My first date in four + years will take place in a matter of hours. I've been consulting with several trust-worthy women who agree that for my wardrobe selection I should choose something low-cut, but not too low-cut. Show some leg, but not too much leg. Wear perfume, but not too much perfume. Apply make-up carefully, but not too much and wear practical yet sexy shoes. Although neither too practical nor too sexy. Essentially if only half of me were visible I would think I've nailed the outfit.
My behaviour is also a matter for discussion, especially amongst my office colleagues who are all married and excited at the possibility of living vicariously through me. Exactly how sad this makes the state of their marriages is not something I want to comment on.
I am to kiss him seductively or turn my cheek. Laugh and smile a lot or act shy and mysterious. Pay my way or let him pay. Or pay for both of us. Find excuses to touch him or not touch him at all. Be myself, or play the part of some sexy ingenue. It's all so simple, I don't know why I'm nervous.
Every day I chat with Tyler for at least a couple of hours, which has made me a terrible employee but at the same time, a woman who is suddenly smiling all day for no reason.
I hate the idea of losing that, so I really have no choice. I'm going to show up naked, address him only in sign language and take him to bed. That ought to do it.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Game on.
The time has come. Lock your doors and windows. Run up your credit cards. Eat dessert and if you've ever thought of having a threesome now would be the time, because the end of the world is upon us. I have a date on Friday, which is why I'm sure the remaining horsemen of the apocalypse will be along shortly.
This date with Tyler almost didn't happen, mostly because of my incredible ability to read between the lines. Incredible in this case meaning, "not at all, or even a little bit." For example, our first attempt to set up a meeting went south because Tyler is moving apartments. This is what was said:
Bambi: What's your week looking like?
Tyler: Oh man, I've got three days to pack all my stuff so this week isn't looking good. Next week would probably be better.
This is what I actually read:
Bambi: What's your week looking like?
Tyler: Please go away. I am officially blowing you off, and I would like nothing more to do with you. In fact, thanks to you, I am now gay -- not that there's anything wrong with that. I am a proud gay man, and you made me that way. I don't want to meet you. I don't want to talk to you and if you'll excuse me, I'll be dancing to the Scissor Sisters. Now fark off.
What can I say? I can't be right all of the time. His moving date got changed, and now we're on for Friday. I have no idea what to wear, what to do or how much self-tanner it's going to take for my legs to not be blue.
This will be our first time laying eyes on each other, so surely...what could possibly go wrong?
This date with Tyler almost didn't happen, mostly because of my incredible ability to read between the lines. Incredible in this case meaning, "not at all, or even a little bit." For example, our first attempt to set up a meeting went south because Tyler is moving apartments. This is what was said:
Bambi: What's your week looking like?
Tyler: Oh man, I've got three days to pack all my stuff so this week isn't looking good. Next week would probably be better.
This is what I actually read:
Bambi: What's your week looking like?
Tyler: Please go away. I am officially blowing you off, and I would like nothing more to do with you. In fact, thanks to you, I am now gay -- not that there's anything wrong with that. I am a proud gay man, and you made me that way. I don't want to meet you. I don't want to talk to you and if you'll excuse me, I'll be dancing to the Scissor Sisters. Now fark off.
What can I say? I can't be right all of the time. His moving date got changed, and now we're on for Friday. I have no idea what to wear, what to do or how much self-tanner it's going to take for my legs to not be blue.
This will be our first time laying eyes on each other, so surely...what could possibly go wrong?
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Testimony
Friday we ended up at a JazzFest venue purely by accident, attempting to escape the hordes of tourists wearing matching nylon tracksuits and carrying digital cameras larger than my head.
No matter where we went for a drink there would be crowds of water-proofed people, speaking in southern drawls and asking how much the beer cost "in American." We had to find refuge.
Annoyed half to death, we paid five bucks each to get into a bar and listen to the Elmer Ferrer Band just because there wasn't a tourist in site. What happened next is the closest thing I've had to a religious experience.
We were just in time for the band's second set. Surrounded by people ranging in age from 19 to 79 (with walker) I took my place on the outside of the dance floor -- skeptical.
The band looked too young to be playing jazz, and the lead singer appeared to be a 15 year old skateboarder. My girlfriend took her place directly in front of the band, and I had a moment's panic the band would be delayed so that she and the drummer, bass player, guitarist or lead skateboarder could run away together to the supply closet.
My friend likes her musicians, but I've never been into the whole groupie scene. If I wanted to pay for somebody to spend all day sleeping and using me for food and one-sided affection, I would get a cat. Despite my friend being hotter than the sun, the band just started to play.
And oh my dear God.
When that band broke out the Miles Davis funk the speakers blew every woman's clothes off in the bar. The dude with the walker was doing the electric slide and a woman wearing an outfit straight out of the Mom Section in Sears was dropping her ass so low to the ground she's probably still down there.
