amateur porn. Late at night, I weep softly knowing that the magic that made "us" so special has faded.

We always knew it had to end. And while I yearn to feel again the warm embrace that comes from reading such peurile trash, I know this is for the best.

I would like to remain friends... and keep checking your job board for the part-time I seek (that isn't marketing, telemarkering and retail). I know that we can remain in each other's lives -- but never with that intense flash of passion that so fueled our early days.

And in the words of Homer Simpson...
"Dear Baby, Welcome to Dumpsville. Population -- you."

Adios.

Avoid the Royal Bank of Canada

I knew something would burst my happy bubble. And now, instead of concentrating on an assignment due today, I am full of wrath. I'm so incredibly frustrated that I want to tear my hair out, or throw large objects through windows (would settle for the idiots in charge of the Royal Bank).

I'm furious.

It's bad enough that I'm in debt up to my eyeballs, and have a tiny, tiny little income. But having to deal with such incompetence on a regular basis has me desperately wishing I could plummet Royal Bank into bankruptcy. Across the board, I have delt with nothing but useless, ineffective service where they can't even process a loan payment made over a month and a half ago! It's not just one screw-up -- it's nothing but screw-ups. I don't think they've processed anything properly more than once or twice.

Aside from the complete raping I received from my Canada student loan (someone screwed up and without any notice, I found myself in the hands of a credit agency -- the bastards didn't even send me a fucking letter to let me know something was amiss), things have gone to hell with my Ontario student loan as well. I received a "Formal Demand" that says the following:

"We are writing regarding your indebtedness under the above program and refer to our previous letters in which we informed you that your payments were overdue. As you have not responded to our requests to make payments to bring your loan up to date, we are obliged to declare that your total debt is now due and payable as of the date of this letter."

Etc. Etc.

Not only have I paid these stupid pricks ages ago, but I've even paid them since! The worst part is that I can't apply for loan reductions (due to sad and pathetic income) until this is all straightened out.

I feel the need to punish.
Vengeance. Retribution.

Unfortunately, I have to settle for lame-ass blog entry which has probably bored you all to tears now.
My apologies.

Something about Sunday nights...

I love Sundays. Not the invariable dread that comes with knowing the weekend is over, or that you have work (or deadlines) looming -- but that fine hour or two before bed, when your laundry is whirring in the dryer, your bed is made with clean sheets and your room is tidied.

It's a brief pocket of domestic serenity. I putter, do my nightly rituals, and stretch out on my bed with a book. I've got a bit of fancy new incense burning (an old habit I recently resurrected). Two small, warm lamps in the bedroom while the rest of the apartment is dark. Extra pillows for reading.

And right now, blessed silence. No television, radio, or children shrieking from the apartment below. And the self-indulgent knowledge that I can stay up late tonight without worrying about rushing to an office, catching transit or waiting in the cold. And I'm grateful for all of it.

When I curl up in bed shortly, I won't go to sleep right away. Because right now, everything is calm. Quiet. The city slumbers, waiting for those early hours of bustling, noise and stress. And I am still awake. Listening to the silence, and enjoying the feel of the bed and all the potential of a new week ahead.

I almost feel optimistic. Quite out of character for me -- invariably, something sucky will happen tomorrow to erase this moment. But for now, it's mine.

Assinine quote of the day

On the poor box office returns of Doom (the movie), the latest piece of merde du semaine:

""I'm very concerned about the marketplace.There are so many movies out, so much to choose from, yet the marketplace continues to fall, and not just by little amounts."
-- Nikki Rocco, head of distribution with Universal

Yes, there are lots of movies out. Yes, they are plenty of selections.

And yes -- they all are giant pieces of turd. Christ. These bloody distributors pump out piece of garbage after piece of garbage (yet conversely with larger budgets), yet wonder why no one is watching their movies.

I think I might have to try my hand at writing some kind of screenplay. I just need a cracking idea...

Notes after an evening out...

