The Vampire Spike?

Rumour has it that Joss Whedon has approached writer-director Tim Minear about making a movie based on that naughty, naughty vampire, Spike.

Sure, it's hardly news like Serenity was (and most of us would rather see Whedon fighting to return Firefly to the air), but an interesting thing nonetheless.

Story here.

Am also interested in hearing if anyone has an inside scoop of cheapie Depeche Mode tix for tomorrow night's concert. Am revoltingly, pathetically broke right now (despite that fact that I'm owed quite a large chunk of change by various places).

Don't make me beg. It's an ugly scene.

In other, less-fascinating news, it seems the couple downstairs have finally birthed their second child. I distinctly heard the "wah-wah" of a newborn on my way to a Nike event this morning.

Digging his own hole -- hooray!

Conservative leader Stephen Harper (he of the creepy eyes) has said -- what, a day after the election was called and parliament dissolved? -- that he plans to reverse gay marriage rights in Canada.

Is that one of the first things in his agenda?
Geez, Steve, way to warm the cockles of Ontarians -- who already hate you.

Granted, Harper said he would like to leave it to vote. Which is nice, since he's obviously hoping that it's the most democratic way to revert the obviously-far-too-liberal legislature. He's obviously hoping that no one will notice his blatant attempt to inflict his party's frightening politics on the rest of the country.

Part of me thinks, "Is the man that narrow-minded?" Then I remember -- he's Conservative. And let us never forget that it's the same party who embraced amongst their brethren the frightening fascist Alliance party (far, far right).

I've said it before, I'll say it again -- I would rather see Slightly Shady Liberals running the country than a party who obviously have no regard for the actual people who live in Canada.

Ah, Jackie boy, I hope you know what you're doing. I support you -- but even I'm not naive enough to think the NDP has even a snowball's chance in hell at winning this thing.

Oh, hell and damnation again...

Feeling rather vexed this evening.

Am supposed to be working on most salacious, emotional and yet still sexy copy for a book jacket, but instead find myself fuming over an email.

One of the mags I currently write for (am contributing editor) has asked me to feature a particular video game... because that particular company is advertising for the issue.

Now, I've told these people once, I've told them twice -- hell, I've told them three times -- that I will not, under any circumstances, compromise the copy for the sake of an advertiser. Paying money to the publisher (of which I will see nothing but my regular rate anyway) will not buy my fucking integrity. And nor can you purchase it from me directly... though I would certainly respect the bluntness of such a gesture.

I keep my copy clean. The magazine knows this. Hell, it's part of the reason I have a semi-decent reputation (tiny though it be). So why do they insist on asking me to feature games on an advertising basis? And worse still, what does it say about the publisher/developer who encourages this?

Sure, the managing editor has no ethical problems with this. He can do whatever he wants to his copy (and people know exactly what they're up to).

But me?
I... am... not... for... sale.
Everyone has a price. You missed it. By a long shot.

You want advertorial, you will not only have to pay for the copy, but the cost of my pride, my reputation and any sense of self-worth I have left in my body after working in the business for six years.

You may not have my soul. So fuck off already.

There. Have removed myself from the soapbox. Done.

Adios, muchacho...

My chum Tali leaves for San Francisco tomorrow.
Which sucks.

But she goes to a new life, a new adventure. I won't have to miss her too much, as she's one of those people constantly connected to email, MSN and all manner of devices. It goes without saying that I'll have to visit her regularly.

And she left me her red couch, for which I thank her.

Ciao, bella!

And one more...

Hannah also needs to have her diapers changed so she can go out and play.

It's true.

What Hannah "needs"

Ok, thanks to Mister AB once again for finding something so delightful for me to do when I'm feeling antsy.

Enter your name, followed by "needs" into a search engine... and find out what you really need. (i.e. "Hannah needs" and press enter.)

1. Hannah needs a hug.
2. Hannah needs 24 hour a day nursing care.
3. Hannah needs to go into the tunnel and face the prisoner.
4. Hannah needs a push.
5. Hannah needs the math pictures.
6. Hannah needs a storyline.
7. Hannah needs to give you some Beatles albums.
8. Hannah needs a loving home where she can feel safe and happy.
9. Hannah needs to learn to hear and use declarative language.
10. Hannah needs a little sister from China.
11. Hannah needs long term prayer.
12. Hannah needs to apply lots of make-up so she can perform in her latest dramatic role.
13. Hannah needs to be picked up at 3:30 pm.
14. Hannah needs to jump all the way down and pick up the two treasures in the water.

Holy fuck. That was fun. I could keep going...
Anyone else?

An early start to the campaign

The very day that Olivia Chow has ditched her position as a municipal candidiate and decided to try and run for a federal seat in the upcoming election, I received my annual Christmas card from the NDP party.

From both Chow herself, her husband and NDP leader Jack Layton, and two others.

Did they send this on purpose? Did they arrange something with Canada Post to try and get the seasons-greetings card sent on the same day?

Timing, my friends. Timing.

Meanwhile, I would like to offer my vote for sale -- to the Liberal party. (Sorry, Harper. I just don't like you, your West Is Best And Fuck Ontario philosophy, or your scary-assed right-wing stance. And there's something about your eyes that makes my guts curdle.)

The Liberals may need it. All they have to do is "take care" of my student loans. A small price indeed.

About $30,000 should do it. (I will accept a much higher payment in the event of a bidding war.)

It's true... high school sucked.

Out of a morbid sense of curiosity (as opposed to any real feeling of nostalgia or genuine urge to talk to anyone), I joined ClassMates.com.

As a lark.

I used a fake name. And I'm fascinated with all the names of people I've forgotten or supposedly even knew... even if I shared a classroom with most of them at some time or another.

Bring a realist, I know that most of the remotely interesting people I knew probably stay far away from such an insipid little site -- or, like me, use fake noms de plumes. What cracks me up is the message board for my school. Full of dumb, sparse comments. "Our highschool football team was the worst ever" and "who was your favourite teacher?"

Never anything interesting like, "Who went to prison?" "How many people had illegitimate babies?" or "How many of the queer student population had to move to other cities before they could leave the closet safely?"

But in much the same way I like seeing other people's houses (not in a creepy, stalking way... it's just fun to get a glimpse into foreign worlds), I wish I could see what these people look like now. Who looks amazing, or who crumpled under the weight of reality... or which people wish they were still back in their high school glory years.

I very nearly went to my high school reunion for this very reason. Oh, to be a fly on the wall and smirk all superior-like.

But some things are best avoided. Why pine for a past that's gone (and I never particularly liked that much anyway)? The present always has some much interesting stuff going on. I can barely keep up as it is.

Besides, I could never be one of those old ladies who you spot on the street and say, "OK -- she was in the prime of her youth in such-and-such year, as evidenced by dated clothing, hairstyle and mannerisms."

