[Insert happy sigh here]

After one of those ridiculously busy and somewhat vexing days (by golly, the streetcar karma was seriously lacking today) I'm in the process of indulging in one of my favourite evenings.

I've been home (didn't get home until well after 8:30).
I've eaten.
Decided to take a hot bath (fragranced with H20's lovely and indulgent Lime Cassis bath gel).
I have on clean pajamas decorated with yellow bath duckies (printed, obviously, rather than pinning actual rubber ducks) on them, covered with thick white bathrobe and warm Oscar-The-Grouch-like slippers. I'm on the couch with a bottle of Perrier (I have my bourgeois moments, though they tend to be brief) and I'm reading.

And that's it. In about half an hour, I will head to bed feeling slightly sleepy and quite relaxed.

There is no noise, other than the computer fan or the quiet hum of the furnace.

Silence. Comfort. And for a few minutes, the knowledge that for a few minutes, everything is OK. It's rare, and it will be fleeting. And soon things that trouble (or people) will come and damage my calm.

But it is, as I said, my favourite kind of night.
Most people never suspect it of me.

Men in tights... Seriously.

I'm having such ballet flashbacks.
Though I rather enjoy the story.

Click on the headline for the full story (and pics!) MAN IN TIGHTS: Haute legs! We test the next step in fashion

Niiiice.

Crash!

I'd been having a pretty good week -- good writing moments (or so I thought), lots of energy and feeling strangely optimistic about my future.

Today I woke up with the sense that all those groovy vibes were sliding away. By mid-afternoon, they were almost completely gone.

I was left with the sense of pending failure, serious doubts about any writing ability I might have, and major stress about my finances. By early evening, I was a psychotic mess.

Today was not a good day.
I'm glad it's over.

It snows...

Let it be known I hate winter...

But if ever there was a part of winter that I loved, it is those eerie late nights when the sky is deep grey with a hue of orange, and the snows falls. Quiet, thick and delicately coating the city in a cloak of white silence. No footfalls in the snows. No tires on the road. Only that icy lace and the absence of sound.

A white slumber.

And during these moments, the season is beloved for a few moments -- only minutes compared to months of wretchedness.

I probably shouldn't have picked tonight to leave the old white bookcase on the sidewalk for someone to pick up, either.

Nuts.

And there it is.

I found my book project. THE project. And I'm scared to death.

There's so much research to be done that it just about makes me want to weep. So I shall. *sob*

How does Annie Proulx whip up a book in three months? I think this one might take me a year... at least.

Them's fightin' words!

You heard it from my horoscope first... I've been encouraged to be horrible and assertive and tell people they can just fuck off.

"...the stars say you should seek out conflict today. You're not one for confrontation, but it is sometimes a necessary evil, and it's something you should perhaps work on becoming more comfortable with."

Those stars are such troublemakers.
So who's first?

Pious churchie cartoons are funny...

When I was a young lass -- in elementary school and impressionable -- there was a phone booth just outside of our favourite candy store, and just blocks away from the school.

Every so often, some Christian fundamentalists would leave Chick cartoons... strangely amusing, hyberbolic accounts of how the devil is winning the fight for your soul. There are always tears, fires of hell and elaborate hysterics which end in someone being saved and praying for their soul (along with little snippets of the bible for source material).

Today, while I deposited a couple of cheques (including a $5 one from one particular publication who never cease to amaze me with their cruddy pay rate), I saw one of the little black cartoon books on the floor beneath the bank machine. I brought it home... and giggled all the way through it.

It was called "No Fear", and here is Chick's (makers of this fine art) description of it:

Suicide...The subject is common among teens today. But when Lance decides it is the only way out of his troubles, he discovers that hell is not the party place described in popular songs.

So if you're a particularly heathenish type with a healthy sense of humour when it comes to all this soul-saving claptrap, I would suggest checking out these marvelously righteous and indignant samples of fundamentalism at its youthful, useless and intolerant best. Oh, such fodder for amusement!

click for Chick Cartoons

And now you too can read about the dangers of Islam on your mortal soul, how Jesus' blood is the only thing that can remove blood stains on the carpet, about mean Bob who almost dies in jail, and many other tales of sinners who must suffer until they repent...