Random things that require too much work to even think about putting into a comprehensive email:

- It is already cold enough to see my breath, and watch the frost begin to form
- Tomorrow I have a date with Tali for dim sum at one of my favourite restaurants (whooo)
- I finished my first scarf. It is long... and awesome. Which is good because--
- Phil did something unspeakably rude to one of my other scarves this evening. Funny... but rude
- Going dancing after a couple of hours at the gym is stupid
- There are people still living in the '90s... and the '80s
- "Juicy" should be spelled "Joosie"
- Should I be unsettled when I have a Wolfsheim song in my head one day, only to have it played it a bar the next?
- I need more tattoos. Next one: Thoth
- Karma does indeed work -- after accidentally elbowing some drunk girl in the face (no, Lariss, it is not a return to my shit-disturbing days... and stop looking so disappointed), within minutes she accidentally yanks out one of my hoop earrings
- Hot baths are nice at the end of cold day

G'night.

Stupid Cold. Brrr.

It's not even the end of October and already I'm freezing.

The heat is barely on, thanks to the tenants downstairs who control the heat (and conveniently disregard the fact that the second floor and attic are likely to be colder than the rest of the house). I've got on an old fuzzy polar fleece hoodie over a long sleeve shirt, but my hands are icy.

Fuck. How am I going to deal with spending the next six months shivering cold? Oh winter, how I hate you.

For you germ-obsessed masses...

I've had a long-standing war with products that claim to be anti-bacterial. Mostly soaps and cleansers, used by over-zealous germ-freaks who suffer from latent Lady Macbeth syndrome.

You see, contrary to public belief, anti-bacterial products are not a cure-all. Nor are they very good for children. Regular soap keeps you clean. While it doesn't kill bacteria, it washes it away. And for all you parents who insist on sytematically eliminating bacteria from your home and keeping your kids out of the dirt, know that your young'un will pay the price. Why? Because studies have shown that growing up in a non germ-obsessive environment actually helps develop your child's immune system. (Look up "immune system" and "eating dirt" and "children" in a search engine -- some stuff should come up.)

Oh, I could on for ages about this.

Anyway, the reason I'm bringing it up is that in the US, there is a panel set up for the FDA (Food And Drug Administration) to determine whether antibacterial soaps and the like should be used in medical facilities only -- the argument being that experts feel this is contributing to the drug-resistant bacteria that's become so popular lately. (You can check out the story at Yahoo! News here.)

So yes, your fancy-pants anti-bacterial handwash could actually be contributing to superflus. (That and the North American belief that every illness requires an immediate trip to your doctor to ask for penicillin.)

Of course, the soap industry is fighting this tooth and nail. And god love the capitalist system -- it would be nothing short of disastrous if government bodies made decisions based on the health of the people instead of the economy.

Click for boobs!

I'm not a big believer in hassling people to hit particular websites, but I have a real hate for cancer. It infuriates me how much diseases du jours get so much attention, yet cancer is killing us all off, one by one. Think of how many people you know who got SARS... then start counting how many people you know who have or have had cancer.

Chances are, you'll get it, too.

Anyway, this site arranges to donate free mammograms for underprivileged women if you click on the little pink button. It takes only a second.

Click for boobs here.

A truly fine compliment...

A recent email exchange:

Me: It's the powerful effect of my scowling. Tremble in fear! And do not back-talk, lest you feel the full force of my ire, plebian!

Misc. Friend: I understand, suddenly, why Marxism was such a roaring success at first. You would make a lovely villainous aristocrat. You should be very proud.


I'm all aglow with fuzzy feelings. Truly, a very fine compliment. Second only to being told that I would make a tremendous pirate...

Or better yet, both.

I always get the last word...

A while back, I had mentioned befriending a certain fellow in Scotland. And in keeping with his impetuous and insanely rash behaviour, he has decided to toss his online friends to the waste bin.

Which is fine. I certainly won't suffer overly much. But I am rather appalled at his well-meaning but tactless (and oh yes, so polite) dismissal of people who consider him a friend.

As he deletes posts on a daily basis, I thought I would share pieces of his kind words with you:

"I have *SO* enjoyed your friendship over the years... Each of you has, in your own way, contributed immeasurably to my happiness. For that you have my sincere thanks. I hope I offered you the same in return.

This blog will continue... Whether you continue to read or not is up to you. I don’t care. I shan’t be reading yours. I shall not respond to any attempts at contact.

