From the mouth of celluloid...

Am currently working on a review of Don't Come Knocking (a fine film for those with endless cinematic patience), but in my notes was an oddly poignant quote from the film (which also sums it up nicely).

The film is about a Western actor reconciling with the deeds and misdeeds of past, years after the fact.

"Why did you let some much time go by?"

"I didn't know it was passing."


Mock if you will, but I find it unsettlingly accurate.

Hiding, hiding, hiding...

I stupidly took the advice of friends who encouraged me to have a four-day birthday celebration.

After all that social activity (and, it must be admitted, alcohol and plenty of bad food), I have entered into my Reclusive Stage. This one seems to be quite serious, as it has extended itself to the blogs, MSN Messenger and even email.

(So if you're feeling neglected... well, my apologies, but I feel terribly antisocial right now.)

That said, birthday week was excellent with only one dark spot (but a big one -- nothing I'm prepared to discuss here, though you can expect it to reveal its ugly head in the future).

I had loads of work due this week. And I feel terribly disinclined to do any of it. This does not bode well. At all.

Still nothing heard from publisher who has had my kids' books for almost a month. I suspect they hate them, and a rejection will follow suit shortly. It's hardly the cry of joy and immediate phone call I was hoping for.

But regardless, am working on third one, with fourth already percolating madly. Thank god I'm finding that writing them is fun as hell. Otherwise the rejection will kill me.

Al-riiiight....

Hee hee.

The Godiva Fairy has dropped off an anonymous bag of very expensive chocolate deliciousness.

A huge box of truffles and a pile of fresh strawberries hand-dipped in chocolate.

The card simply says, "Happy Birthday."

Whoever sent it knows my chocolatey preferences well.

Regardless, I shall weigh close to 645 lbs by the end of the week. But I'll be in a state of chocolate bliss, so I won't give a damn.

(LATER...)

They were sent by my mom. She forgot to put her name on the card.

First denial, then acceptance...

To my surprise, I'm rather enjoying today.

It's amazing outside -- sunny and warm, and green things are poking out everywhere.

Things that have occurred on April 19 in previous years:

- 1775 - American Revolutionary war, the "shot heard round the world"
- 1810 - Venezuela achieves home rule
- 1904 - Much of Toronto (my home, amusingly) is destroyed by fire
- 1927 - Mae West jailed for obscenity
- 1936 - first day of the Great Uprising in Palestine
- 1943 - Bicycle Day -- a swiss chemist takes LSD for the first time
- 1956 - Grace Kelly marries Prince Rainier
- 1961 - Bay Of Pigs invasion of Cuba fails
- 1971 - Charles Manson sentenced to life
- 1993 - Waco standoff ends when fire breaks out and 81 people die
- 1995 - Oklahoma bombing... 168 people die
- 2005 - Pope Benedict XVI elected

I share a birthday with Jayne Mansfield, Tim Curry, James Franco, Kate Hudson, Hayden Christensen, and Dudley Moore. People who died today include Charles Darwin, Pierre Curie, Daphne DuMarier, a pile of nobility and a pope.

And I now know spring is here -- I bought some watermelon and it doesn't suck for once.

Happy birthday to meeeeee...

At midnight, I plan to be sitting on the beach, ushering in a new year for myself.

Fuck, I'm old.
But at least I'll be listening to good music.

Inventory

Today (Tuesday) is my last day being 31 years old.

So I have decided to take stock of what I have (or rather, haven't) accomplished this year:

- I have finally caught up with housework on regular basis. Mostly.

- I started a blog. It mostly sucks.