I mean, I saw a woman on the subway a couple of weeks ago with gold L.A. gear aerobic shoes on. And stretch pants! Horrifying... yet strangely compelling in a time-warp sort of way.

Dammit, I *will* do it...

Decided to pimp out my two kids books over the next two weeks. Shop for a publisher, even though the damn things aren't ready.

I'm even looking forward to the mammoth pile of rejection slips...

(OK -- I'm not, really. Someone talk me out of doing this? Please?)

No date for Potter...

Somehow, despite being an avid Harry Potter fan (put away that look of scorn and derision... please), I find myself not only having not been to see the movie -- having opted to wait a week for the crowds to thin. And am the only one of nearly everyone I know who hasn't seen it.

Including those who haven't even read the books [casts dark look at both Tanya and Chris].

I, of course, will blame the person who went see it without me, who I felt reasonably confident would share my glee at whichever events and ommissions occurred.

But worse still is knowing that, after seeing so many films alone (one must get used to it when one is reviewing films and therefore is no big deal), it is an entirely different matter to pay great heaps of money for the same experience.

Noriyuki "Pat" Morita dies of natural causes...

Ah, 'tis true.

Pat Morita, known best for his role as Mr. Miyagi in the Karate Kid series, died in his home in Las Vegas yesterday of natural causes.

Shitty.

For a more detailed list of the many, many films he's been part of and more, suggest heading to the IMDB.

My weekend has begun...

Most of my work seems centres on the Sunday-Thursday shift.
Which means technically, today is my day off.

I can't bring myself to watch television. Yet it's too damn cold to leave the effing house.

Dare I...? Could I possibly...?

Yes. Quite possibly. I believe it could well be time to play The Movies again. A most excellent time-waster indeed.

----

(Later...)

By The Movies, I meant the video that was just released a little while ago, where you get to run a movie production company a la Sims-style.

Sol... or a soul?

Last night was one of those hectic evenings where you're trying to attend a million different things without leaving so early that you hurt people's feeling.

First stop was the Centennial College Alumni event for the communications grads. Free food with 20-minute long lineups, live jazz band... one ticket for a small glass of wine.

Then stopped into Ubisoft's King Kong video game launch at the Panaroma Lounge at Bay and Bloor. Up to the 51st floor. Far more people I knew (many of them well into the suds by then), fantastic -- but windy and icy-looking -- view, better music. Open bar and a chocolate fountain with fresh fruit for dipping... or is that soaking? Plunging? Anyway, it was fucking tasty.

Left quickly as was meeting my "date" (a friend who nicely stepped in at the last minute when someone else failed to meet me earlier) at the NOW Xmas party. Zillions of people (they wouldn't check our coats because they were full) and three drink tickets each (more than adequate for the hour or so we were sticking around). I'm sure there was food, but god knows how we could have found it. The cool thing was they had set up fortune tellers. We lined up to receive generic responses. I made a rookie mistake and admitted I was a writer (someone later laughed and said, "A writer at a NOW party? That's rididulous..."), and then received most earnest predictions that I would write a novel in eight years and it would be published.

Somewhat unsatisfied but greatly amused, my chum and I wandered off to the bar to get our next round. I went to the bar and ordered a glass of of white wine (for my friend) and a Sol for myself (hey, I just like the lime-with-beer combo).

The bartender looked at me and said, "You want a Soul?"
Suddenly I felt an odd chill sweep through my insides, and the noise of the party dimmed for the merest second.

Then thing were right again, and she went and got my Sol.

But I felt unnerved for the rest of the evening.

To all A-list celebrities...

I would like to apologize to you for being part of the gossip chain.

There's no sinister or prying motives on my part. I will never personally violate your privacy, nor be responsible for paparazzi. And this is, truly, a very temporary phase. I have no plans to make this a career.

Of course... famous last words.

And at the very least -- I don't work for a tabloid.

As the federal government threatens to topple...

So Paul Martin's liberal government isn't expected to last the week.

The Tories are planning on extended a vote of non-confidence that will find us weary Canadians heading to polling booths very soon.

And the promises have already started.

Maybe it's just me, but instead of saving all your promises and making them contingent on whether your party is re-elected, wouldn't it make sense to actually implement some of these very fine changes, thus ensuring the country that your party is capable of following through?

I mean, talk is cheap. I'd be far more swayed by action.

Fortunately, I live in one of the very few ridings where I can happily tick off the little "NDP" box with enough confidence to know that our representative will head off to parliament. Why is this, you ask?

I live in the Beaches riding. NDP leader Jack Layton's home.

Which warms my little blackened, socialist heart. But, Jackie boy, if you don't end up supporting the liberals closer to election day to ensure the Tories have no chance in hell of governing, I shall be very put out.

My apologies to all for that little political interlude.

Back to my usual senseless ranting.

Great... More dysfunction for the world.

Just found out that someone I detest (who, incidentally, is a fucking terrible mother and is dragging her kid through a years-long custody battle -- complete with emotional manipulation -- for the pure joy of punishing the little dude's father, who simply wants shared custody) is pregnant again.

Why are stupid assholes allowed to procreate?

Sometimes horoscopes are funny that way...

Well, after my Great Venting Of 2005, I'm feeling better.

Perhaps few people read this blog, and even less care. But from time to time, I get to rid my sagging little brain of just a few of things weighing it down.

Today I tried to discreetly withdraw from a situation that I was not directly involved in. Two people I know. And me being me, stuck my fat head in offered advice. Including recently, when I was very, very drunk (I once had a rule about not emailing anyone -- ever -- when I was loaded. Seems I've been getting lazy) and told someone off in no uncertain terms that they were being an arse (you know who you are).

Then the oddest thing happened.

They were happy about it. Well, not so much happy, but pleased with my reaction. And then -- even weirder -- they proceeded to demand more information in the same manner (obviously without ridiculous alcoholic influence).

Today,my horoscope (for Aries from astrology.com) reads like this:

"They'll sit down across from you, or stand right there in front of you, cross their arms and look you straight in the eye. Then they'll ask if you'd please share your opinion of the current situation with them, one-on-one, as a favor -- in confidence.Try not to be rude. You knew you were getting ready to let the world know exactly what you thought, but it wouldn't hurt for them to think they were responsible for this big revelation."

Well, I certainly wasn't intending on sharing anything with the rest of the world... but the rest of it?

Uncanny.

Who knew writing had so many drawbacks?

Yes, it's true -- the life of a writer is not always an easy one. Because for all you people who have said to me over the years, "You have the coolest job" and "I wish I could do that for a living" (*snort* -- not once they hear the salary, they don't), I must say...

Some parts of this job suck. They're frustrating as hell. And I'm not talking about money.

I have been known to editorialize in my writing -- but only where I was permitted and encouraged (as suited tone of publication -- I can be a saucy little brat). But I am capable of being objective when the occasion demands.

But there are times, my friends, where it takes everything in my soul not to write exactly how I feel.