In any ending, a clean break is the best. I don’t wish or expect to hear from any of you again. NO exceptions. You take my love and best wishes, I take yours, that’s a given. There is nothing else to say other than to wish you all good luck and good fortune, which I happily do.

Adieu."

Friend-dumped again... this time by a generic open letter in a blog. Yeesh.

Before I forget...

It seems shocking, but Now Magazine (an alternative weekly publication in the fair-but-stinky metropolis of Toronto) seems to have enlisted me as a film writer.

I'm still shaking my head in amazement. Especially given that the job came almost seven months after I submitted a resume to write for them. Wonders never cease.

Anyway, my second review for Now is for the documentary Paper Clips -- and is available here... For those interested, anyway.

Feed me, Seymour...

The weekend is suddenly over.

And all I did was eat. Seriously.
We went grocery shopping on Friday night (I know -- je suis le party animal), and I've been delighted to have a refrigerator full of food. I've also been going to through an ugly obsession with ice cream bars -- vanilla ice cream, covered in milk chocolate and almond pieces (President's Choice brand, as Haagen Dazs, though superior, is far too expensive).

I didn't eat much last week. This seems to be my penance. Thank god I can go to the gym tomorrow.

Other things I did this weekend:

- forgot to call my parents
- knitted an excessively long scarf
- ate
- watched a lot of bad movies (oh god -- even Starship Troopers. What is wrong with me?)
- potentially ruined my friend's fledgling relationship
- didn't shower for two days (Ick.)
- ate
- started re-reading a book I've read a zillion times before, just because I like the setting
- had Saturday afternoon coffee with one of my favourite people in the world
- ate
- didn't work on an assignment that's due tomorrow


Perhaps I'm de-evolving. That must be it -- it's the only thing that can rationalize such a shocking weekend of poor-quality movies and inactivity.

Sometimes I wonder if I've missed something...

...When I read everyone's else's blogs, which are full of deep, insightful (even if only attempted) reflections, or clever little blurbs, games, lists, etc.

My blog is full of crap. Which is okay, I think, as I also tend to be full of crap.

But call me old-fashioned and reserved, but I can rarely just vomit my feeling out for all to assess. Those who can have my admiration. However, I've never been fond of giving the game away during the first inning. It's too much like reading a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure (remember those? "What do you feed the giant?" And if you pick the wrong thing, he'll eat you. Hint: Pancakes is the wrong answer) and flipping to the back and seeing all the choices before going ahead.

And I like to think clues are there. My personality and weird little habits. My innumerable failings and weaknesses. There are so many.

And god forbid, what happens if I let everyone in at once? It will be chaos. The world will whirl around in a mess of confusion (really trying to avoid the Love & Rockets reference there). The sky will curdle and splinter. Trees will hover upside down, and everyone's clocks will hop off the walls and head down to the pub for a pint.

So it's nothing personal to you, dear Random Person Reading This -- it's just that once I let it out, there'll be no plugging it back up.

Right.
Back to knitting a scarf and watching Poltergeist.

Saturday night is party night at my house. Truly.

Catastrophe averted

The phone just rang.

As I ran down the stairs to answer it, my jeans fell down. (Off my ass, not as in 'my jeans fell down the stairs.')
I made it down, w/ hand hitching the denim as I raced for the call (which I missed.) But wouldn't that be a sight for Chris to come home to? Me, crumpled in a broken heap in the stairwell... with my jeans bunched around my legs.

I mean, this losing weight thing is great... but fuck. I love these jeans. And somehow, baggy comfort doesn't work the same when you have to use a belt.

"Stand tall, and kick him in the nuts."

Handed out this advice to a friend right now.

This is her reminder.
She's dealing with some leftover man-ghosts. The ones that haven't learned what it takes to be a man, and wallow in ambiguity in their own little Wishy-Washy Land.

Because I don't think she'll send the email I suggested: "Dear Dickhead, You are welcome to read my blog whenever you want. As far as where you stand? Any where you like, as long as it's out of my way. Now fuck off. Love, ____"

If she doesn't heed this... well, then I will stand tall and kick her in the twat.
It's that easy.
:)

The Cuddle Party phenomenon

Now seriously. Has anyone actually done this? Or heard a first-hand account?

