Life is a never-ending series of lessons...

That's right, my children. It's true. Life indeed has its own series of vexatious little lessons, all designed to open your mind and teach you that you still know absolutely nothing at all.

Lesson #1: Life is barely hanging in for most of us.
You can sit in a van with the driver who is adjusting his oxygen feed -- all the while barely looking at the road while he adjusts the tube and fiddles with the settings -- and still survive. This time. Try not to think of the dangerous swerves, though.

Lesson #2: Life will always intriduce you to a new, debilitating phobia.
Hannah, meet the dentist. Dentist, meet... oh crap. I've left. Quickly.
I suspect my newly-discovered dental anxiety was a result of over-exposure as a young'un.

Lesson #3: Life makes your bed dirty.
Specifically when you have beloved cuffs on your jeans. Somehow, when you shuffle through the leaves on your way home like a nine-year-old, these cuffs collect all sorts of leaves... which are then dumped on the carpet, the couch, in the bed...

Lesson #4: Life costs money. And no one is gonna pay up.
Bitches, send me my money, or I'll come down and beat your asses. Seriously.

Lesson #5: When you're not paying attention, life hurts.
Feeling distracted? Then there's no better time for your new (and newly washed) socks to roll behind the washing machine. When you dive to rescue them, be sure to drive your index finger into the dryer above the machine. Bend back the nail as much as possible.

Lesson #6: Life sometimes gives you tools to help out.
Like BBQ tongs, which were used to rescue erstwhile runaway socks.

Lesson #7: Life will torment you by giving you only a little bit of what you want.
Like new jeans that fit you like nobody's business. But you will never find them again. Boo...



And thus, my little lemmings, todays lessons are concluded.

I'm famous, but it's a secret...

Today was informed that my photo was in part of a photo essay on the Pillow Fight League in today's National Post (part of a crowd shot).

In a complete different Toronto daily paper, I was quoted as a "tech-savvy friend" in a chum's column.

You see? I'm famous... it's just that no one knows it.

It's all preparation, my friends. For one day, the novel will be written. And then! Oh ho!

Well, to be honest, it'll likely be rejected and I'll return to anonymity, poverty and wallowing in a shallow pool of self-loathing and disgust. But I have a little alligator toy to keep me company.

We were meant for each other...

Oh, it makes me sad that my soul mate is fictional. I weep bitter, hateful tears. And sulk. Lots of sulking.

This video... it's like it was made for me. Except I'd rather white wine, thanks. And perhaps it will inspire me to write a letter of my own.

Go to Bernard's Letter.

Rapturous. Truly.

Oh ho!

That was a fantastic weekend of nothing.

That's right. I did nothing.

I watched TV. Did a little shopping (new suitcase, as suspect it is somewhat gauche to haul your deteriorating luggage around by a bungie cord). Ate some chocolate (mmm, Lindor pumpkin balls). Watched more TV. Bad TV, at that.

In essence, I was a vegetable. And utterly warranted as the weather was a giant ball of suck and I was po'.

"I can't believe you are not shutting up!"

I don't sweat the small stuff. Little injuries, minor offences and insults... stupid stuff.

But I recently have realized that when hurt or angered in fairly high degrees, it's difficult for me to shrug it off, and almost impossible to forgive. And even when I think I've moved on, my subconscious reminds me that I'm angry.

Several months ago, a close and dear friend sent me a ridiculous email, listing a number of (supposed) offences I had committed against her. Things worsened, and then were patched up. A couple of weeks ago, I had several dreams in which I screamed at my friend. I shouted at her for betraying me, for hurting me. I woke and realized, "Holy shit... I'm still super pissed off about all that."

Which makes me fear for the people and things that have hurt me irreparably. In some cases, I have merely moved on. In other cases, I have acknowledged the change in the relationship, and allowed the sleeping dogs to lie.

And in other situations, I still nurse a small, dense lump of rage.

But never have I actually forgiven any of them. I'm not even sure I'm capable of it. Of course, this makes me wonder if a) I still have quite a bit of evolving to do; or b) I need to actually address these things (well, people) in order to move on.

Or option "c" -- continue to repress and avoid, and watch the fun begin.

Ooh rah.

Somewhere between life and death

We all fit in there somewhere, don't we?

Few of us ever know which end we're closest to... And it never becomes more clear than when someone we know or care about seems far closer to the end than we'd like.

At which point we're forced to look the kind, dark stranger straight in the eye, try to recall the exact words of Dylan Thomas, then give up and say quietly, "Please wait for a bit, won't you?"

There's so much bargaining in place.

For me, it's a means of spending karma. I don't know if I'm technically spending it, but despite my trivial whingings about publishing my work (or writing new things), I tend to spend my karma on other things. Mostly in keeping loved ones alive.

I fear becoming in debt. Of overusing my karma credit card.

And it's far more likely that I'm simply deluding myself. But for now, I can ask only the stranger who holds our fragile fates to please hold off.

It's futile, I know. We all die. We are born, we live. We chuckle, we cry ourselves to sleep. And at the end of the day, we die. Those are the rules.

But sometimes it's simply a matter of hoping it will happen to someone else... and not those you love.

Not yet, anyway.

I Hereby Claim This Pun...

While waiting in line at Subway (cheese and veggie sub on Italian herb and cheese bread, no lettuce but plenty of green pepper and pickles, please) on this lousy blustery day, I could have sworn I heard the radio announcer say, "And that was Cyndi Lauper and 'Girls Just Want To Have Flan'..."

Isn't that the best title for a baking and dessert cookbook ever? Oh, c'mon. You know it is. Admit it.

You heard it here first. You may buy it from me, if you wish.

I may gripe about the weather, but every town south west of here got a dumping of snow (several feet in some areas!) yesterday.

Yet there was nary a snowflake east of the Don Valley Parkway.

Bohemian like me...

So someone requested some pics of my apartment -- not in a creepy way. More a curious way. And I'll agree, there's a lot you can tell from someone by the space they inhabit.

But I was accused of being bohemian.

Which was weird. Quite honestly, I don't see it -- though I can't say I totally dislike the idea.

I personally feel that any design or decorative weirdness is merely due to being the byproduct of hippies.

But I look at the images, and all I see is mess, bad paint (not my fault) and IKEA furniture... no boho/artist in sight.

But it is an interesting perspective, I'll admit.

Ok -- am now stupidly tired. PLenty of booze plus being out and social for seven-plus hours equals sleepy.

Zzzzzzz.

Shame on me...

... le crappy blogger.

The last month and a half has whipped by. I can only apologize to you few remaining readers for my absence. How you must have missed me!

So I was sick for just over a week. Which sucked. A thousand boos to viruses.

I've spent the last 10 days in Nova Scotia with my family and Small Nephew, who is a rather demanding little fella -- even more so with his mum away in sinister and unfriendly parts of the world.

It does indeed appear that -- barring an unforeseen ungliness -- that I shall indeed be heading to Thailand (and a piece of Cambodia) in late November for two and half weeks or so. I'd be lying if I said I'm not thrilled.

Naturally, it's going to utterly bankrupt me... but hopefully it will fill -- at least temporarily -- one or two of the holes in my soul.

It's wet and woolly today. Headed down to the beach with my friend and her new dog and went right down to the water, where the waves were frothy and demanding. It was great. One of those wet nights that must either be spent on the couch cuddling with fuzzy blankets and butter tarts, or spent right in the middle of the rain and wind.

Warm and dry lounging pants are a particular favourite of mine at the moment.