Like today.
When I was asked to write a news brief about Teen People dumping a feature on a girl musical duo. Blond-haired, blue-eyed twins, only 13 years old. They're called Blue Prussian and they're from California. They have photos on a related blog site were they're modeling for something I believe is called Aryanwear. These smiling little cherubs have happy faces on their t-shirt... happy faces with Hitler 'staches and hair.

I described them in an email to the editor as being " hardcore, Nazi-sympathizing, White Race Power, holocaust-denying, scary-ass crackers." The worst part is that they were -- for lack of a better word -- bred that way. Their parents raised them with the same value system.

And they're only 13. For fuck's sake.
Did you know who you were and what you stood for at 13? I sure as hell didn't. And no one else I know did, either. Yet they're being fostered into the dismal, horrifying lifestyle... And people are writing about it.

Including myself. Let me just say... being objective was VERY fucking hard today.

Worse still, it seems that Teen People and Elle Girl were competing -- competing!!!! -- to get these girls featured in the magazine. And that they went with Teen People because they were offered some semblance of editorial control...

It... was... horrifying. I'm sickened, apalled and embarassed that people in my profession have stooped so painfully low. I mean, media doesn't have the greatest reputation now anyway. And I've been trying my hardest to keep my copy clean and away from external influences.

But this... THIS!

And my editor (lovely fellow) kept saying, "But it's OK -- it's bad press."
No press is bad press for those kinds of creatures.

I feel ill.

The best CD I never heard...

OK, I'm really behind and have a ton of work to do (and only an hour to finish it), but just discovered a really great CD of covers from all of my (and your) favourite '80s movies. When they include The Pixies, The Smiths and more, and have artists like the Dresden Dolls covering them?

Well, my friends, it's simple. It's gold, baby. Solid fucking gold.

Will someone please, please buy this for me? Pretty please?

High School Reunion: A Tribute To Those Great '80s films (more deets here).

Somebody's Baby A Million Miles Away American Girl Turning Japanese Weird Science Don't You (Forget About Me) In Your Eyes If You Were Here Little Bitch Love My Way Bring On The Dancing Horses Moving In Stereo Pretty In Pink Wave Of Mutilation Please Please Please Let Me... I Melt With You Danke Schoen Repo Man I Go Crazy Within Your Reach

John P. Strohm Dipsomaniacs Matthew Sweet Blank Pages The Bennies AM Lori McKenna Kitty Hawk Nova Social The Modifiers The Atomic Hep Cats The Commons The Dresden Dolls Kristin Hersh The Caulfield Sisters Underdog The Wading Girl Frank Black PC Muñoz Bastards Of Melody

Fast Times at Ridgemont High Valley Girl Fast Times at Ridgemont High Sixteen Candles Weird Science The Breakfast Club Say Anything Sixteen Candles Sixteen Candles Valley Girl Pretty In Pink Fast Times at Ridgemont High Pretty In Pink Pump Up The Volume Pretty In Pink Valley Girl Ferris Bueller's Day Off Repo Man Some Kind Of Wonderful Say Anything

Well, *that* was a rough morning...

I've been pretty good with not drinking very much lately. Or at least, not as much as I used to.

But it's been a long freaking time since I've been that loaded.

Yeesh. I blame it on the stupid pear-vodka drinks they were serving at last night's event. The sad part is that I truly have no idea how many of the damn things I drank. I'm pretty sure my drink count was in the double digits, though. Ack.

Worst part was after passing out in bed, Chris' bloody alarm went off at five-something (an atrocious time to be awake). I bolted up, trying to figure out why the fire alarm was going off. Then Chris put it on snooze and it went off again. He got up. And about 5 minutes to an hour later, it went off again. Dozed some more.

I was feeling very dehydrated, very rough and very sick of the swirly repetitive dreams that accompany alcohol excess. Got up. Made it to the bathroom for a drink and nearly passed out on the sink. So decided to curl up on the nice, cool tiles in the bathroom for about 15 minutes.

And tried to not hurl. It worked. (I actually have a very mild phobia of vomiting. Freaks me out. As result, I usually am only physically sick when it's food poisoning and have no control whatsoever.)

So I've now been been up for well over two hours. I've had less than three hours sleep.

I got some work done, and all that's left for today is my daily news stuff. So it's decided. Back to bed for at least a couple of hours of shut-eye. Better now than this afternoon, when I'll actually need a clear head.

Sleepy.

Oh, urkkkkk

Drank too much tonight.

Delicious pear-y goodness at Xbox 360 event. Bonjour, le VIP section. Et bonjour, Monsieur Free Beverages!

Feeling icky, as been dealing with friend drama on so many levels.

Au revoir, lovely relaxation from spa-day...

*sigh*

Little black disposable thong...

...+ fat girl = Never again.

Returned from most enjoyable yet slightly humiliating spa experience. I could deal with being scrubbed, rubbed and pampered from head to foot. Yet nowhere in my head did I realize I would likely have to get naked for it! Foolish, foolish me.

Fortunately, I was able to ignore to the embarassment that comes out of seeing my ass and belly squished into a teeny, tiny little paper thong (one last "ugh" for good measure). That said, I haven't felt that calm and relaxed in ages. Months. Very sort of alert, yet very chill. The "healing" waters (a small pool and several large tubs) were tremendous. I could have stayed blissfully in there all day.

I wish I could open a spa. It would be pretty. And bright. And nice.

Mmmm...

Stupid, am I?

You know, for all my usual touting about how intelligent I am (not in the genius sense, mind -- more along lines of "as compared with neighbourhood trash bin"), I get very irritated when people speak to me like I don't know what I'm talking about.

In some cases, I can flagrantly show off my wealth of knowledge by coming up with facts, figures and sources. However, the other day, a friend and I were talking about geisha (as Memoirs Of A Geisha is opening next month).

She said, "Geisha are prostitutes. Subservient prostitutes."

"That can't be right, "I argued. "That's like saying that every companion and call girl sleeps with their nightly assignments. I'm sure it happens, but it isn't necessarily the case. Besides, they're not trained as whores at all. They're something else entirely. Entertainers."

She told me I was full of shit. And actually laughed in my face.
Unfortunately, I had limited references.

I said, "You could be right, but I think I would like to research the matter first." (Seriously, that's what I said. J'ai dork.)

I came home, did my research and discovered that indeed, I was correct. Geisha being prostitutes was generally a western misconception, thought there were roots in the rumour coming from the prostitution districts as well. Not that geisha never slept with their clients, but it certainly wasn't expected. They were entertainers. Not whores.

But I felt rather annoyed about the whole situation. Not because I was right or she was right, but rather that I imagined a look of "aren't-you-very-fucking-stupid" on her face. Or maybe I didn't imagine it. It's hard to say since I live on the block of paranoia.

But the very idea of people who talk to me like I'm an idiot absolutely infuriates me.

(Much like people who point their finger in your face when lecturing you. Grrr.)

Hmmm.

Earlier post was v. boring.