- I have written two children's books, and am almost finished my third

- I have not had anything not magazine-related published... though haven't technically submitted anything until a week ago

- I have not made very much money

- But I made almost as much as I would have working full-time at my last job

- I am taking tai chi classes (karate will start likely next week)

- I finally have a laptop

- I managed to not dye my hair for 14 months

- I have gotten into somewhat reasonable shape

- Am unfortunately still fat

- I not have gotten any new tattoos or piercings

- I have survived four days non-stop with small nephew

- I have mellowed out a helluva lot

- I have survived an assault by squirrels

- I have realized that I will never be content working a normal nine-to-five job

- I have lost four toenails, a pint of blood (donation) and my favourite ring that I bought in Dublin

- I have made two (maybe three) new friends and lost two others

- I have realized that having a good lifestyle is a far happier thing than lots of money (although I hope to have both one day)

Hooray for veins!

Am home now. The apartment is quiet except for the sound of laundry.

And am delighted to inform all that I have veins back in my hands. I mean, they were always there -- it's just that some of the larger ones weren't popped up whatsoever. They lay flat, just beneath the surface.

I find it entirely grotesque that donating blood would actually make a visible difference. Eeeeyuch.

Of course, the crook of my mangled right arm looks like I was shooting crack during an epileptic seizure, but hey -- I saved three lives.

The needles and the damage done...

I've a strange notion about balance.
I don't necessarily believe that it always even out, but let's take this weekend for example.

It was the long weekend (Easter, Passover, blah, blah, whatever). Chris and I headed up to Midland to visit his parents on Thursday night -- and made a quick jaunt to the casino on the way up.

(In financially desperate times? Gamble! It does a body -- and a wallet -- good. Pray for miracles -- unanswered -- from the gods of chance. Don't let them see you weep as you leave penniless.)

So the casino was a bust. Yesterday Chris' brother and his, uh, old lady (two decades his senior) came by and we stuffed ourselves and played cards (OK, maybe there was some light gambling... pennies only). I got my clock cleaned.

Realizing that I would be having my income tax done this weekend, having luck of a crapulent sort was... well, upsetting.

But no, I wouldn't stop there.

This afternoon, while strolling about the failing local mall, I noticed a blood donor clinic arranged by the Red Cross. Recalling my ambition for tattoos (though without the finanical means of acquiring them), I figured, "It's been a good year or two since I donated -- why the hell not? Hook me up, fuckers!" (I get extra guilt points as I am a universal donor.)

I left an hour and a half later -- minus a pint or two of blood but blessed with some shocking holes in both my arms. The crook of my right arm is quite a mess.

(Note to self: Never donate blood in a small town ever again.)

This evening... it was tax time. (*cue ominous music and dimming of lights... with faceless shadows of tax men flickering strobe-style in the corners of the room*)

Then suddenly, it happened... The sun shone. The heavens broke open with holy, cleansing light while a chorus of celestial bodies burst forth in glorious harmony.

That's right. I have been saved.

With some help (it does pay to know people who do accounting and taxes for a living), I wrangled my $1500-$2500 balance owed to a refund of $28!

HALLE-FUCKING-LUJAH!!!!!!!!!!!
Thank the gods I keep good receipts and records. And let us all bless the captial cost allowance section, while we're at it.

Suddenly my arms don't hurt so much.
Although the Midland blood donor clinics will henceforth be known of The Butchers Of Huronia.

But enough of that.

May you all have peaceful and happy long weekends, good health, too much food and your own little bursts of sublime joy.

I had a hunch this was going to happen...

I just did a tentative prelim on my taxes for this year.

Oh god, I'm completely fucked.

Crap crap crap crap crap crap crap crap crap crap crap crap crap crap crap.

I need a miracle. Anyone have an extra one handy?

It's a warm and woolly night...

The tree just outside my window is clacking in the wind.

A perfect night for a walk.

And just another way to procrastinate on getting my tax shit together...
I fear -- as all freelancers do. We don't pay taxes on our income until the government demands it.

There's hope yet...

I had to go review a movie this morning. I left the theatre around noon, intending to hole up at Starby's with my little laptop.

And then I remembered that my grandfather is living at a retirement residence only a few blocks away.

Now, my grandad is something of a tough old bird. He's around 84 or so, much taller than I (I'm 5'9) and up until the fall, was very active (friends have seen photos of him and said, "Oh, is that your dad?").

