Friday, October 30, 2009

OMG, yo.

When I was 17, I wrote thanks "thanx". I thought I was pretty edgy, let me tell you, removing that "ks" and using an "x". Cutting edge stuff. And that was before cell phones were common place, prior to the age of text messaging. My friend wrote "NEways", though I have to think taking the extra .02 seconds to capitalize wasn't worth the .01 seconds he saved by knocking off that pesky little "a".

It's exactly that sort of silliness that has now become total nonsense. If you're 17, you probably write something like this on Facebook walls:

OMG callll meee 2nite!! i mettt dis gurl n seh sed seh nos u!

I can't stand txt spk. That's text speak for you foggies who can't or won't navigate the dangerous waters of instant messaging technology, where English goes to die. Though, I think the extreme above example is what happens when parents friend their kids and said kids mutilate their words to give their mom a headache when she tries to read her daughter's wall posts.

I'm not terribly opposed to text speak on a cell phone. If you're relaying a quick message, doing it quickly makes sense. Personally, I have to text out everything in full words, complete with punctuation, but that's just me and my anal neurosis. But emails? Really? Facebook? It takes longer to type like a retard goat on drugs than it does to get the job done properly.

But I suppose I grew out of my thanx years. Maybe the teens will grow out of:

ily babyyy <3<3<3 tryy da celll muah!
One can hope.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Le flu, she is, how you say... not going to get me?

With all this hooplah about swine flu and vaccines and sneezing into your sleeve (ew), I've realized something. I don't think I've been sick in maybe two years. On one level, this makes me feel smug. On another, I'm kind of creeped out because I used to get sick all the time and now I almost feel as if some impending illness is looming over me.

I get a scratchy throat, I make an announcement: I'm getting sick!
And then nothing.

My nose starts to run another day and I'm thinking, this is it, my streak is over, and I announce: I'm getting sick!
And then nothing.

Fatigue? Lack of energy? Am I getting sick?
Nope.

I don't recall ever getting a flu shot. I remember various shots I've gotten over the course of time. I know I was given the hepatitis B shot in grade 7 and 8 ("Hepatits B is a real bad rap") and a shot into my ass when the cook at my daycare contracted hepatitis A when I was 9. I've had blood tests and IVs, but never a flu shot. I think I missed some round of immunization when I was a teen around when my mom died. My dad was not much for keeping up with things like doctor's appointments and, I don't know, dinner time.

See, I don't much mind the concept of getting sick, much in the same way I don't feel bad if my home is getting rather germy. I'm open to giving my immune system something to do. So as I've no contact with children or generally frail people in my life, I always figure I'll battle what comes, and nothing ever happens.

And even so I go into overload symptom detection at the first sign of any possible viral or cold intrusion. Seek. Kill. Destroy. Infect me, will you? Die!

It'd probably be easier to just go get a flu shot and quit thinking about it.

I still won't, though.

Monday, October 26, 2009

The belly

I've been taking belly dance lessons for a year and a half now. A little longer, actually, but consistently for a year and a half. The winter student gala is coming up. I've performed in two of them. The first one was an act of bravery, the second a need for the rush I felt from the first. I don't get many adrenaline rushes in my life, but performing a rather sensual dance with an exposed stomach in front of 400 strangers does the job.

I've been eating a lot of crap. Tasty crap. Fattening crap. I live so close to an amazing cupcake place, the Dude brings home chocolate goodies (his metabolism is a thing of beauty and I'm pretty in awe of it, while hating him at the same time as he wolfs down his second bag of chips in less than 24 hours), and I have no will power, not really.

I used to be a very skinny girl. But when I stopped being a girl, I stopped being skinny. I wish I didn't care. Intellectually I don't care. And if someone else other than me has flesh on their bones I find it pleasing to look at. Aesthetically, I truly believe women look more beautiful if they have more than less. Seeing a very skinny woman does not fill me with envy. So why when I look at myself do I get critical?