Decided on this (untrue, but undeniably more interesting):

Went on safari. One gun. Unlimited bullets. Was terribly distracted when spotted Mariah Carey romping through the bush, so filled her full of holes instead.

Was surprised by amount of cheering when she was finally dragged into the jeep. Tossed her out back for starving hyenas, who merely turned their noses up, and opted instead to eat their young.

Tomorrow -- wrestling alligators in tub of oil, wearing only very flattering bikini. Miraculously lost 60 pounds, so I look hot. Very hot. Pillow fight with the girls scheduled for later.

Was very clever when I received my cheque last week and purchased 16 baby ducks, which will be raised in the front yard. They will be trained as my own personal army of ducks, which will the be sent on search-and-destroy mission to eliminate neighbourhood squirrels.

(Better, right?)

Spending lots of money should be fun...

But it wasn't. Paying out a ton of cash to IKEA (sadly, one of the cheapest places to buy a mattress -- though we fortunately bought the best one) just made my lower lip tremble.

In happier news, I can now sleep though the night.
And tomorrow is designated "spa day." I get to go cover a new spa, with means being treated to all kinds of fancy treaments and humiliations due to inability to find time for the gym in the last few days. My bathingsuit will not leave my body.

Thank god for bathrobes.

Then will haul ass home, write some scintillating news briefs about gossip goings-on, and then on to Xbox 360 launch in the evening (whoo, VIP) chez the Guvernment.

Was clever when got money last week, and bought a roll of tokens. Hope they last until the new year.

Concentrate, dammit...

I'm trying to type my review of Just Friends. It's not going horribly, but I'm already well over my word count. (Really, is 200 words enough for anything except a dismissive, "This is utter poo/wonderful happiness"? I think not.)

But I'm so very distracted.

Visions of Harry on his broomstick are flying through my head. Goblet of Fire opens today, and I weep knowing that not only did I not get tickets for an advance premiere (so I'm spoiled -- what's your point?), but that the earliest I can possibly see it is next week. And a certain so-called friend refuses to take an afternoon off next Friday to come with me.

So I must reconcile with the fact that not only does this friend not love me, but Harry Potter, as well.

*Scowl.*

A laugh right where I needed it

Watched the preview for Just Friends this evening.

My expectations were low. Very low. I find Ryan Reynolds very hit or miss.

But this movie made me laugh my ass off. It's not mature -- the plot is predictable, the writing isn't great and the premise isn't terribly original. But the physical comedy is fantastic. There was some unduly outlandish stuff in it, yet I kept laughing. Why? Because some movies just have good comic timing.

Not for those who take themselves too seriously, or consider their favourite humour to be highbrow, but fuck... there is some funny-ass shit here. And some very fine sibling beatings.

If you don't find any of it amusing, you're likely an uptight prig or dead inside. It's as simple as that.

Drat, curses and a tiny sigh...

Well, it's finally happened.
The moment of no return.

The first snow of the year. Just now. Just outside.

Up until now, I could go on pretending that it was still fall, and months of cold, snow, dirty slush and icy sidewalks were far, far away.

Oh, winter. I do not like you at all.

Even being Captain Jack Sparrow isn't cheering me up. Well... maybe a little.

Je suis pirate!

According to the latest action hero quiz (thanks, AB), my kinship with pirates of old -- no rocket launchers needed when you have a fine cutlass, me matey -- isn't entirely unmerited.

Arrr.


Who are you? Go to Which Action Hero Would You Be? v. 2.0

My results...

You scored as Captain Jack Sparrow.

Roguish,quick-witted, and incredibly lucky, Jack Sparrow is a pirate who sometimes ends up being a hero, against his better judgement. Captain Jack looks out for #1, but he can be counted on (usually) to do the right thing. He has an incredibly persuasive tongue, a mind that borders on genius or insanity, and an incredible talent for getting into trouble and getting out of it. Maybe its brains, maybe its genius, or maybe its just plain luck. Or maybe a mixture of all three.

Captain Jack Sparrow		92%
Batman, the Dark Knight		79%
Lara Croft		67%
Neo, the "One"		67%
James Bond, Agent 007		63%
Maximus		58%
The Amazing Spider-Man		50%
The Terminator		50%
Indiana Jones		46%
El Zorro		42%
William Wallace		38%

Mmmm... New Morrissey

Morrissey is releasing a new album. Deets below.

Perhap Le Moz will return to our fair city and grace us with another performance. And bared chest.

Album title: Ringleader Of The Tormentors
Release date: March 21 (single expected in February)

TRACK LISTING:

"I Will See You In Far-off Places"
"Dear God Please Help Me"
"You Have Killed Me"
"The Youngest Was The Most Loved"
"In The Future When All's Well"
"The Father Who Must Be Killed"
"Life Is A Pigsty"
"I'll Never Be Anybody's Hero Now"
"On The Streets I Ran"
"To Me You Are A Work Of Art"
"I Just Want To See The Boy Happy"
"At Last I Am Born"

The Ice Cream Parlour/Internet Cafe Combo

I was on the bus home late in the afternoon, stewing quietly to myself about having missed my film screening (right time -- wrong theatre).

As I tried to avoid cringing at the thought of my flakiness -- it happens to everyone, but far more often to me -- I stared out the window.

And laughed.

For I had forgotten one of the many amusements of Coxwell Avenue. The "Nice Hair" salon (its actual name) was closed, but a bit further north was a store dedicated to whimsy and poor business sense...

The Lick And Click. Both ice cream parlour and Internet cafe. An impractical mix of two very different services (which should never be combined, though in the summer months I'm often guilty of it).

Not to mention the somewhat perverse name.

And two doors down is the laundry-cafe (the Sip And Suds? I can't remember) . I suspect the two shops are owned by the same person.

And I thought, somewhere out there is a similar notion of two very different businesses whose feature prosperity lies in their respective merger. I've often thought I dinner theatre (that actually serves dinner while watching a film -- preferably with similar themes) would be a fun, if not entirely practical idea...

Especially on B horror flick night.

How fitting...

The Aries horoscope for the last week according to The Onion:

"Aries The corpse of 16th-century astronomer Nicolaus Corpenicus will rise from the grave this week to explain, once and for all, that the universe does not revolve around you, you self-centered prick."

In related news, I received my first review via BlogExplosion. I nearly failed. My blog is uninteresting, unattractive and they "won't be coming back."

Being the sensitive twit I am, I suddenly felt upset. Then I thought, "Why is this even bothering me?" Truth is, I hate criticism. Even warranted stuff.

Now, I'm simply surprised that someone would bother doing such a thing -- there's a lot of boring-as-shit stuff out there, but I generally shrug, and look at something else. I don't assume other people's interests are my own.

On the other hand, it cleared up something for me -- I don't give a rat's fart if people come here or not. Of course my blog looks like shit. Yeesh.