I mean, I'm an open-minded girl and have attended fetish parties and such with nary batting an eye (secretly, I find most of them are just as vanilla in their own little ways. Mostly people in sleazy PVC acting trampy with occasionally spanking displays -- far more interesting are the people who turn BDSM into an art form, i.e. Shibari bondage) but the creep factor for the "cuddle party" is off the charts.

(A cuddle party is a gathering -- usually at someone's house -- where people pay $25-$40 cover charge to snuggle up with strangers. Hugging, cuddling, kissing. Like a pajama party with horny teenagers. But in a group. And old.)

Someone educate me.
What kind of person needs human contact so badly that they need to make out with strangers in their bunny slippers? (Or is that, in fact, the attraction?)

Stupid things that Only Happen To Me

I have a hefty record of bizarrely stupid things that have happened to me. Nothing terribly tragic, or scarring. Just incidents that some of my friends would describe as Typical Hannah Things.

This evening was a classic example.

While getting ready for this evening's soiree, I noticed that I had gloriously hideous bags and dark circles under my eyes (a tell-tale sign when I've been unwell). So I pulled out all manner of masks, cleansers, moisturizers and eye gels. But I recalled reading something about teabags being quite beneficial for unhappy eyes. Wanting to not appear unhealthy to Chris' coworkers, I quickly made a hurried cup of chamomile tea (recommended according to various online sites) with two teabags. Drained them, let them cool and, as I reclined in the bath with hair wrapped in towel, proceeded to place these calming beauty agents over my eyes.

The tea trickled down my cheeks. After a while, it began to itch. Then my eyes felt scratchy. "Rather unusual," I thought to myself. "Perhaps these should only be used for a few minutes." Removed the teabags, got out of the bath, and began getting ready.

But my eyes... My eyes! They were no longer puffy -- they were violently red. Allergic-ly red. Unattractively and very conspicuously red.

I went online and looked up "chamomile allergy" and found this:

"Caution: Persons with allergies to plants of the asteraceae family (ragweed, asters and chrysanthemums) should avoid use of chamomile."

Naturally, I have a severe allergy to ragweed. Marvelous.
And very sexy.

The problem with 4" heels...

Chris's work had a "do," this evening -- drinks, dinner and gambling at the Park Hyatt in Yorkville.

So we went.

It said black tie (no jeans or tanks), so I went dressed up. Well, for me. Needless to say, I was far too underdressed. Most of the women were wearing evening gowns. I don't even own a dress, for fuck's sake.

Wore good make-up, fun accessories, high-heeled boots and a Dior purse. I thought I looked OK -- but I needn't have worried. I was pretty much sufficiently ignored. Unlike media-type events, there are no heavy drinkers or outrageous bastard-types -- not to say people weren't drunk. they just weren't experienced drunk. I did come across some moderately friendly and nice folks, but it just made me miss my world -- where you can bond with someone over the lack of martinis, or crack a joke to someone about S&M dungeons in the basements of suburb-types and not get dismissive looks from wives... who wanted to return to talking about lawns, contractors and housing costs.

I don't belong in that world. I was too tall, too casual and entirely too flippant for most of them.

Very weird evening.

I now wonder if I've hit as close to normal as possible, and that things will only get stranger for me. Which is OK, I guess. I mean, I did just post a love poem to hot & sour soup. Who does that?

And I'm not as completely shallow as my posts imply.
Truly.
I'm just terrified to let people in my brain.

And what sort of person howls with laughter at the hired musician who plays covers of "High And Dry", "Wheat Kings," "Brown-Eyed Girl" and "Wonderwall?"

Me. That's who.

O, glorious hot & sour soup...

How I love thee.
Thou art spicy and textured
With your shoots of bamboo and
many varied mushrooms.

Such a vision
yet so repellent to those unfamiliar
with your mouthwatering contrasts.

Thou art my true love, hot & sour soup.

We shall live ere in bliss
and dream of large bowls of
soupy happiness.

Whoops.