A couple of months before he hightailed it off to Florida for the winter, he fell and broke his hip... and was marooned in Toronto for the entire winter, much to his horror.

I haven't seen him since the end of December, when he was grumbling about the walker he was forced to use (you can't play golf in a walker). The doctors were telling him to just get used to the walker, but he was bound and determined to get on a cane as soon as possible.

After hitting Godiva for a small fortune's worth of chocolate goodies, I stopped by his posh retirement place unannounced. He seemed delighted (and not just because of the chocolate) and invited me to lunch.

No walker. Just a cane, and when I commented on his ease of mobility, he stopped and, with a smile and a near dance, took a couple of steps sans cane and switched hands. I expect he'll ditch the cane entirely sometime over the next year.

I come by my stubbornness honestly.

After ordering lunch, we were chatting when this spicy, ginger-haired older women came by to say hi. My grandfather invited her to join us.

What a fucking fantastic woman. A delight. Joan is almost 90 (you'd never know to look at her), and while she relies on a cane, she looks pretty good, and has these dancing eyes. She teased my grandfather mercilessly ("Thank god he's deaf," she said with a saucy grin) and we chatted very amiably.

She's contemplating giving up all her medications because she's convinced they're rot.

I believe her words were "...to see if I slide off my perch."

If I could age half as well, I'll be a happy girl.

The first step to admitting you have a problem...

...is realizing that you can't tell your significant other about it.

I bought another pair of flip-flops today. It's a ridiculous (though at least fiscally reasonable) obsession I have. Like purses. And really nice smelling products.

Yes, indeed. There are times when I'm horrifyingly girly.

This time it was toe-ring flip-flops from the Gap, bringing my pre-season flip-flop purchases up to... seven? Really? Good god.

I've also plundered the flip-flop sections at Old Navy (navy blue with little whales! and bright orange stripey ones!), Payless (I'm not including the wedge sandals I just bought, either), H&M, American Eagle, Winners...

The last time I bought them, Chris shouted, "Are you trying to buy enough pairs for each day of the summer?!" Then was properly horrified by the look of bliss that came over my face.

Gah!!!!

In exactly one week, I will be 32 years old.

Jesus fucking christ wept.

Being old is the devil. Amusingly, I never expected to live past 19. The future after then just seemed some out-of-reach fog.

Is this the point where I suddenly panic and decide to have children in order to validate my existence? My legacy is futile, therefore I must procreate?

Hell. I hope not.

(And yes, I'm fully aware 32 is technically not *that* old. But this is coming from someone who cried when they turned 20.)

Cursed be the deliciousness...

So I'm trying this whole portion-controlling thing. I figure if 16 months of regular physical activity isn't shedding the pounds, I need to start eliminating the food.

I won't lie -- food is great. I don't actually eat that much more than everyone else. I just have marvelously evil genetics that mean I have to go without more than most. So I'm reducing my intake by about 30-40% in hopes that this will make a difference. Fruits and veggies, of course, are freebies.

The problem right now is that the more I cut back certain things from my eating regimen, the more they haunt me.

Right now I am particularly obsessed by a jalapeno-spiced havarti.

Mmm. Cheese is nice.

Oh, to be the one...

I hate paparazzi. Let me be clear. I firmly believe that despite the fame, millions of dollars and beauty of most celebrities, they should be allowed to go somewhere with a cluster of idiots taking their photos and shouting at them.

That said... Oh, I wish I could be the person who takes the photo of the Brangelina baby.

One lousy photo. Thousands and thousands of dollars. It would pay off my student loans, most of Chris' student loans and likely even give us a down payment on a house.

For one stupid photo.

I think if these celebrities had some heart for us poor, poverty-stricken bastards, they would send us a photo they or a loved one took -- which could then be sold. Or send it themselves, and donate the money to their favourite charity.

Wouldn't that fuck with the paparazzi just a teeny, tiny bit?

Or you can just send me a cheque. That's cool, too.