And on a completely unrelated note -- I threw my umbrella in the trash in the midst of downpour yesterday when it refused to close. When I tried to force it shut, it bit my finger. It seemed to like the taste of the blood, as only shut part-way.

So I stuffed it in the nearest waste bin upside-down. At which point, it opened up. Bloody thing.

Happy anniversary to meeeee...

It's been exactly one year since I first went to theYMCA (Metro-central, thank you).

In that time, I've:

- lost 30 lbs
- lost four belt loops on my favourite belt
- lost a size and a half (might have been more had I bothered to eat a bit better, but small steps)
- increased confidence by 27%
- Smelled some of the stinkiest human beings ever
- learned how much I hate "gym cheaters"
- Gotten my cardio up to 45 minutes (originally started at 20)
- discovered exactly how much damage the wrong trainers can do to your feet (my toenails have finally grown back -- but flip-flop season was a bit iffy there. I curse you, Saucony)


And feeling a helluva lot better about myself? Priceless.

"And Kansas, she said, is the name of the star"

In a shocking turn of events, I find myself in an extraordinary good mood today. I'm feeling most unusual.

Do I name this feeling? Is it...? Could it be...? Optimism?

Nooooo. That's not possible.

...Is it?

Yet somehow, things are looking unusual bright, even on a grey, wet and overall craphole day. I'm accompanied by Les Sans Culottes, who are keeping me cheerful. I'm about to write a news brief about Paris Hilton being attacked by a monkey (ah, wonderful news -- now if only they'd all rebel and eat her alive...). I'm owed large quantities of money.

And I owe an apology to a number of people who've had to deal with me being a moody, miserable twat for the last little while. Some of you will get nice emails. Others will just have to satify yourselves with the glow that comes with reading this.

Which I'd best get to before the mood crashes completely in the next few hours.

See, I'm not doing so bad...

Was puttering around BlogExplosion.com (desperately trying to drum up some interest in my poor little blog -- not that it's terribly interesting, but I like to think it's not entirely void of personality) when someone had posted a link to the Global Rich List.

Now, the person who posted said link remarked on how they were the something-somethingth richest person in the world.

With me, the site tried a different tactic:

"You are in the top 12.79% richest people in the world. There are 5,232,238,033 people poorer than you.

How do you feel about that? A bit richer, we hope. Please consider donating just a small amount to help some of the poorest people in the world."

So yes, by worldwide standards, I'm doing very well for myself. But in Canada, making well under $20,000 a year (not including the 17% deducted for income taxes), living in the most expensive city in the country and thousands upon thousands of dollars in debt? Not so much.

I'm not doing so shit hot. So thanks for trying to make me feel guilty about being "wealthy" when I have exactly $13 in my bank account -- and absolutely nothing in my bloody wallet.

And it does make me feel bad. But also angry, in much the same way that homeless folk ask me for change instead of the obviously well-off suit that just zipped by...

Because I'm a sucker. And I am just too damn nice sometimes.

Sometimes it would be nice just to switch off the "nice" button. Just for a little while. I think I could benefit from being a bastard for a bit. And then maybe I could enjoy not giving a shit. (Not permanently, mind. Just for a little while.)

Quit biting my style, bitches

Many years ago, myself and a good friend were walking to my office, noting how death metal names were always pronounced in certain ways.

"I am the bring-OR of death and destruction!" or "I am some much evil-OR than you!" -- spoken, of course, in low, menacing death-metal tones. Suddenly, we could see the potential of applying this amusing way of speaking to everyday things. "Look, it is a comput-OR store on the very steps of hell" and "Hello, I would like a toasted bagel with chedd-OR cheese..."

This ended up in a long-standing joke (alive to this very day), and while we sometimes get funny looks, most people are just as happy to join in. "Ah, this cab driv-OR thinks we are all retard-ORS."

There's also been a recent trend over the last year or two with some of my peers to add "-zors" to the end of words. ("Ah, that suck-zors" and "What shall we make for dinner-zors?")

So you can likely imagine my irkedness when those pop-culture-assassins at MTV have designated next week as "GameORZ Week."

Fucking copycat motherfuckers.

(Not, of course, that I expect they stole it from me, but I dislike when my peculiar little traits match up to such horrible places and are susequently raped.)

Oh, goody

My horoscope today (Aries):

"Prepare yourself for Murphy's Law in all its glory, as there will miscommunications in every possible way, shape and form."

I simply cannot wait.

-----------
(Later)

Found out that Ro was in accident, and am trying to find more info.
Ack. ACK.
Get better, you Scottish prat.

Stimulus, response!

I'm edgy, restless and distracted.

I have a deadline and a long day of work ahead of me tomorrow. But for the life of me, I can't settle down. I've checked my email (waiting on a couple of emails -- one in particular -- though why anyone would email me late on a Sunday night is beyond reason) about 471 times tonight, read the news, searched the journalism jobs boards, and wandered aimlessly around the apartment.

Avoiding the bedroom and the work that awaits me.

I would like to blame this on the unexpected nap that accosted me about five hours ago as I lay on the bed, surrounded by pages of a manuscipt I was supposed to read. Just -- poof. And I was asleep.

When I woke up (thanks to a friend's phone call -- though was unable to find the phone as it was tucked away under one of the six millions stacks of paper on the bed), I decided I needed a little pick me up, and scarfed two mini Coffee Crisps.

Now am rested, strung-out on sugar and so very, very antsy.

This does not bode well for the week.

What the world needs is...

...more oxytocin.

Not to be confused with OxyContin, of course, though I suspect there are those who would benefit from more of that as well.

Aside from it's role in birth, breastfeeding and both male and female orgasm, oxytocin is thought to be a naturally produced substance that may result on the bonding of people to each other. Or it could just be a case of, "You know, baby, I dig you and all, but you just don't stimulate my pituitary glad to produce oxytocin."

And yet, it is a peptide that also keeps human beings nastier instincts in check. Check this (according to Wikipedia):

• Nasally administered oxytocin appears to generate trust in humans. In a 2005 study, it was shown that in a risky investment game, experimental subjects given the hormone displayed what the researchers deemed "the highest level of trust" twice as often as the control group who were given placebos. The same experiment with the subjects told that they were interacting with a computer showed no such reaction, leading to the conclusion that oxytocin was not merely affecting risk-aversion (Kosfeld 2005)
• Various anti-stress functions: reducing blood pressure and cortisol levels, increasing tolerance to pain, reducing anxiety.
• Oxytocin may play a role in encouraging "tend and befriend", as opposed to "flight or fight", behavior, in response to stress.

It can also be used to induce maternal behaviour. So is it possible that some people produce too much or too little of this substance? Are those overly motherly-types socialized into being overprotective and clingy, or have they just got an over-abundance of oxytocin?

It seems to me to be one of biology's ways of keeping human beings from completely killing each other outright. I mean, we're all a bunch of miserable bastards in some way or another... But wouldn't it be nice just to slip a little of this in a certain surly someone's drink?