When I was in college I drew a lot of nudes, and the fleshy women were a joy to draw. They really glowed, their lines were magnificent and they looked soft and comforting and feminine. The skinny women were good for skeletal studies, but otherwise didn't offer the same enjoyment from a drawing standpoint. The lines were harder and more angular, yet lacking pleasantly muscular lines like men had. It really shaped a lot of what I thought about beauty. Skinny was not doing it for me.

And yet... the satisfaction of buying a small instead of medium, a 6 over and 8, and the sinking in my heart when my arms seem wobble more than before, and my lack of a flat stomach remain.

Regardless, I plan to bare midriff at the gala. Like it or lump it, I'm going to shake and jiggle on stage and feel good about it. Way I figure anyway, despite not feeling totally at peace with my body, it's likely all downhill from here as I get older so I should show off what I do have while I still got it.

Party

The party went well. It was small, but everyone, most of whom did not know each other, all had good, animated conversation. The cats were a big hit. They were so sociable and cuddly. Someone brought them catnip, and so they spent the evening high as kitty kites. The Dude and I were very pleased with ourselves. It was the first party we've thrown as a couple. It was the second party I've thrown since I've finished college.

Actually, come to think of it, I don't think I threw any parties in college.

Friday, October 23, 2009

Cutesy Hair

Today I fix my head. I looked in the mirror last week and really took a good gander at myself. In the heat of moving and all that jazz, I neglected to notice it had been three months since my last hair appointment. My roots are several inches long, my ends are snagging and I look like Raggedy Ann ass.

So today I get to look pretty. I do nothing with my hair other than occasional hair appointments and washing and brushing it. So the contrast between the me who walks out of a salon with a shiny vibrant style, and the me on any other day where I've done jack is quite striking. Night and day, actually. So whether I can afford it or not, I'm going out tonight to show off my hair.

I've been growing it long. Long hair has been a long-standing dream of mine. I achieved it once in childhood. Grade four I quit getting haircuts and by the end of grade five, my hair was long, long, long. The ends were awful, but being 10, I wasn't concerned. Then I cut it to my shoulders on a whim in grade six. Some kind of fashion at the time to have shoulder-length hair. Le sigh. Le conformity. Such is grades six through twelve.

I had this punky little 'do in grade eleven with large blonde streaks in the front framing my face to my chin, with it cut very short in the back. My best friend was with me when I got that done. I know now she never cared for that look, but was diplomatic about it at the time. My mom came to pick me up afterwards and nearly drove into a pole. She was diplomatic too. Focused on how much she loved the cut, avoided any comment on the large blonde highlights surrounding my face.

And it's been various lengths of short since. And one thing has been consistent. I get called cute. Being called cute is a side effect of being incredibly short. When you have little boobage and a baby face (I think it's my cheeks) you have no hope of escape. Short hair, while flattering technically, seals the cute in and locks it down.

Cute is nice and all. In fact, I think that since I've been labelled as cute all my life, I've learned to grow into the part. But I'm nearly 27 now. I'd really like to attract more adult compliments. I can't help but feel like a kitten or puppy equivalent when I'm called cute. It's fine on occasion, but not on a regular basis. And being mistaken for 15 when I was 21, and a grade eight grad instead of a high school grad, and being taken for 13 of all things recently, which is half my damn age, well... it's gotten old.

I want to be called pretty or beautiful. I'd settle for pretty (Except from the Dude. I want top-tier compliments from him). And when I look back in my life, the first and only time I was ever called beautiful in my whole childhood was in grade five when I had long hair.

So today is a trim and a colour update. I'm not sure how long I need my hair, but I think I'll know it when I get there. A lot of women cut their hair shorter as they get older to look more mature. I find I need to do the exact opposite.