Was preparing for bed when, while I tried to grab some cotton pads to cleanse my face, I heard a delightful shatter, and looked down to see my favourite Clinique nailpolish all over the cloudy-white tiles in the bathroom.

Glass and bright red (with a slight golden shimmer) polish everywhere.

Thank fucking god for nail polish remover. Went through close to half a bottle cleaning it up (the grouting still has a pinkish hue in parts)... now feel sick from the fumes. Pretty sure I got all the glass. I wonder if Chris will even notice. Think it unlikely, as he is unable to discern just-cleaned floor from hasn't-been-washed-in-centuries floor. Interesting experiment, as I don't think he reads this (likely from fear, I expect).

The sad part of the entire scenario is that the entire time, I thought to myself, "Well shit -- I really liked that colour. I don't think it's available anymore, either."

Sometimes my shallowness makes even me cringe.


-----------
(later)

Actually... he might notice. Looked in the trash, and it looks like I just wiped down the bathroom after violently killing several people with an axe.
Will now leave note to avoid being woken at 6 am to panicked queries about my health and being rushed to emergency for stitches, or to 55 Division for bloody murder confession.

Stick a fork in me...

...I'm done.

Am definitely on the "bad" side of the health scale. A number of friends have confessed to feeling unwell and have duly apologized for inflicting illness upon me. The gods have decreed sickness. You can't argue with a virus.

I feel like a big ball of arse. And somehow I must dig deep into my little creative well and pull out some kind of brilliance for a deadline tomorrow. My head feels like it weighs three times as much as usual... and keeps wobbling on my neck. (Like Sputnick -- spherical, but quite pointy in parts.)

Fortunately, felt sufficiently well enough to completely stuff my face at dinner yesterday. Soooo good. There's some weird part of me that worships at the altar of good mashed potatoes and gravy. (Not that Crappy Von Crap-o stuff that you get at buffets or shitty restaurants, but the good homemade stuff.)

I have a post that's been building in me recently, but I never seem to have enough time or attention span to seriously address it. It specifically targets the gaining popularity of misogyny. Not sure if this is primarily a North American thing, but am defintitely getting a sense that it's not a good time to be female right now. So much resentment. It's almost thick enough to breathe.

But that is a tale for another time. For now, my focus is needed elsewhere.

This Thanksgiving, I'm so very grateful for extra-soft, extra-strong tissues with lotion. And non-fat iced tazo chai bevvies.

The Big Feed '05

Yes, 'tis once again time for that marvelous Thanksgiving thing.

Am sitting at a desk in Midland, typing away -- while alternately sneezing and blowing my nose from a cold I seem to have succumbed to this morning (a special gift that I suspect was donated to me by a certain Tali person).

Because of my general state of ugh-ness, I'm not sure a) how I'm going to get all the work done that's due in the next two days; and b) how I'm going to be able to make a big pig of myself at dinner tomorrow. I feel like ass. Staying out until late on thursday night (or rather, friday morning) wasn't likely a very good idea, either.

One day, I will remember that I'm old, and such behaviour is unseemly.
If all goes well, I should be about 70 years old at the time. (Query: why are people in such a rush to behave like they're old? It's folly -- you'll just sit down when you're 60 or so, and wonder where the hell your youth went.)

So before my fellow Canadians sit down for an enormous meal with friends and family (or in some cases, alone with a bottle of wine and take-away), I would like to wish them good eating and a happy long weekend. And pray for a short winter...

Or many visits to warmer climes.

The trouble with lip glosses

A bug committed suicide on my lips this evening.
Was on my way to a club, and was wearing an inordinate amount of makeup (well, for me, anyway)... including a high-shone Revlon lip gloss. Midway through the streetcar ride, I felt something on my lip.

It was a bug.

The pathetic thing had flown on to my lips... and died when it was stuck to the product. Like flypaper... only more dense and gooey. Ah, the price of beauty (or in my case, merely getting by).

Ick.

"Hey -- 'lip them?' Lip them? What?"

Lost In Translation is on.
I have it on DVD, but it doesn't matter.

I love this fucking movie. The "rip my stocking" thing kills me every time. I wanted to hate Sofia Coppola, but her movies are just too damned good. (Despite all you Scarlett Johansson naysayers -- you know who you are.)