(And yes, Ro --I'm sure my reasoning is terribly unscientific and faulty. Yet sometimes talking out of one's arse can be an amusing experience. Any technical corrections will be ignored, as I'm merely hypothesizing, as opposed to stating scientific fact.)

OK. Enough procrastinating. Must run and construct back cover copy about beautiful, oversexed singles who do naughty things in limos, back rooms, etc. Even if one is a socialist and the other is a conservative prig.

The story is old, I know, but it goes on...

Feeling pretty bleh today.

I keep waiting for something to happen. Not sure what, but all does not feel exactly right in the universe this night. Things are off-kilter.

May take a long walk to keep the dark moods at bay. Or worse still, find them waiting for me.

A walk. More sleep. And maybe some reading of terribly trashy books... just for fun. Sometimes my brain needs a break for overthinking everything.

Some days feel like they will never end...

... And invariably, they always do.
But there's always tomorrow to ruin. (Which is invariably what I suspect Scarlett really meant with her "Tomorrow is another day" comment.)

Am so tired. Exhausted. Feet feel like I've been walking on marbles all day.

Stopped by old place of work, and was dismayed to see the atmosphere once again has deteriorated. Actually felt unwelcome at one point, so made myself scarce in a corner with a computer until the art director was ready for our dinner date.

Funnily enough, (aside from said ex-co-worker) my old bosses seemed the happiest to see me. Yet I used to be so happy in that little editorial corner. It was indeed a very Thomas Wolfe moment.

Unsettling how much things can change over the space of a year.

But then, there are always moments like just now when I listened to my dear pal (and I am once again referred to in her column for the second week in a row. I'm nearly famous. How much would it suck if my 15 minutes were actually broke up into 15 separate minutes of hardly-fame?) go off about how it would be grand if human beings could spontaneously remove and reattach one arm -- specifically so that sleeping on one side would be ever so much more comfortable.

I was strangely silent after this.

Mmmm... Angsty Trentness

My inner teenager was almost as delighted as I was at the Nine Inch Nails concert last night. My friend and I, feeling lazy and hungry, passed on openers Death From Above 1979 (though I vow I will see them live at some point) and Queen Of The Stone Age in favour of Salad King Thai food.

The show itself was excellent. My chum had procured us wonderful floor tickets, which enabled to get nice and close without having to have our view obscured by the dolts who crowd-surfed during the slower numbers. We also made "friends" with some neighbours who were as aggressive with pushers-by (the ignorant clods who rudely shove by in their rush to get to the front) as we were. My friend even landed a couple of punches on the odd retreating back (go, Earl!).

Was delighted and a little misty-eyed over "Something I can Never Have" and a cover of "Dead Souls," but most of the show was comprised of the With Teeth material. Still. Quite good. Entertaining as expected. Better position that anticipated. And Trent's newly-cropped coif (or lack thereof)? Completely works for me.

There might have been a smattering of secret applause from our camp for Trent's biceps.

But combined with the after-party (just a busy night at a club, really) and a couple of bottles of Sol, it just turned into a late, late night. I'm pretty bagged. And my baby toes are in agony from being held captive by steel-toed Docs. Poor little guys.

"Flanders Fields" just played on radio. Time for silence.

Ok, Marty, you were right...

I should have bought more bags of the on-sale Lindt chocolate balls.

I'm down to the last one, and fear opening it. Once it is opened, it will be consumed. When it is consumed, I will be wanting more.

At which time I will be forced to pay full-price for the Christmas ones.

Boo.

My horn and its little bit o' tootin'

Sometimes, I can step outside of my own insecurities and self-loathing for a bit. And only for a few minutes. But I value these brief little moments where I can look at things objectively.

While waiting for long-overdue streetcar about an hour ago (seriously, guys, what the fuck -- 25 minutes on Queen Street?), I caught a glimpse of myself in a shop window. A shop I was desperately trying to avoid entering as have suddenly found myself penniless. (There's all of $13 in my bank account. And about $2.50 in my wallet. So very, very sad.)

And I didn't look like a fat piece of cow ass.

I mean, I tend to be pretty self-deprecating (much to the annoyance of a number of friends, one of whom who's hung up a verboten sign all over any cruel-to-myself comments), but for the first time since I started this whole gym thing -- almost a year ago -- I actually saw a difference.

Less ass. Less belly. Legs that are starting to look strong (though must point gratitude to the shockingly well-fitted jeans I found at Old Navy three weeks ago and haven't found since - why do they do that?).

So yay to me. I'm on my way to looking normal. It's an exciting world. One day, I might even be able to wear a bathing suit in public once again... well, perhaps not. One mustn't get ridiculous.

And CBC2 is playing what appears to be the musical score for West Side Story. An unusual choice for them during the day. Last week, they played the first two movements of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony.

I suspect they play these extensive pieces so they can slip out for a coffee, a few cigarettes or a stop at the local pub for a couple of pints.

---------

Quote Du Jour:

"An integral part of any relationship is knowing that you could be killed in your sleep at any time."
- T. Reznor

Things I Done Did Today

- Got a new freelancing position for a month that will put $1400+ in my pocket.

- Tried to ease the pain of two friends (I failed)

- Tried to increase the pain of two others (but for their own benefit)

- Went to the gym and kicked ass. Maybe me being not fat is possible

- Slept in. Unfortunately, still feel exhausted

- Had fruit salad and delightful companionship at lunch

- Snapped (via email) at a friend/acquaintance. Will likely be henceforth demoted to status of "Someone I Once Knew"

- Walked in a light, misty rain and hated myself a little less than usual


Tomorrow is Nine Inch Nails.
And hey, anyone got an inside scoop on cheap Depeche Mode tix? All that are for sale are expensive-types. I'm po'.

Holes in my socks...

Ever notice that sometimes, when there's stuff afoot in your life -- like friends in crisis, or work issues coming to light -- you want to pay attention to little things instead?

For instance... today I discovered that a pair of new sock -- worn only twice before -- have holes in both the toes. Both!

Upsetting news indeed. I blame the weird angle of my big toes, which were obviously intended for jester shoes, or something. Toes are not supposed to curve up. (Not that I have freakish feet, or anything. Just a small idiosyncrasy.) They are not suppose to rip through practically new socks.

And if I didn't know better, I'd swear my toes did it on purpose...

What do you mean, "Just close the window"?

My landlady is a nice woman.
She's friendly and best of all, she rarely comes by the house.

She stopped by on Sunday to drop off two new smoke detectors (hooray, no burning alive in bed) and look at our kitchen faucet, which has about as much water pressure as an ant pissing. We showed her all the screen damage from the squirrels during the summer, which ultimately prevented us from opening doors or windows for two or three months. (Those new to the blog can hit the summer archives for further details of The Great Squirrel Incidents. They're quite amusing, if I do say so myself.)

The landlady blamed the old guys next door (as they likely feed the little buggers) then said, "Well, I guess you guys are going to have to keep your doors and windows closed."