On a related note, I love that I'll be in my Halloween costume with a fresh hairdo. Something about that gives me a tickle in my heart.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Can't Take The Heat

Happiness is an organized closet. Actually, happiness is when your living room is no longer cluttered in junk because the closet is organized. Total bliss is when your boyfriend does it himself and you reap the benefits. Eventually I'm going to post some pictures of the place all finished and junk. It really feels like an honest-to-peaches home.

Unfortunately, as I mentioned before, there is a heat issue with the downstairs neighbours. There's always something. We thought it was going to be smooth sailing with these sisters at first. They introduced themselves right away, were friendly, and we were charmed by their pleasant Australian accents.

But then it turned out they don't like turning on the heat. We couldn't understand it at first. I thought perhaps it was just warmer down there. The Dude thought perhaps they were cheap. Well, the Dude was right. I was a little right; it is warmer downstairs, but they keep turning off the heat because they're trying to cut down the bill.

This would be a decent energy-saving idea if it weren't for the fact I work at home and shivering at a desk in a 14-degree apartment is not going to fly with me. So the heat goes on.

We're trying to be reasonable about saving money on the bill. We've planned to insulate a door, shrink-wrap an old window in the hall, and live with 18 degrees instead of a more comfortable 20. But that still has not seemed to ease their minds downstairs.

One sister knocked on the door the other day and told Dude they wanted to cap how much they would pay and have us pay the rest. Our lease agreement says we are to pay 30% of the utility bill, as we occupy roughly 30% of the building. So we're not going to be subsidizing their share of the utility bill.

It's just so awkward. They're from a much warmer country than Canada. One sister said the gas bill was outrageous. We looked at it, and, well... seemed pretty standard for a Toronto winter. Heating bills get high in this city in December, January, February, and turning off the heat at any time in -15 degree weather is so not going to happen. How do you politely get the point across to your new and otherwise pleasant neighbours that if they can't afford their bills, that's not really your problem?

I know that for them they had a sweet deal being able to turn off the heat while everyone was gone at work. But that deal was, you know, a deal. Now the "sale" is over and it's not up to us to make sure they can still afford the gas. We moved in knowing we can afford it. I feel kind of like we're being controlled by another household's budget. I hope this gets resolved.

In happier news, my bee costume arrived. And I was right, I don't look sexy, I look cute. But that being the story of my 5'2" baby-faced life, I'll take it.

Buzz, buzz, buzz, I'm a bumble bee
Cutest little bee that you ever did see,
I like to make my own honey
Buzz, buzz, buzz, I'm a bumble bee

(And a total kid, deep down inside)

Monday, October 19, 2009

Halloween Goods

I ordered my Halloween costume last night. And like about 89.4% of young women out there, I chose something sexy. Why? Because I suppose I like to indulge that side of myself once a year. Most of the time I dress very modestly. I sometimes channel my inner sexy secretary-- who is also very covered up. Floofy skirts make me happy and I don't have cleavage. Those two things create a bit of a look.

I do wear the odd short dress or skirt to show off ye olde legs, which I do think are quite nice, but then invariably I have to get on the TTC, which means very little between me and the seat when I sit down. I don't care for that.

The costume in question is a bee. It's not scary, it's not original, but I'm hoping I'll look as cute as a bug in a rug, pardon the pun. Past years of adulthood have included a nurse and Rainbow Brite. I think I was a cat once, but I can't remember.

I was definitely a cat when I was still in school. I was also a vampire, Cleopatra, an angel, a princess, a fairy princess (I was economical that year, to my mom's relief, and merged the princess and angel wings together), a French maid (this was in grade one and the dress hit me mid-calve), a cheap doll (using various things from around the house. Most people didn't get it), an '80s girl (older people thought that look was still contemporary and didn't want to give me candy), a pilot (a friend and I wore her dad's old pilot uniforms, which were waaaaay too big and tromped around the neighbourhood), and when I was wee, I was a clown and then a witch.

Last year the Dude and I carved a pumpkin and he took photos of it. Before him, I think I let Halloween slide a lot. This year we're going to McPal's Halloween/birthday party. I've fallen in love with the holiday all over again. It makes me feel like a kid, only a big kid who's going to show off the goods.