When the band struck up a slowed down weeper about a lost dog the entire place swayed in unison. When they picked it up again we were stomping and clapping to the same rhythm until our hands and feet were aching, but we called them back for three encores anyway.
And then it was over. When the lead singer stepped off the stage the crowd parted like he was a tattooed Moses, most of us suddenly too shy to do anything but smile and duck our heads in awe.
I'm still not into musicians, but if any member of that band ever needs a space on my couch or food from my fridge I would give it, because for at least an hour, they made the lame walk, the blind see and the white people dance. Amen.
No matter where we went for a drink there would be crowds of water-proofed people, speaking in southern drawls and asking how much the beer cost "in American." We had to find refuge.
Annoyed half to death, we paid five bucks each to get into a bar and listen to the Elmer Ferrer Band just because there wasn't a tourist in site. What happened next is the closest thing I've had to a religious experience.
We were just in time for the band's second set. Surrounded by people ranging in age from 19 to 79 (with walker) I took my place on the outside of the dance floor -- skeptical.
The band looked too young to be playing jazz, and the lead singer appeared to be a 15 year old skateboarder. My girlfriend took her place directly in front of the band, and I had a moment's panic the band would be delayed so that she and the drummer, bass player, guitarist or lead skateboarder could run away together to the supply closet.
My friend likes her musicians, but I've never been into the whole groupie scene. If I wanted to pay for somebody to spend all day sleeping and using me for food and one-sided affection, I would get a cat. Despite my friend being hotter than the sun, the band just started to play.
And oh my dear God.
When that band broke out the Miles Davis funk the speakers blew every woman's clothes off in the bar. The dude with the walker was doing the electric slide and a woman wearing an outfit straight out of the Mom Section in Sears was dropping her ass so low to the ground she's probably still down there.
When the band struck up a slowed down weeper about a lost dog the entire place swayed in unison. When they picked it up again we were stomping and clapping to the same rhythm until our hands and feet were aching, but we called them back for three encores anyway.
And then it was over. When the lead singer stepped off the stage the crowd parted like he was a tattooed Moses, most of us suddenly too shy to do anything but smile and duck our heads in awe.
I'm still not into musicians, but if any member of that band ever needs a space on my couch or food from my fridge I would give it, because for at least an hour, they made the lame walk, the blind see and the white people dance. Amen.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Exhibit: Cat.
My hatred for cats is well-documented. I've written about it on this site, and ask anybody who knows me. They will likely say that while chances are good I'll never marry (or even see another man naked ever again), they are fully confident I will not become crazy cat-lady. Gerbil-lady -- perhaps. Crazy purse-lady who throws rocks at small children from her window -- most likely.
Cats are on my mind again because we have an infestation at my place of employment. I'm fortunate to work in an absolutely beautiful, pastoral setting complete with deer, swans, ducks, bunnies and...cats.
Nobody knows where these cats came from, but if I had to guess I would say they wondered away from their previous homes having neither the brains nor loyalty to stay put. I'm certain that for several weeks their former keepers focused their misplaced grief toward posting signs on telephone poles stating: "Help! Lost cat! Muffin is a 25-pound tabby and we miss her! Please call...etc. etc."
Notice that no Missing Cat poster ever suggests Muffin might be homesick? It's because cats actually hate you. Notice as well, that no poster ever claims that Muffin answers to her name when called? What a lousy pet.
Even if a Good Samaritan were to notice the 25 pound Muffin prowling the 'hood, how would he begin to make a positive ID, apart from the fact that a 25 pound cat would make a pretty good dent in one's car. In a perfect world, the loser of the cat could confirm that the dent matches the exact shape the cat left in its favourite sofa cushion, right next to the hair and claw marks.
So now there are approximately five cats who have become our problem. To me they are a problem, to others they are an excuse to go feed something. Today an email went out suggesting if we see one particular cat in our area, we are to shoo it away because it is attacking and killing the baby bunnies.
Personally, I would rather live in a world with baby bunnies. I freaking love those baby bunnies. The bunnies outside our building are so tame they'll jump up and rest their little feet on your legs as you feed them carrots. And the babies...the babies are so cute even my ovaries unfreeze just a little. And they're getting slaughtered. By cats.
If I see this cat, I'm not going to want to "shoo" it. I'm going to want to chase it with a sledge-hammer. I'm going to want to drive over it with my car while cranking Billie Idol's, "Rebel Yell." I'm going to want to hang it from a pole so that it can serve as a warning to every other cat trespassing on this property.
Don't mess with the bunnies. I'm on to you Muffin.
Cats are on my mind again because we have an infestation at my place of employment. I'm fortunate to work in an absolutely beautiful, pastoral setting complete with deer, swans, ducks, bunnies and...cats.