Excuse me?

We have no balcony. No back yard. And while air conditioning is nice in the middle of summer, I do like to treat myself (I'm so terribly demanding sometimes) to fresh air. So essentially, we're expected to stifle ourselves with stale air all year long.

This, of course, excuses her from replacing any screens. Which means if we want wire mesh on our windows, we have to pay for it out of our own pocket.

Balls.

Just a bit of luck?

My horoscope for today has just informed me that I have a little bit of luck. Not a lot, but a bit.

So what do I do with it?

Do I...
a) Try to locate Ro, who has gone missing again
b) Contact a publisher about my kiddie books, neither which I feel is ready (I may never feel they're ready)
c) Hope for a job I'm not sure I want
d) Curl up on the couch and watch some really bad television

Choices, choices...

God, I'm tired. Ever feel like you could sleep for a month or two? Sometimes I envy animals their hibernation.

The devil beckons...

Received an email from a colleague who suggested I apply for a staff writer position at an entertainment rag.

It's not the world's great position (no editorial), but I do know that it would potentially give me a leg up in the industry, and a helluva a lot more cash. And regardless, I'll be submitting Mr. Resume anyway.

But if they were to offer me the job... Could I do it? Would I be able to walk away from this lifestyle? Because while the pay is bad (though steadily improving, albeit slowly), I kinda dig living like this.

My stress levels are almost non-existent. I'm happy. Rested (except for the last week, when swamped with noxious deadlines). I can sleep in if I'm exhausted, or stay up until 3 or 4 am (which is rare, but the option is nice). I'm no one's bitch. I make my hours, I pick the jobs. I can grab my notebook and disappear for the afternoon, or stay home and read Harlequin manuscripts (freelance thing) while the laundry whirrs and clanks in the machine.

Best of all, I have as much silence and alone time as I need. No annoying coworkers. No nagging bosses.

Do I dare? Am I ready for an office again?

"Satan's second choice is root beer..."

Best TV line ever.
Surprising in that it's from That '70s Show.

Every time I see the scene, it makes me laugh until I cry.

There are a few things that do this. I had the same response when the Teletubbies realized their bottoms honked every time they sat down.

An open letter to straight men...

Dear boys,

There times when I think I understand you.

On the surface, it's very "hey, look -- boobs!"
And there are things we women types tend to recognize, like your reluctance to talk about feelings (some of us also despise it), your obvious confusion over the importance of shoes and personal hgyiene. Or the way few of you understand that scent is a big thing for women.

And we understand that deep down, many of you are complex, empathetic creatures. And others of your sex have madonna-whore complexes (or other serious mother issues) big enough to dam the Atlantic.

But however sometimes confusing and mystifying we women are, it sometimes dawns on me that I have no idea what you're thinking.

You couldn't be so painfully simple as portrayed. How else could we females spend so much time dissecting our relationships? Wondering about what sits beneath the surface? Because however much women are accused of playing games -- well, my experience is that men are far more involved in playing the game and making it as difficult as possible. Or walking away altogether with nary a backward glance.

I'll admit you have me stumped, boys. Sometimes I just don't get you. And to tell the truth, it really annoys the hell outta me when so many of you torture my friends.

It's vexing, really. So quit it.
Play nice.

love,
me

I'm carefully trying to stay clear of those things...

Last night, during a late jaunt for hot cider at my favourite neighbourhood coffee shop (love me the Tango Palace), I stood at the counter covered with delicious baked things (and really, some of nicest brownies ever), and that marvelous scent of coffee, tea and socialism.

As I waited for my mug of steamed apple deliciousness, I was listening to the music. Usually they play a wonderful mix of old jazz and assorted eclectic styles, but last night they were playing a live version of Depeche Mode's "Somebody."

Now bear with me for a sec, but once upon a time, I was a teenaged girl.
I wore black. I liked outrageous music that didn't include Bon Jovi and Rick Astley (sorry, Tali a.k.a. Missus Rick). I even (now don't gasp) had my ears pierced several times.

And for a brief moment, that song in the coffee shop swooped me back -- just for the merest glimpse -- of gangly outcast/wallflower me at 13 years old. Angry, miserable and very lonely. Listening to that song and feeling so incredibly ugly and gawky.

And so very helpless. Sitting on my bed and hating myself. Realizing that I would never be the sort of girl that guys would think, "She's cute." Never asked to dance. Never asked for a phone number.

Then a magic poof -- and I was back in the coffee shop.

And I found a connection with that girl that I'd thought I'd lost and left behind. There was no way to go back and tell her it was OK. Or that she was surprisingly perceptive and that she would have many years of being "the funny girl with the hot friends" ahead. But that it wouldn't really matter.

Because somehow, she would still have a life of her own.

But I had been ignoring that girl. Refusing to bring her back into my consciousness -- afraid she would undo years of finely-honed defensivess. I think I need to let her come back.

No one else will get to meet her, of course. But she has things to say, and I owe her a long-overdue conversation.

Stuck under a mountain... of work

Too many deadlines, too much to do. And a visit from very-nice-but-obsessively-clean landlady sometime in the next few hours, which meant a major clean. Fortunately, the cleaning is done, and I can relax and focus on getting work done.

Such as writing in my blog. Very important.

I have an assignment due (movie review of terrible Zathura) in the next few hours, a two-page magazine section due tomorrow morning, a book blurb rewrite, a manuscript to read and more back covers to write.

Things that are preventing me from offing myself right now:

1) The knowledge that today will put $600 into my pocket (bills, rent, loan payments)
2) The three remaining bags of Lindt balls
3) The apartment. So clean. So nice...
4) The stubborn tree just outside my window -- its leaves (which it refuses to give up) are a deep yellow, and when the sun shines through the blustery clouds, it makes the rooms glow with gold

The Employment Gods have sent me a sign...

Suddenly, my financial future is looking ever so much brighter...
Job posting for me.

Awww-right.

A penny on the breast is worth...

In an almost Hollywood-style moment, had an amusing situation tonight with a friend and her chums.

At a bar (OK, maybe techinically it was a club... with lots of swooshy dancers and PVC) this evening, I saw a penny on the floor. In a somewhat smarmy manner -- all in good fun -- I presented it to Mark, balanced on the end of one finger -- and Mark promptly knocked my hand up.

The penny went sailing through the air, its copper surface flickering through the lights of the bar.

It landed on my chest.
My boobs.

I nearly pissed myself laughing as I stared at this shiny, piece of good-luck copper. Sitting on my rack. Does this mean my breasts will bring me luck in the future? Or that my fortune lies with my boobs?

As far as portents go, this is a pretty obvious one... though I view its message as somewhat vague.

The famous "And Friend"

My chum's weekly column for this week.


Guess who "the friend" was ?
Yes, indeedy. Yours truly.

And yes. I did walk like a duck. On Queen Street. In the Beaches.

So sue me.