Somehow, though, this will look only cute on me and not sexy.
I have a way of doing that.

Saturday, October 17, 2009

Monty Python in real life

I'm off today, which is out of the norm for a Saturday. Normally I'd still be in my robe, sitting at my cramped desk, sipping cold tea and plugging away at some assignment. Not today. It's like a real proper weekend, the likes of which I've rarely seen since 2004.

So how does one spend a Saturday? A child would get up at the buttcrack of dawn and watch cartoons. A teenager would sleep in until 1:00 pm. A college student would nurse their hangover with fried breakfast.

Me? Well, I did have a hangover-- which I will get to later because Sweet Jeebs, was last night something else-- but nurse it I did not, pardon the Yoda talk. The Dude and I decided to go to the markets to purchase ingredients for a new meal he wants to make for our friend who's coming over tonight. And it made me very happy.

We went to a fruit market, a butcher and a bakery/deli. For the first time grocery shopping was fun. All this time I thought I hated it. But no. What I hate is supermarkets. Fiesta Farms was the best grocery store I've ever been to and I miss it, but even when I lived nearby, making myself go was a struggle in maturity ("I should go. *Whine* But I don't want to. But we're out of food... but I can order in! Yeah, I'm not going today. Fuck the grocery store.")

I'm soooo looking forward to tonight's meal.

Now, as to why I'm hungover, last evening I went out for dinner with a friend of mine, one of the men who so wonderfully helped me find my new couch. As he put it last night, we're in each other's top 10 friends (Not on Myspace or anything, just in our heads.)

We had some Thai food at my favourite Thai restaurant downtown and one of his friends joined us. My goodness, was this man a trip and a half. I find it too overwhelming to chronicle the evening, so I'll detail the night in point form:
  • When he arrived he insisted he would not buy any food. He'd bicycled 7 km in about 4oC and said if he saved $10 on a meal, he could give more to his charitable cause.
  • My friend, whom I shall refer to as McPal, and I badgered him to eat, to eat at least from our meals, which were served family style. Finally he ordered his own tofu dish, claiming to be a new vegetarian. At which point he discussed our brutal choices of duck and chicken.
  • He was the devil's advocate for every conversation topic. When I pointed out to him he was contrary, he said he was not. Then he realized the irony. And then I won a small point of satisfaction.
  • He claimed to be a communist. I told him he'd get along with a quirky friend of a friend of mine named Stefan. He then made a Family Matters reference about Steve Urkel's cool machine.
  • They asked me to come out for a drink and so I thought why not. We went to a pub and McPal wanted to split a pitcher with his friend. I ordered wine. The friend vetoed all the beers McPal wanted on the basis that he may not like these brands. He was wooed into going for it when it was argued that a pitcher was very economical. He said he was a fan of economics.
  • He brought up sexual orientation out of the blue and suggested everyone was inherently bisexual. I said I didn't think so and that if you couldn't bear to put your face near the junk of the same or opposite sex, you were pretty well on one side of the fence. He said it was all conditioning. I then observed he was most likely a bisexual if he really thought all people could go either way. This was on my second glass of wine.
  • At various points in the evening he mentioned "females" instead of girls or women. He said in his age group, they were neither one nor the other. He's 24.
  • He silly-walked down the street like a Monty Python skit. Being 6'4", it was very John Cleese-esque. He then stopped to stretch against a tree.
Truly he was the strangest character I've ever met, and I know some weird-ass people. I liked him, but kind of the way I like egg nog. Really touch and go, that drink, and you have to be in the mood for it. I stayed for the second glass of wine purely out of fascination.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

No Hostess with mostess

The Dude and I are throwing a housewarming party. Sort of. It's a small gathering of people in the city who've expressed an interest in seeing the new place. I'm not even sure why I wanted to throw an actual party. I really get a type of performance anxiety about throwing them. Back in the day it would be easy: beer. Pizza. Done. If you're between the ages of 18 to 23, your interests include getting drunk and taking pictures of being drunk. These days it goes one step further of posting it all on the internet. It's crude, but hells bells if they're not easy to please. Beer = fun.