Nobody knows where these cats came from, but if I had to guess I would say they wondered away from their previous homes having neither the brains nor loyalty to stay put. I'm certain that for several weeks their former keepers focused their misplaced grief toward posting signs on telephone poles stating: "Help! Lost cat! Muffin is a 25-pound tabby and we miss her! Please call...etc. etc."
Notice that no Missing Cat poster ever suggests Muffin might be homesick? It's because cats actually hate you. Notice as well, that no poster ever claims that Muffin answers to her name when called? What a lousy pet.
Even if a Good Samaritan were to notice the 25 pound Muffin prowling the 'hood, how would he begin to make a positive ID, apart from the fact that a 25 pound cat would make a pretty good dent in one's car. In a perfect world, the loser of the cat could confirm that the dent matches the exact shape the cat left in its favourite sofa cushion, right next to the hair and claw marks.
So now there are approximately five cats who have become our problem. To me they are a problem, to others they are an excuse to go feed something. Today an email went out suggesting if we see one particular cat in our area, we are to shoo it away because it is attacking and killing the baby bunnies.
Personally, I would rather live in a world with baby bunnies. I freaking love those baby bunnies. The bunnies outside our building are so tame they'll jump up and rest their little feet on your legs as you feed them carrots. And the babies...the babies are so cute even my ovaries unfreeze just a little. And they're getting slaughtered. By cats.
If I see this cat, I'm not going to want to "shoo" it. I'm going to want to chase it with a sledge-hammer. I'm going to want to drive over it with my car while cranking Billie Idol's, "Rebel Yell." I'm going to want to hang it from a pole so that it can serve as a warning to every other cat trespassing on this property.
Don't mess with the bunnies. I'm on to you Muffin.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Some assembly required.
This post will have no structure and no focus, because I spent five hours shopping in IKEA today and I've subsequently lost the ability to speak in sentences along with my will to live.
So much can be done with just 377 square ft. of space, and I'm not doing it. My walls are not realizing their full potential, because I'm overwhelmed by the options available in cupboards and home organization. My apartment is inadequate, and I'm a failure. The meatballs were good though.
I spent six hours of my work day on Monday chatting with Tyler over MSN. Six. Hours. That counts as the second-longest relationship I've ever had in my life. I think we've now cleared the way for marriage as we've established that ABBA is righteous and we would probably both do Annette Benning. What we did not do over the course of six hours is arrange to meet.
It is now Wednesday and I'm back to staring at my computer, chin in hand, wondering why he's not getting in touch and just who in the hell is he talking to besides me. Probably somebody who knows how to maximize her storage options. She probably owns a magnetic spice rack whereas I just shove my dollar-store spices in my cupboard like a heathen. That bitch.
Not meeting in person is probably a good thing at this point though, because the giant zit on my forehead appears to be staying indefinitely. A friend who is down with chicken pox, if you can believe it (Hi Chicklet!) had the nerve to suggest her current facial disfigurement is worse than my own.
Well.
Let me tell you something. At least the chicken pox can garner you some sympathy. Nobody feels sorry or sends me soup because my zit is so large it's started talking on it's own and has been asking to borrow my car.
Nobody expects you to look good with the chicken pox, but I have no excuse for having something so horrendous on my forehead it can not be covered with make-up, powder or bandana. I mean...crikey.
On a more positive note, I did buy a lovely CD storage rack today that I could probably hang off of my zit, and it may provide some coverage as well as a viable storage solution for the CDs I have just lying around, taking up valuable space.
I told you there would be no structure, or focus and I'm sorry for all this. I did warn you though, and now me, my zit and my battery-powered drill have some furniture to put together.
So much can be done with just 377 square ft. of space, and I'm not doing it. My walls are not realizing their full potential, because I'm overwhelmed by the options available in cupboards and home organization. My apartment is inadequate, and I'm a failure. The meatballs were good though.
I spent six hours of my work day on Monday chatting with Tyler over MSN. Six. Hours. That counts as the second-longest relationship I've ever had in my life. I think we've now cleared the way for marriage as we've established that ABBA is righteous and we would probably both do Annette Benning. What we did not do over the course of six hours is arrange to meet.
It is now Wednesday and I'm back to staring at my computer, chin in hand, wondering why he's not getting in touch and just who in the hell is he talking to besides me. Probably somebody who knows how to maximize her storage options. She probably owns a magnetic spice rack whereas I just shove my dollar-store spices in my cupboard like a heathen. That bitch.
Not meeting in person is probably a good thing at this point though, because the giant zit on my forehead appears to be staying indefinitely. A friend who is down with chicken pox, if you can believe it (Hi Chicklet!) had the nerve to suggest her current facial disfigurement is worse than my own.
Well.
Let me tell you something. At least the chicken pox can garner you some sympathy. Nobody feels sorry or sends me soup because my zit is so large it's started talking on it's own and has been asking to borrow my car.