"Push the button!"

Was out with a friend for a late-night walk just now (in a nearly unheard-of coincidence, one of my dearest friends is dating a fellow who lives on my street -- it's grand) when my peaceful late-nightness was ruined by some yobs in a car.

As we stood at a crosswalk (not wanting to assume that people will just stop, as that causes irritating things like death and pain), a car slowed to stop.

We proceeded across the street and had barely reached the other side when the driver (in a car full of guys, obviously jacked up on some kind of super-testosterone) started screaming, "Push the button! Push the button!"

For those who have a different mode of pedestrian friendly crossing stops (aside from lights, obviously), the typical Ontario crosswalk is brightly lit, orange, and marked with all sorts of signs. You push the button to cross (which causes extra lights on top of the other lights to blink) and are suggested to point across the street, thus signalling your attempt.

No one ever does this... especially on a less-than-busy street at 11 pm. Because legally, drivers are still expected to stop. You hit a pedestrian crossing at a crosswalk, and you're in all kinds of big ca-ca.

The stupid dick kept shouting until I hollered back, "You're legally expected to stop anyway, assface!" He drove about a block up the street, quickly pulled a u-turn as my friend muttered, "He probably has a fucking gun," and roared past (as fast as his piece of shit car could go) and screamed, "PUSH THE BUTTON!!!!"

I had only time for flipping him off and shouting, "Up yours!"

But it really kinda mucked up a nice and serene end to my evening.
I hate dinks. And Toronto ones are some of the worst.

I'm sure the prat is already firing up some misogynist rant on Craigslist as I type this.

A shameful secret confession

We went shopping at Loblaws last night -- and the Lindt pumpkins balls were on sale.

Half price.

Oh god...
I bought six bags (100g each). Six!

There is something seriously wrong with me. I have absolutely no impulse control. How does one go about purchasing such a thing? (Do they go on sale?)

Neat.

My chum Tali has landed herself a plum job in San Francisco. She leaves in a month.

I think it's just so fucking awesome. I mean, of course I'll miss her -- though the woman uses Messenger like no one I've ever seen -- but what an amazing opportunity. So cool. And I fully expect to see the Talifornia.blogspot.com address up and running soon.

The down side (aside from her sparkling company) is that now I very badly want to move to another city. Just for a year or something. I suspect Toronto is starting to bore me. Dear god, a terrifying thought. I can't afford to relocate to anywhere that doesn't include my parents' basement.

(Heh -- I just felt a terribly cringing shudder from the direction of Nova Scotia. Rest easy, mes parents -- I have no plans to swoop down and take up residence.)

Little Miss Yellowbelly

A while back, I put up this very earnest post about trying to teach myself to be a little more confrontational when someone says something that upsets me.

Now, I'm not talking about arguments -- i.e. political matters, social behaviour, or passing gas with nary an "excuse me!" -- but rather when someone makes an offhand personal comment that actually upsets me.

And I can't seem to do it. I can't look at someone point blank in the eye and say, "You know, that was a fucking dickheaded thing to say."

A number of situations have cropped up in the past few weeks with various people, but the most recent is when I found myself getting angry at Chris earlier this evening (once again, about housework -- which is rare enough as I feel somewhat guilty about not having an office job). He responded with sort of a condescending remark about depression (something along the lines of "What could you possibly know about it?").

While I could feel my eyebrows shooting up my forehead (usually a very good clue to how I'm naturally responding to something), I chickened out, and responded in a nice and rather placating manner. You know, soothing ruffled feathers and all that nonsense.

What I really wanted to do was throw something.

I can think the angry thoughts. I can even writethem down ( provided no one sees them but myself). But somewhere deep in my Inner Workings & Communications department is a censorship board -- preventing me from telling people exactly where to get off.

I fear I will never be able to turn to someone and say, "Fuck you for making me feel like shit. Get bent."

One day, I will fire that censorship board. Then the world will start getting very interesting.

Uptight parental units

Was at the video store the other day trying to find something non-crappy to watch (Chris wasn't going for my suggestion of Save The Green Planet).

A young girl was trying to find a movie to watch that her mother would approve of. She selected Princess Mononoke (a beautifully drawn anime full-feature by one of my favourite directors). Excellent choice, I thought to myself. Animated, intelligent and, while I myself find it somewhat heavy-handed, a quite strong environmental message (aka -- human beings are making the world sucky for everything else). Somewhat of a fantasy-fable. What I would consider entirely appropriate for kids.

"No," said the mother, eying the DVD suspiciously. And likely went back to the "How to Make Your Children Soft-Minded Corporate Sheep" section.

Yeesh. When I was seven, my parents took me to see Poltergeist. By the time I was 12, I had watched movies like Eraserhead, classic B horror films, and just about anything my parents rented. Ironically, the only thing I was barred from watching was G.I. Joe -- my mother disapproved of the pro-Americanisms and army propaganda.

Why she thought a 10-year-old would understand this is beyond me. I just wanted to be able to play Lady Jaye at school the next day.

Grouch-zors

Grrr.
Am feeling irked with just about everything today.

No particular reason -- just woke up on the angry side of the bed this morning. Trying to play v. frustrating final levels of Nightmare Before Xmas game, but have started hurling all manner of obscenities at the game instead. Even checking my email is irritating me.

Perhaps may be my body pissily informing me that two crumpets is not sufficient for breakfast and lunch. Perhaps may be just a general sense of irritatedness. Or the fact that I decided to ditch one of my freelancing gigs due to its poor management, embarassing-as-fuck (and quite warranted) reputation and the fact they constantly screw up things I submit. (It paid crap anyways. $600/year for this gig -- 'tisn't worth it.)

Whatever the case, I need to de-surlify.

It's a random world...

And here are some random things from today:

1) A bottle of Perrier holds enough for two large glasses.

2) When dehydrated post-gym visit, it's cheaper to drink tap water instead of Perrier.

3) The last thing Chris listened to on his computer was Vixen.

4) Chris sometimes listens to bad music.

5) Extra candy in your household can always be given to the child downstairs.

6) Parents hate me.

7) I miss trick or treating.

8) I'm not the only person in the world who considers "Feliz Navidad" to be a nefarious holiday song designed to stay in your head the entire month of December.

9) Iced chai lattes taste good even when it's cold outside.

10) I am obsessed with Neals' Yard Remedies.

11) I love sweaters.

12) There are always idiots at the gym who insist on doing things the wrong way.

13) Those idiots always tend to sweat more than anyone else.

14) Lindt pumpkin balls (of the Lindor variety) will always be the first thing to disappear from the discounted post-Halloween candy in stores. Dammit.

15) I'm wearing pajames with little ghosts on them. They rule.

16) Suspect I'm slightly immature. Huh.

17) I must -- must -- get to Mexico in the next six months. Or anywhere tropical. Please. Help me. I am not genetically manufactured for Canadian winters. I need humidity -- preferably the warm kind.