Nice girls don't fart

Last night, I got hassled.

Chris made fun of me for a good hour because maybe I might have let out a wee little bit of a fart. (Sorry -- we had fajitas for dinner and sometimes it happens.)

Knowing my sensitivity regarding smelling bad, the bastard made this big deal about it (though he later said it was nothing -- he just thought it was funny watching me freak out. Prick). Then he went on about how funny it is that girls fart.

(Of course, we would be much more open about it if guys didn't make such a big deal about it. Yeesh.)

This is from a guy I've lived with for 10 years. Ten!

This is from the man who has spent the last decade letting out the most unholy stenches of the nether regions of his arse. Great explosions. Ones that tremble the floor. Stinks that follow him like a little trail for up to 15 minutes. Clouds of vileness that actually form little brown clouds that waft in the breeze.

And god help you if you're silly enought to leave your mouth open.

Of course, he laughs hysterically (you have a love a 34-year-old guy who still thinks farts are hilarious). His favourites are the giant assaults that tear through the night, sending me scurrying to the farthest side of the bed before I have a conherent thought. Then he giggles. Awake, asleep -- doesn't matter. He'll giggle after he farts.

It could be 3:57 am -- then all of a sudden *braaaaaaap*... followed by this tiny little "tee hee."

Anyway, last night, after tormenting me on my insane neurosis with smell, I was getting ready for bed after my walk. I walked by the bedroom. The door was open by the teeniest of cracks... yet the smell.

Oh dear, god, the smell.

I had to open the bedroom door and air out the room for a good half hour before I could enter the room without my eyes tearing.

Today, I received gracious permission that, in such a vile little event, I was permitted to light a bit of incense on the way to bed.

How nice.

Spring has sprung...

...The grass is ris.
And all the fucking birdies keep yapping outside.

It's slowly warming up in a nice, springly manner lately. However -- as is usual for spring with changing weather and early onset of allergies -- my head feels like it is expanding. Growing. The pressure inside is building slowly.

I just need someone to puncture me with a pin, I think.

I have no motivation today. No drive.
One of my chums is trying to convince me to grab my Nintendo DS and hightail it to a wifi area for play. It's certainly an idea. Though he'll kick my ass.

And as yesterday proved, I still need to work on my cycling. In about a week or less, it will become my prime mode of transportation. My legs and ass are still confused about why they aren't on some kind of cardio equipment or walking.

Incidentally, I think the far south-eastern parking lot at Ashbridges Bay is a cruising area. While I initially thought it was just couples going to shag and snog, I've noticed cars cruising through. One in particular seems to be a regular. I see his car slowly drive down the windy road, and oh-so-slowly crawl through the parking lot.

The beach in the wee hours of the morning is a fascinating place indeed.

It's funny what you can uncover...

If you're not completely dim and patient, you can uncover things about people that they never expected. It can be... a tad unsettling.

But it's a nice little lesson for those of us who post blogs. And sometimes, yes, being paranoid does in fact have its little upsides.

And that's all I have to say about that.

There's no safety for the bingo players anymore...

Some guy played bingo this weekend. He won a $1000.

When he left, four women left the bingo hall as well, demanding he hand over the money. Then they beat the shit out of him. He died.

Just outside of London, eight people were killed in what police suspect is a mutiple homicide. They were all from the Toronto area. And no one is talking yet.

Another couple were killed in a car crash just outside the city.

And a 15-year-old was sexually assaulted on the GO train.

Just another wonderful weekend in the city.

As for me, I had two brunches, watched some movies, went shopping, went for long walks (am heading out on another as soon as I post this)and was generally a lazy, stress-free fuck.

People think I'm mad for not working myself to death in an office. Or for not rushing out to get married and make babies.

But when the worst part of my day is reading the news in the morning... well, that's a pretty damn good life, wouldn't you say?

Nearly-tangible cinema

I do adore a good movie that pulls you in. Slowly circles it's arms around you. Gently. Tentatively. Enough to blur out the edges of real life.