Nobody expects you to look good with the chicken pox, but I have no excuse for having something so horrendous on my forehead it can not be covered with make-up, powder or bandana. I mean...crikey.
On a more positive note, I did buy a lovely CD storage rack today that I could probably hang off of my zit, and it may provide some coverage as well as a viable storage solution for the CDs I have just lying around, taking up valuable space.
I told you there would be no structure, or focus and I'm sorry for all this. I did warn you though, and now me, my zit and my battery-powered drill have some furniture to put together.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Truly, madly, deeply...ridiculous.
There are only three things I worry about in life:
- Everything that has ever happened.
- Everything that is currently happening.
- Everything that might ever happen.
I've narrowed my concerns to just these three things because I became stressed about not having my priorities in order and losing track of what was important. I made several lists but then I lost the lists somewhere between moving, storage and my frantic search for my Bikini Ready Fast DVD.
Luckily I had taken the time to identify the three things I worry about most and commit them to memory, because I would hate to have the fact that my anxieties have their own disorders just sneak up on me in the middle of the night.
And it is for these reasons that I'm really not cut out for Internet dating. I don't think I'm cut out for dating period, but I would like somebody else to buy me a meal or two eventually so I have no choice but to move forward.
So far, the online dating experience has sucked. About the only thing I can say for myself is that I am in fact, online. The dating part still eludes me. I've sent emails, I've sent smiles, I've replied to smiles, I've instant messaged and waited and...nothing. Well, almost nothing.
There is Tyler*. Funny, good looking and tall. The first guy to send me a smile and the only guy to reply to my follow-up email. We've sent funny emails back and forth. We've had an hour long IM session about midgets, Gandhi, and what to do if cursed by gypsies.
He asked for my real email so we could MSN and we haven't chatted since. He's sent me a note or two in the mean time, but he remains as elusive as the Loch Ness Monster, who I'm probably much more likely to actually have a drink with in the near future.
Because I tend to worry a little bit, I've managed to drive myself half-crazy (read: completely batshit) in a very short span of time. When I see him online (at the dating website) I wonder if I should send him an IM or would I be bothering him and or appearing desperate.
If I don't send him a message and I'm online and so is he, then why isn't he sending me a message? He obviously has no interest because otherwise he would be trying to connect with me, but then I'm not sending him a message and I'm interested so I think this means I'm the one with a the problem.
If he's online at the dating site then who is he talking to? How many other women are interested in him? What do they look like? He must be more interested in them because otherwise he'd be talking to me.
He must get so many messages and emails because he's online quite often and so what else could he be doing? I'm online quite often too and nobody but him sends me messages, but I keep checking due to OCD and not because I'm actually conversing with anybody.
To make matters worse, his email has both his first and last name. With this information, I was able to peruse his Friends list on Facebook. Out of 200 people, only ten were men. The remainder were women hotter than the sun, therefore confirming my suspicion that he must be talking to all kinds of women whose thighs don't touch and who don't have a zit on their foreheads so large that an IMAX film crew is currently shooting a movie all about it, just above their right eyebrows.
I'll also bet those girls don't need to worry about whether their pictures will show their nose or their chins in the most unflattering light possible. It has to be both, or one or the other but it can't ever be neither.
So, Tyler -- I'm surprisingly free this weekend if you'd like to meet, and I think we should just so we can both move on and find closure. One of us really needs it. Just like I really need other hobbies. Or to lie down.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Why I do it.
i'm really too tired for this my stomach is growling i can't even smile at people when i'm this hungry never mind go for a run my shirt smells i need to be doing laundry right now dinner and laundry what an exciting friday night and now this too and my legs are killing me...
(Keep Going.)
i can't catch my breath that old lady with the walker is moving faster than me my legs are so heavy but of course they're heavy that's why i'm doing this right? haha i feel like an injured hippo and what's this...? great now my nose is actually running down my face i'll just wipe it with my hand oh and very nice get it on my sunglasses so sexy no wonder i'm single...
(Keep Going.)
god the ocean smells good i do love it out here salt air deep in my lungs and look at that my shadow looks good all bouncing and strong and how does that song go? the one about a long cool woman in a black dress oh yeah gimme a drum beat...
(Keep Going.)
oh the cruise ship tourists my god i live in a place so beautiful cruise ships dock here i am so lucky and oops i think i ran through that guy's picture sorry buddy but i couldn't stop because i am fast and i am strong and i am almost finished i am a nike commercial i am a goddess and my stopwatch says i'm done and i can barely hear my feet on the pavement...
(Keep Going.)
(Keep Going.)
i can't catch my breath that old lady with the walker is moving faster than me my legs are so heavy but of course they're heavy that's why i'm doing this right? haha i feel like an injured hippo and what's this...? great now my nose is actually running down my face i'll just wipe it with my hand oh and very nice get it on my sunglasses so sexy no wonder i'm single...