Heh. Funny shit.

Bread-bee

Ever have a stale loaf of bread hanging around?

Why toss it into the compost/green bin/garbage, when you can use each slice as a yeasty little frisbee?

Somehow, it was strangely entertaining to hurl slices of bread across two yards (we live on the second and third floors of a house) -- trying to see who can whip it the furthest -- without getting it caught in a large tree (at which point it gets tangled in branches and falls directly to the ground). Good thing the old guys next door vacated. They might have wondered at the pieces of bread sailing by the window or landing on their roof...

And this way, the Evil Squirrels have a mid-winter snack.

No doubt we'll pay when spring arrives and they start eating through screen doors and windows in order to gain access to plentiful food souces like kitchens.

And back from the brief interlude...

Recent discoveries in point form from the last couple of weeks:

1) I really buggered my shoulder in Thailand. Doctor says I need physio... but physio costs money.

2) I'm broke. And how.

3) I make a good office monkey. And I'm excellent at packing and unpacking, organizing product and cleaning. Thank goodness for seven years of post-secondary education.

4) An honest-to-goodness published illustrator wants to do a pet project with me. But I'm wary as a) she was drunk at the time (so was I); and b) I sent her some of my writing samples and haven't heard back. So she probably thinks my stuff is ass.

5) I received my last rejection letter from an agent.

6) According to the Myers-Briggs online version of the test (I assume not as accurate as the proper one, but acceptable for entertainment purposes), I couldn't have picked a better career for myself. The results are uncanny -- truly. (I've been classified as an INFP -- check your classification here)

7) My hair holds black dye about as well as it holds bright red. I suspect that within the month, my hair will slide back into various shades of brownish-red. But for about three weeks, my hair colour was awesome. And I do kinda dig having really dark hair.

8) I've finally begun making a wish list at Amazon.ca -- sometimes I'm a little slow when hopping on certain bandwagons.

9) Sometimes when I try to make things better, I invariably muck them up... badly. I blame email.

Just common sense

It's a sad, sad state of affairs when your horoscope is giving you some good advice.

"When you first learned to ride a bike, there came a moment when your mom or dad had to let go of the bike and let you go forward on your own. It was a moment of fear, exhilaration and independence. Today, life will give you that same feeling when you finally let go of something you've been watching over carefully. This could be a person, a relationship or a project. You have to realize that things are fine on their own, and you should step out of the picture."

Much better than the time it told me I had holes in my soul.

Oh, what the hey...

Oh yes. I will make resolutions for this year. Only because I want them written down. A reminder, just for me.

1. Ditch the poverty. I'm going to make money this year if it kills me.
2. Less clutter. More space.
3. Publish something I'm proud of.
4. Kill off some of the crushing debt.
5. Eliminate all of my "must-do" gigs, and replace them with "wanna-do" ones.
6. More excercise, less fat.
7. Be nicer to people I like. Be nastier to ones I don't.
8. Learn to let go of people without feeling so disappointed in them.
9. Did I mention money?
10. Become fabulously successful on my own terms... or at least be headed that way.

"This is ridiculous. I could be killing him right now."

Oh, I do love Dexter.

...And fuck you!

No, no. I'm not trying to be insulting or any nonsense like that. It's just that it seems to be the new tradition amongst some friends that (and this is 50% my fault, and Mark's) to say that this is the way we now ring in the new year.

"Fuck you!"

"And fuck you!"

Glasses clink, people laugh and the next round begins.

Because, truthfully, most of the people I know and respect can't really be arsed about new year's. An excuse to drink, eat and behave obnoxiously. And I'm OK with that.

But upon arriving home, I received a more sobering greeting. There was a stabbing at the end of my block. The first of the year, I believe. The area had been roped off as a crime scene.

And while my chums and I had been chuckling and toasting a year none of us expected to improve overmuch, someone else was either dead or in hospital.

And so, Happy New Year.

...And people wonder why I'm such a cynic.