Then it begins holding you tighter. You can't walk away, or even force yourself to look outside. You know these people. You met them before. And by the time the end credits roll around, you're emotionally drained.

A lifetime in a few simple hours. You feel the wind, the silence and the rough patches of grass. You're still walking, talking and thinking in their world.

And you won't feel like you're in your own life for at least a day or two.

Are people not capable of making more movies that do this?

Think I shall take a nice, long chilly walk on the boardwalk now.

Signs that indicate it's time to check your hearing...

Shortly before heading off to do errands this afternoon, Chris walked by me and said, "The sea monkey's pants are in my ass."

I shook my head to clear it -- convinced this he had lost his mind -- and asked, "What did you just say?"

"The seam of these pants are in my ass."

"Oh."

Excellent...

Have successfully convinced friend to join me for brunchie-style bacon and eggs at the Sunset Grill.

The perfect meal after a late night, a bit of alcohol excess and during a dark, rainy day.

Have just realized that I am going to be turning 32 in over a week's time. A horrifying thought. Shouldn't my life be stable, organized and... well, proper by this time?

Ahh, well. I have plenty of time to be sedate and boring when I'm ancient and living in an old-folks home.

Stupid three-way mirror...

Nothing says "Holy shit, your ass is huge!" like a three-way mirror in the women's changeroom.

Was trying on some shirts at H&M when I took a deep breath and examined all possible angles. Was stunned, horrified and utterly depressed to realize that, despite all the exercise and gym shit for 16 months, I am still a complete fattie.

Vexing indeed.

Stupid genetics. Boo.

Amusingly, was assigned to review Phat Girlz at Yorkdale (a vile and loathsome shopping mall in North York)... which was a poorly done call-to-arms of North America's overweight women.

But even as I left the theatre, all I could think was how much I disliked North York. How did I live up there all those years? Oh. Right. University.

Yeah, I was likely too busy drinking to worry about it that much. Alcohol does indeed make all sucky environments bearable. And sucky people, too.

"Daddy?" "Yes, son." "What does regret mean?"

"Well, son, the funny thing about regret is, it's better to regret something you have done, than something you haven't done.

And by the way, if you see your mother this weekend, be sure and tell her SATAN, SATAN, SATAN!"

Ahh, Butthole Surfers. Is there a finer place to find your personal philosophies? I think not.

A friend and I just finished amusing ourselves by giving each other amateur tarot readings. Very entertaining and completely unenlightening.

However, it did get us on the topic of forgiveness, regret and redemption. For things done or not done. For people hurt, or friendships ended. She's one of the brave souls who, years after ending a relationship with a good man who got hurt, managed to write him an email just to clear the air. Sort of an asking-forgiveness-but-not.

And I wondered... What is the statute of limitations on things like that?

I've been wanting to send an apologetic email to an ex-boyfriend from years and years ago. I was pretty horrible to him, and I know things weren't too great for him for a while (don't feel too badly for him -- he was engaged to someone else within the year).

I'm not looking to unzip a whole can of worms or anything. I'm sure his life is going well (married with at least one kid). But is this completely irrational? Or is this the female version of the High Fidelity, "why did you break up with me" thing? Some strange stop on the road to middle age?

It makes you think...

Or maybe I'm dying -- subconsciously I'm aware of it (hence the annoying amounts of personal reflection), but am loathe to visit the doctor in the event of some confirmation like, "Hey, look -- you're dying. You've got two weeks."

It all boils down to this... When you're down to the last five minutes of your life -- and are running through all the things you regret, etc -- what are the things you could have fixed, changed or apologized for while you were still alive?

And why didn't you do any of them?

Show me your souls...

No, no, no.... Don't show me that.

Put that away. It's incredibly difficult (initially wrote "hard" until I realized the glaring innuendo) to keep a straight face when you flash me.

Tramps.

Anyway, I'm on my next phase of music hunting. I need direction. Bare me your music-loving souls, my friends. What are you listening to? What is obsessively being replayed in your iPods, CD players, media players, etc?