(Keep Going.)
god the ocean smells good i do love it out here salt air deep in my lungs and look at that my shadow looks good all bouncing and strong and how does that song go? the one about a long cool woman in a black dress oh yeah gimme a drum beat...
(Keep Going.)
oh the cruise ship tourists my god i live in a place so beautiful cruise ships dock here i am so lucky and oops i think i ran through that guy's picture sorry buddy but i couldn't stop because i am fast and i am strong and i am almost finished i am a nike commercial i am a goddess and my stopwatch says i'm done and i can barely hear my feet on the pavement...
(Keep Going.)
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Impressive.
I was walking home from my run yesterday (didn't I just sound athletic there for a minute?) when I see this guy coming towards me, slowly pedalling a bike and talking on a cell phone. My first thought was how brave he was, because I'm not coordinated enough to sit on a couch and talk on a cell phone at the same time if the couch doesn't have arms.
As he approached the stop sign, he began to wobble. Having the scars on my knees to prove it, I knew what was about to happen. Sure enough, the bike fell over. He took great staggering steps trying not to fall over with the bike, and staggered head first into the stop sign pole before regaining his balance. He was not wearing a helmet, but the pole still made a clanging sound.
This is not what impressed me. What impressed the bejesus out of me was he kept talking on the phone. He maintained his end of the conversation, like nothing out of the ordinary was happening. Even when he stood up, he didn't say, "Holy shitballs! I totally almost died!" He. Kept. Talking.
Perhaps he's an air-traffic controller, or a 911 dispatcher but dammit -- that took skill. However, it doesn't make up for being a total moron in every other regard. Cell phones should only be used while driving, providing you have a coffee and map book open against the steering wheel to balance the phone on in case of emergencies. I mean, come on people.
As he approached the stop sign, he began to wobble. Having the scars on my knees to prove it, I knew what was about to happen. Sure enough, the bike fell over. He took great staggering steps trying not to fall over with the bike, and staggered head first into the stop sign pole before regaining his balance. He was not wearing a helmet, but the pole still made a clanging sound.
This is not what impressed me. What impressed the bejesus out of me was he kept talking on the phone. He maintained his end of the conversation, like nothing out of the ordinary was happening. Even when he stood up, he didn't say, "Holy shitballs! I totally almost died!" He. Kept. Talking.
Perhaps he's an air-traffic controller, or a 911 dispatcher but dammit -- that took skill. However, it doesn't make up for being a total moron in every other regard. Cell phones should only be used while driving, providing you have a coffee and map book open against the steering wheel to balance the phone on in case of emergencies. I mean, come on people.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Plunging.
In case you didn't notice the planetary alignment, flaming comet, simultaneous lunar and solar eclipse or the re-airing of Shrek on TBS but the impossible happened. I took a good picture of myself -- good enough to post on an online dating site. In fact, the lunar eclipse was so powerful that the shadows fell in such a way it appears I actually have cleavage. On any other day, Steven Spieldberg couldn't come up with special effects that spectacular.
I posted my profile, and waited for a painfully long time. Essentially the time it took to walk to my fridge, drink out of the carton, wipe the lipstick off said carton (I had guests coming over -- what?) and walk back to my computer. No response.
I've spent the last several days in a similar state. Those who think Facebook is addictive have obviously never tried Internet dating. So far I'm disappointed though.
Despite my awesome picture, my wryly amusing opening line and a short but sweet biography I'm getting nowhere. I've sent messages to guys and haven't heard anything. I've sent messages to guys who sent me smiles and heard nothing. I've sent smiles and heard...you guessed it...nothing.
The experience has confirmed one quality I possess -- outright snobbery. If a guy is dumb enough to post a picture with his eyes closed, I don't want to know him. If a guy looks at my profile, sees that I selected "don't want" under the children question ("no f*cking way" was not an option under the drop-down menu), and he has children but still sends me a smile -- forget it. If he is 5'6 inches and misses the part where I reveal I'm 5'11 then he's getting no love. He's getting no love regardless, because I can carry him in my purse.
The situation isn't completely hopeless though. The first guy to send me a smile looked adorable, and when I sent him a message thanking him he wrote me back. Then I wrote him back, and he wrote me back again. It's not The Notebook or anything, but he's wickedly funny, 6 feet tall and smart enough to post a picture with his eyes open. It doesn't get any better than that. No...seriously. It doesn't.
I posted my profile, and waited for a painfully long time. Essentially the time it took to walk to my fridge, drink out of the carton, wipe the lipstick off said carton (I had guests coming over -- what?) and walk back to my computer. No response.
I've spent the last several days in a similar state. Those who think Facebook is addictive have obviously never tried Internet dating. So far I'm disappointed though.
Despite my awesome picture, my wryly amusing opening line and a short but sweet biography I'm getting nowhere. I've sent messages to guys and haven't heard anything. I've sent messages to guys who sent me smiles and heard nothing. I've sent smiles and heard...you guessed it...nothing.