Mad World

That song has been running through my head since this morning. It's still there. Weirdly Donnie Darko.

Just one of those days where, though everything seems fairly normal, things seem slightly skewed (to the left, I think). I found myself staring at everything oddly, had conversations that seemed like they were overheard and have generally felt uneasy all day. Sort of a combination of that strange clarity that comes from depression (but without the horrible urge to off myself or stay in bed cuddling a box of tissues), and a general sense of being removed from everything.

It's like the world has changed in a strangely intangible way... and no one else has noticed. Which means, of course, that it's me who's changed.

Why? Beats the hell outta me.
Am hoping it's for the better, but one can never be too sure about these things.

Just another kid who will hate his parents...

Nicholas Cage named his son Kal-el Coppola Cage.

Like, as in Superman.
Fuck... That's just weird.

Love me, love my friends

Chances are good that, somewhere along the road, you've befriended someone you've never met. Maybe through an online game, a chat room or something similar.

I recently made my very first Internet Friend... after he posted a comment on a friend's blog, and we bonded over fruity soaps. Ro is a Scottish fellow of varied and eclectic background. I don't claim to know him overly well, but I find him intelligent, acid, kind and oft-times somewhat wicked. His rather impulsive nature tends to land him in hot water occasionally, but he is a most congenial fellow. (Despite his request for my address. I suspect he wants to skulk about Toronto and spy on all the Canadian ladies he charms.)

One of Ro's endearing qualities is an uncanny ability to make you re-evaluate yourself, and the things you say and take for granted. While I wallow somewhat unnecessarily in money miseries, a few short lines from him snap me back to reality.

Today I received an email from him -- one of his best friends was hit by a car this weekend. She is unlikely to last the week.

Some people say you should live every day like it's your last. I'd like to add this: treat those you love as if every day is their last. Life is just too fucking short to spend it in ambiguity.

Huff is playing in the background... with Damien Rice's "Delicate" accompanying it. Had to turn it off. Feeling a tad too melancholy for it.

...Good night, Ro.

Nice but short

Just said farewell to my mum, who has gone off to visit her friend in Dundas before driving up north for a quickie visit with some family.

It was a good visit, with lots of food and time spent.

Short visits depress me sometimes. Feel a little sad. As is usually the case when you realize you're not going to see your family for another three months (or longer) -- and the inevitable fear that follows. After all, a lot of bad things can happen in three months.

Think I'll go wallow for a wee bit. Like, 15 minutes. Max.

Waaaaait a minute...

I suspect I was friend-dumped this weekend. Nothing concrete, mind. Just a suspicion.

It was very subtly done. A sort of hey-there email, mixed with a sorry-I've-been-out-of-touch-for-no-reason. A few other things thrown in, all wrapped up with a maybe-I'll-try-and-keep-in-touch.

Huh.

The impact of the email didn't hit me for a day. For the moment, I was glad to hear from a pal I've rarely seen or talked to. Then yesterday, the doubts crept in. Suddenly I wondered if the congenial tone wasn't a little too dimissive. The interest somewhat forced. And at the same time, a very clear invisible hand keeping a slightly clinical distance. It seemed, very clearly, that it was a friendly gesture of "Stay the fuck away, except for remaining on each other's mailing lists."

I was like, "What the fuck?!" followed by "Did I just get friend-dumped through email?"

Perhaps I'm reading too much into this. Those of us brought up and trained to read in between the itty-bitty lines sometimes look too close. But at the same time, sometimes we don't look at all, for fear of overanalyzing.

But I feel somewhat ill-used.
It's unnerving.

It's almost likely I've been half-heartedly shelved for storage.
"Dammit, where did I put that friend I had ages ago? Ah, here she is--" [blows dust off, inadvertently breaking off a limb] "--a friend right when I needed one." Then I would be asked to babysit, or perhaps sponsor some charity run or somesuch, before being returned to the shelf behind a jar of poorly-preserved beets.

Or perhaps, I'm just entirely too paranoid. In which case, I'd best order myself another one of those white white jackets with extra-long sleeves.