I'm looking for good stuff. Not crap. Just because I'm not a music critic doesn't mean I have no taste. (So no Crappy Von Crap top 40 stuff, thanks.) I'm looking for new stuff, but if there's some older material you've rediscovered, well, I'm all for that too.

Those who please me will be rewarded with a day's worth of benevolence. Or a week's worth for truly excellent suggestions.
Yes, yes.
A kinder, gentler me.
Imagine it...

Recent downloads: Mando Diao (yeah, so what if I raided Chart's Best Of lists?), The Bees, My Bloody Valentine, Magnolia Electric Co., Morrissey, Arctic Monkeys (still think it's a stupid name), Zodiacs, The Shirelles, Del Vikings, The Raveonettes, The Postal Service

Stupid mini-Bush

Our brand-spaking-new Prime Minister has re-opened the same-sex marriage debate -- oh -so-democratically, of course -- in hopes that he can overturn it and return marriage to being a man-woman institution.

Stephen Harper is gambling. Overturning the legislation outright would cause a huge furor, so he's taking a much more sly approach in hopes that the gamble works in his favour.

More frustrating is the fact that not only is it going to be a close vote, but people will be voting based on their own personal agendas... not those of their constituents. Not to mention that politicians can be bought, persuaded and outright intimidated.

Politics and religion shouldn't mix. Nor do they have a place in the bedroom.
Stay out of my bed, stay out of my body and stay out my personal relationships, you uptight conservative fucks.

Toronto Star: Same-Sex Debate Reopened

Bleeeeeeeh.

As much as yesterday (and the day before) was filled with ambition, eagerness and even energy, today I feel completely soggy.

I went to the gym last night for almost three hours, then came home and -- despite my current trend of trying to eat significantly less -- scarfed back a quarter of a bag of Smart Food. I went to bed early, trying to switch up my sleeping patterns (so I could get up early) and still overlsept.

What the hell is wrong with me? I feel completely lethargic and disinterested in just about everything. Listless. Like I'm waiting to wake up.

It's a horrible feeling to suspect your life actually seems to be happening to someone else. I've never liked being an observer, and I'm impatient as hell.

I hate being on the sidelines.

I now have representation.

It's true.

I just hired myself a literary agent. And I have a publicist, too.

Whee!

This is fun.
Three cheers for nepotism! (Hey, if it isn't family, then it's fare game.)

The best part is that they're very encouraging, and supportive. And best of all, will be harder to slink off and sulk, whilst pronouncing myself retired from writing.

Now I just need a publisher. And some money.

Oh god.

I am so not designed to be a writer.

I'm neurotic.
I'm paranoid.
I'm impatient as hell.
I am at one with self-loathing.
I think my writing is crap.
I despise criticism.

And I secretly believe the world is out to punish me.

Oh crap oh crap oh crap.
(As you can tell, I've just sent the two kiddie books off to a the first publisher.)

I'm going to be laughed off the planet. I know it.

A moody night

Just returned from my late-night walk down to the bay and across the boardwalk.

Dark. Windy. Cold.

And the lake looked so surreal. Over the water, the sky was deep black, with these low-lying clouds that hung in cluttered clumps. The lake itself almost seemed like it was milky and glowing. Eerie, yet breathtaking.

I stood on this tiny bit jutting over the water, leaning into the wind.

But on the walk back, I suddenly didn'y feel like I was back in reality. An odd moment.

I'm anxious for the nights when I can head down wearing a tank top and flip flops (and not fear hypothermia)... but I also know that my nights of having the entire expanse of beach to myself -- flickering lamplights and all -- are numbered.

"It's delicious... but it's treacherous"

And may I just say how much I am enjoying the television these days?

The new season of Huff has begun. (I dare say Russell if one of the finest TV creations ever -- he leaves Mason from Dead Like Me choking in the dust... or do I just enjoy the antics of amusing substance-abusers?) I'm already entrenched in the last season of The Sopranos.