The experience has confirmed one quality I possess -- outright snobbery. If a guy is dumb enough to post a picture with his eyes closed, I don't want to know him. If a guy looks at my profile, sees that I selected "don't want" under the children question ("no f*cking way" was not an option under the drop-down menu), and he has children but still sends me a smile -- forget it. If he is 5'6 inches and misses the part where I reveal I'm 5'11 then he's getting no love. He's getting no love regardless, because I can carry him in my purse.
The situation isn't completely hopeless though. The first guy to send me a smile looked adorable, and when I sent him a message thanking him he wrote me back. Then I wrote him back, and he wrote me back again. It's not The Notebook or anything, but he's wickedly funny, 6 feet tall and smart enough to post a picture with his eyes open. It doesn't get any better than that. No...seriously. It doesn't.
Monday, June 11, 2007
It's how Leno got started...
I'm guest-blogging for my friend Heidi at http://completelybarkingmad.blogspot.com/. It was an honour to be asked, because Heidi has a very large readership and I feel that posting on her site will get me one step closer to my dream of being on set as Angelina plays me in the movie version of my life, working title: "When I Said I Liked You I Didn't Really Mean in That Way, But We Should Still Totally Do It. " (It's only a working title -- things may evolve.)
So check out http://completelybarkingmad.blogspot.com/ for your Bambi fix, and then keep reading my site. Just because I haven't figured out how to post pictures like Heidi doesn't make me less entertaining -- only less smart.
So check out http://completelybarkingmad.blogspot.com/ for your Bambi fix, and then keep reading my site. Just because I haven't figured out how to post pictures like Heidi doesn't make me less entertaining -- only less smart.
Saturday, June 9, 2007
Toxicity Report
My crazy travelling/graduation/family/birthday week is almost over, so regularly scheduled posting (read: whining, kvetching, bitching and moaning) should resume on Tuesday. Until then, I thought I would post an update to a situation I reported a little while back, and that is the critical health crisis created by the ladies washroom in our office.
If you recall, the Chernobyl-like symptoms caused by the deodorizer spray were acted upon quickly (provided the worst symptoms suffered by victims of the Chernobyl disaster were a slight cough and tingling nose). The orange blossom spray was entombed in a steel drum and buried deep within the little-known Vancouver Island desert.
The cough persisted, and large men from facilities were called. To be absolutely sure nobody suffered the trauma of a tingling nose ever again, a basket containing dish soap, hand soap and hand lotion was also removed.
I assumed these items were incinerated in the same way as other similarly hazardous materials such as medical waste and empty Nair bottles. Imagine my surprise when I arrived at my cubicle the other morning to find the offending items on a shelf right next to my desk, without so much as a bio-hazard suit for me to wear if I was to be expected to work in safety.
I called over the Office Manager. I pointed out the proximity of the hazardous materials to the very spot I spend eight hours a day emailing my friends, surfing the web and taking scientific online quizzes to determine which Harry Potter character I most resemble.
Apparently nobody involved could decide where to put the materials until a decision had come back regarding the air-quality tests performed by the large men from facilities. It was determined the items should be hidden from the area of the office where the woman with the cough worked, assuming even visual contact with a bottle of soap could travel through the layers of her eyeball, through her sinuses and lodge directly in her lungs, producing a slight cough.
My desk is on the other side of the wall, and was deemed safe enough to store the ticking time-bombs of bathroom hygiene. If I should experience any symptoms such as a cough, tingling nose or sudden death I should maintain a log of when and how I experienced each symptom.
I'm considering selling these items on eBay. The bottles are on my bookshelf, so I'm claiming ownership. I hear there's a lot of money in potential weapons of mass-destruction. Anthrax, dish soap, plutonium, hand lotion and poison gas. Any one of those could make me a very wealthy woman. Wealthy enough to quit my job, and save my sanity.
If you recall, the Chernobyl-like symptoms caused by the deodorizer spray were acted upon quickly (provided the worst symptoms suffered by victims of the Chernobyl disaster were a slight cough and tingling nose). The orange blossom spray was entombed in a steel drum and buried deep within the little-known Vancouver Island desert.
The cough persisted, and large men from facilities were called. To be absolutely sure nobody suffered the trauma of a tingling nose ever again, a basket containing dish soap, hand soap and hand lotion was also removed.
I assumed these items were incinerated in the same way as other similarly hazardous materials such as medical waste and empty Nair bottles. Imagine my surprise when I arrived at my cubicle the other morning to find the offending items on a shelf right next to my desk, without so much as a bio-hazard suit for me to wear if I was to be expected to work in safety.
I called over the Office Manager. I pointed out the proximity of the hazardous materials to the very spot I spend eight hours a day emailing my friends, surfing the web and taking scientific online quizzes to determine which Harry Potter character I most resemble.
Apparently nobody involved could decide where to put the materials until a decision had come back regarding the air-quality tests performed by the large men from facilities. It was determined the items should be hidden from the area of the office where the woman with the cough worked, assuming even visual contact with a bottle of soap could travel through the layers of her eyeball, through her sinuses and lodge directly in her lungs, producing a slight cough.
My desk is on the other side of the wall, and was deemed safe enough to store the ticking time-bombs of bathroom hygiene. If I should experience any symptoms such as a cough, tingling nose or sudden death I should maintain a log of when and how I experienced each symptom.
I'm considering selling these items on eBay. The bottles are on my bookshelf, so I'm claiming ownership. I hear there's a lot of money in potential weapons of mass-destruction. Anthrax, dish soap, plutonium, hand lotion and poison gas. Any one of those could make me a very wealthy woman. Wealthy enough to quit my job, and save my sanity.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Unpacked and unhinged.
So I'm travelling this week for work. It's one week of using bars of soap no bigger than the memory card in my digital camera and rationing my underpants. I have no real reason to ration underpants, because if I'm travelling anywhere I pack approximately eight pairs per day. I have no idea what situation could possibly arrive that would require a change of eight pairs of underpants a day, but that's how I roll.
Regardless, I still get anxious at the thought of waking up one day in some Best Western in some strange city and realizing I have to go commando. Never mind the fact I'll end up wearing the same shirt for three days, just so long as I could outfit a third world country with a nearly endless supply of grannies and thongs.
There are people who believe travelling for work is glamorous. I believe those people must sleep in their cubicles and eat out of the vending machines. The destinations I'm sent to are not featured in Conde Nast magazine. The nearest pool boy is far enough away to actually be considered in light years (although if somebody does know of one nearby -- I'm in Room 520).
Eating well is almost impossible. This evening's dinner was the booty call of the fast food world --- KFC. You know you it's not good for you, and you know you'll regret it (if not immediately then certainly the morning after). But sometimes, you just gotta have it. I'm regretting it right now, but my colleague actually had to smoke a cigarette after his four piece meal. Naturally, my colleague has the metabolism of a humming-bird, so he can enjoy the grease without guilt.
There are perks to this kind of travel though. I'm wearing a showercap right now, just because I can. That's right -- I get my own showercap. Try not to hate me. I'll be taking it off soon because it's time for bed, and I don't want the crinkling to keep me awake.
Despite all of my complaining, the questionable history of my hotel bedding doesn't bother me. I can smell the bleach, so I'll sleep just fine. What does keep me awake is the inevitable. I have three days left to go and limited underpants.
Regardless, I still get anxious at the thought of waking up one day in some Best Western in some strange city and realizing I have to go commando. Never mind the fact I'll end up wearing the same shirt for three days, just so long as I could outfit a third world country with a nearly endless supply of grannies and thongs.
There are people who believe travelling for work is glamorous. I believe those people must sleep in their cubicles and eat out of the vending machines. The destinations I'm sent to are not featured in Conde Nast magazine. The nearest pool boy is far enough away to actually be considered in light years (although if somebody does know of one nearby -- I'm in Room 520).
Eating well is almost impossible. This evening's dinner was the booty call of the fast food world --- KFC. You know you it's not good for you, and you know you'll regret it (if not immediately then certainly the morning after). But sometimes, you just gotta have it. I'm regretting it right now, but my colleague actually had to smoke a cigarette after his four piece meal. Naturally, my colleague has the metabolism of a humming-bird, so he can enjoy the grease without guilt.
There are perks to this kind of travel though. I'm wearing a showercap right now, just because I can. That's right -- I get my own showercap. Try not to hate me. I'll be taking it off soon because it's time for bed, and I don't want the crinkling to keep me awake.
Despite all of my complaining, the questionable history of my hotel bedding doesn't bother me. I can smell the bleach, so I'll sleep just fine. What does keep me awake is the inevitable. I have three days left to go and limited underpants.
Monday, June 4, 2007
Today: 18 with 13 years of experience.
Twice a year I do something that smacks of so much self-help and Oprah-esque candle lighting that I want to kick my own ass. But I do it every year, and today is no different. Every January I make New Year's resolutions, and every year on my birthday I try to set some attainable goals.
My resolutions are like my cosmic helping of fruit and vegetables. I know they're good for me, but they can be hard to swallow. Losing weight, volunteering more and not setting the oven mitts on the red hot burner are a few ongoing issues I've attempted to tackle on January 1st.
I have much better luck with my birthday goals, because if my resolutions are the salad with dressing on the side, then my birthday goals are all about the dessert -- and I've never had problems saying YES to dessert.
Some of my birthday goals are really just random offerings from my bigger list, comprised of things I want to do before I die. (Know that when I do check out as a result of extremely old age, my boyfriend will be so devastated he'll have to drop out of college).