I feel we are the cusp of either a great television revolution... or embarking on the shittest TV ever created this side of Out Of This World.

Do I dare?

I did the last tweakings and editings of my two children's books.

Tomorrow, I will prepare to send them out into the big, wide, cruel world of publishing -- where they'll likely be mocked or outright rejected.

Yet I've sat on them far enough. It's time, I think.
Say a quick prayer to the publishing gods for me.

The rejection will likely send me into glorious depression. I don't think I have enough confidence in myself to pull this off, I'm afraid.

Stupid Daylight Savings time...

So I tried to go to bed early last night (1:45 am) -- but thanks to the bloody time change, it was a moot point. Now I'm still going to go to bed at 3:00 am or later.

(I decided to settle in with a bottle of wine -- Pelee Island Gewurztraminer, which I didn't enjoy as much as their vidal -- and started falling asleep after the first glass. Very Sad. BTW, Skeine dear, I double checked and the LCBO temple in our 'hood has FOUR Fetzer Chardonnays -- yeucccch -- and a blanc fume, and that's it. Boo.)

Losing an hour is ass. Everything is off in the mornings and evenings. The nicest part will be looking outside in the evening and seeing sun -- it feels like only yesterday when the sun started setting at 5:00 pm.

The day is lovely, clear and bright, the tree outside my window is covered in growing buds that seem this close to freeing small, curling green leaves and the birds are yapping up a storm. It's also a whopping eight degrees (celsius), which means no breaking out the flipflops just yet.

Might go for a bike ride this afternoon. My bicycle is my primary mode of transportation in the summer and five-to-six months of bike-free living means my muscles are used to the elliptical trainer at the gym... not cycling. And it makes my butt hurt. Which is probably good for me as my ass is too fucking big anyway.

Besides, however cool it is outside, Ashbridges Bay is fantastic on days like this.

And Lake Ontario isn't nearly as stinky as it has been for the last few days.

Yeah, yeah... I know.

But the blog really needed a new look.
I'm not sure if this is the one for me, but it'll do for now. The old one was driving me bonkers.

Magnet for alcoholics...

As I mentioned in the previous entry, the old men next door have been long gone. Evicted.

Including the stumbling drunk who would come home during the wee hours of the morning, vomiting, or crawling up to the stoop, where he then passed out. Or would thump weakly on the door for admission.

Just now, I heard a neighbour cursing (quite colourfully, I might add) and shouting. Initially, I though he was alone and crazy.

Turns out, he knew the guy who was lying in the street after tying one too many on.

Full grown men + too much booze = dead weight

Why does this part our street act as a beacon for staggeringly drunk alcoholics? Why?

Ha.

Was visited by friend and her little guy last night, who stayed overnight and tottered off to a hotel for this evening (courtesy of her partner, who was arriving from sunny destinations).

Unwilling to hassle downstairs neighbours (who are very possessive of their driveway, even though they don't own a car) or pay for a week-long parking pass, I directed my friend to the driveway next door -- the house previous inhabited by the old men whose house was a health violation and cat disease factory (30-odd cats likely had to be put down). The old guys were evicted some weeks ago, with their door nailed shut and their belongings locked inside.

Now, some of us more mercenary types recognize that the driveway of said shunned house is up for grabs. Seeing it was empty, I figured my friend could park there for one lousy evening.

This morning, I woke up and wandered into the kitchen, talking to my mother on the phone.

"Hold on a sec," I said, and turned to my friend. "Hey, I thought you were going to park next door."

She looked puzzled, her brow wrinkling up. "I did."

"You couldn't have -- the parking space is empty."

The look of confusion rapidly morphed into a look of horrifed panic. "What? WHAT? I parked the car there last night."

It was her worst nightmare -- illegally parking in car in the sketchy city. She started breathing heavily and twicthing.

And then looked out the window, her shoulders drooping with relief. "It's still there."

I smirked at her. "Yeah, I know," I said. "April fool."

On the phone, my mother started to laugh.