Life is too short to always wear a bathing suit when swimming, and it never hurts to remind myself of this on my birthday. In no particular order, my Birthday Goal List for My 31st Year:
My resolutions are like my cosmic helping of fruit and vegetables. I know they're good for me, but they can be hard to swallow. Losing weight, volunteering more and not setting the oven mitts on the red hot burner are a few ongoing issues I've attempted to tackle on January 1st.
I have much better luck with my birthday goals, because if my resolutions are the salad with dressing on the side, then my birthday goals are all about the dessert -- and I've never had problems saying YES to dessert.
Some of my birthday goals are really just random offerings from my bigger list, comprised of things I want to do before I die. (Know that when I do check out as a result of extremely old age, my boyfriend will be so devastated he'll have to drop out of college).
Life is too short to always wear a bathing suit when swimming, and it never hurts to remind myself of this on my birthday. In no particular order, my Birthday Goal List for My 31st Year:
- Learn to salsa
- Own more lingerie
- Make sure said lingerie is actually seen in action by another human being
- Stay in touch
- Finish my %$#@ MBA application
- Run 5K
- Begin saving for retirement
- Go somewhere requiring a passport
- Get a passport
- Smile at strangers
- Walk a dog
- Pick sand out of my bathing suit
Some are easy, some are harder than you'd think but I'm just going to get started on my yearly dessert. Right after lunch.
Friday, June 1, 2007
Gouda!
If I'm going to be avoiding the warm spots in the online dating pool, I need a good picture of myself. And this is a problem. I'm about as photogenic as a train wreck, providing the train wreck appears to either have two chins or none at all, and is photographed with its eyes closed.
I need a picture that looks like me, only me on a day with flattering lighting. I admit I have some issues with my appearance to begin with, and the idea of putting my picture out there for consumption and scrutiny scares the sh*t out of me. I imagine guys looking at my picture and then forwarding it to their buddies to laugh at.
If you think that's irrational, I'm also morbidly afraid of a spider laying eggs in my ear while I sleep. I haven't yet seen a spider in my apartment, but according to News of the Weird it happens more than you'd think. That should give you just a small taste of the neuroses I juggle every day, while still managing to come to work with pants on.
Want more neuroses? I dated a guy once in Calgary who was extremely good looking, but I got tired of just going to his place to watch movies. I suggested we go out somewhere instead, and he told me he didn't think I was pretty enough for him to be seen in public with, but he hoped we could keep seeing each other anyway.
I know this doesn't fully explain my anxiety or why I set fire to his car. (Alright - it totally explains why I set fire to his car. I didn't really, but I wanted to and that's what you should say if the police ever mention it). Darren was a raving ass-hat for sure, but it was still one of those moments that get stored away in the most vulnerable folds of the ego and left there to rot.
I would describe myself as unconventionally pretty, and when you stand 5'11 barefoot like I do, you lose the ability to call yourself cute. Those who know me, know I'm not ugly but damned if I can take a picture to prove it.
Should anybody know of a photographer with the patience and inner-zen of the Buddha himself, let me know. This person will have to put up with at least several hours of comments like, "Hmm. I think this one makes me look too pointy."
Vanity isn't my problem, but sometimes I have a little trouble with reality.
I need a picture that looks like me, only me on a day with flattering lighting. I admit I have some issues with my appearance to begin with, and the idea of putting my picture out there for consumption and scrutiny scares the sh*t out of me. I imagine guys looking at my picture and then forwarding it to their buddies to laugh at.
If you think that's irrational, I'm also morbidly afraid of a spider laying eggs in my ear while I sleep. I haven't yet seen a spider in my apartment, but according to News of the Weird it happens more than you'd think. That should give you just a small taste of the neuroses I juggle every day, while still managing to come to work with pants on.
Want more neuroses? I dated a guy once in Calgary who was extremely good looking, but I got tired of just going to his place to watch movies. I suggested we go out somewhere instead, and he told me he didn't think I was pretty enough for him to be seen in public with, but he hoped we could keep seeing each other anyway.
I know this doesn't fully explain my anxiety or why I set fire to his car. (Alright - it totally explains why I set fire to his car. I didn't really, but I wanted to and that's what you should say if the police ever mention it). Darren was a raving ass-hat for sure, but it was still one of those moments that get stored away in the most vulnerable folds of the ego and left there to rot.
I would describe myself as unconventionally pretty, and when you stand 5'11 barefoot like I do, you lose the ability to call yourself cute. Those who know me, know I'm not ugly but damned if I can take a picture to prove it.
Should anybody know of a photographer with the patience and inner-zen of the Buddha himself, let me know. This person will have to put up with at least several hours of comments like, "Hmm. I think this one makes me look too pointy."
Vanity isn't my problem, but sometimes I have a little trouble with reality.
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