But the youngest person at this party will be 25, 26? The oldest somewhere in the 30s. So I'm pretty sure it needs to be a bit more entertaining.

There will be beer and pizza at the party, but what else? There's going be people who've never met before. The more I think about it, the more I'm wondering how they will all mesh. I'm not too sure why I do this to myself. I'm a low-key kind of person. I don't do concerts, bar hopping, big house parties, etc. A party hostess, I am not. I'm the anti-Mrs. Dalloway (which for the record I just read and I didn't like it. Virginia Woolf, man, WTF.)

Blarghghgh.

Now, I have no idea who reads this puppy. If anyone who does happen to read wants to toss me some suggestions on how to make a housewarming party good, I'll gladly hear it.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

The stomach growls, the body shivers

Putting off buying groceries means finding creative ways to eat. The Dude and I haven't gone grocery shopping since we moved... 13 days ago. Yeah. 13.

We've done the old run to the store for a handful of things, ordering in, grabbing takeout, eating snacks, filling up on popcorn at the movies, eating at other people's houses and so on. We need to go today. It's getting ludicrous. It came to a head for me when I went to go make some toast and found the bread was mouldy. So I ate what was left of a bag of BBQ ruffled chips for lunch. I feel like a slug.

I crave vegetables. I've been dreaming about them again, making meals with zucchini and carrots and peppers. Then I wake up and it's a godforsaken tease and I go scrounging in the kitchen for scraps of something, old takeout, forgotten leftovers, something, anything.

This needs to stop. I did this all the time when I was 22. I'd say nuts to groceries, as I was a bad cook and often didn't bother, and I'd just run out and grab a sub, or a pita. Problem solved. Now the thought of doing so depresses me. I want a homemade meal. I've gotten accustomed to eating like a real person. The thought of more pizza makes me feel like retching.

In other off-skilter-tilter type news, the Dude is downstairs talking to the neighbours about the heat. It was 14 degrees in here last night. We share the heat controls and they're about five degrees warmer than us. I hear a pleasant conversation taking place. That's encouraging. Last night we clung to each other and shivered ourselves to sleep. Apartment growing pains, they keep a comin'.

Monday, October 12, 2009

Later

Home again, home again, jiggity jig.
I went to London and ate like a pig.
Now I am back, the cats gave no flack
And the Dude's toothache is big.

Heh.

Yes, the Dude has a toothache. He's soaking in the tub with Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, absorbing some codeine and generally feeling miserable. Poor soul.

Our Thanksgiving at his brother's house was nice. They made a large dinner and it was great. I ate a quarter of a Mississippi mud pie. I didn't realize it was a whole quarter because I was drunk on wine.

They have a toddler, and one on the way. The little girl is a sweetpea and the Dude loves her to bits. She was sick and a little grumpy, but a good child all the same. And as I get whenever I've spent time with small children, I question whether or not I want them. I still don't know. But I do know the Dude does. That becomes more and more apparent all the time, particularly after he's hung out with his nieces and nephews.

I still want to go to Italy. I want to write and learn things. I'm not naive. Having a child would put almost everything on hold for years. Especially since I'm a type B sort of lump. I'm not a high-energy person. I'm neither efficient or terribly productive most days. I also don't drive. I'd be a TTC mom.

So the internal dialogue goes on. I'm 27 soon. It's not an urgent question, but no longer one I can wave off until an indeterminable "later". It's funny. My clock started ticking last year, and now it's quiet again. How odd.

Sunday, October 11, 2009

Are you afraid of the dark?

Something I've never been able to grow out of is my need to stay up as late as possible, even if it's to my detriment. Getting up at 7:00 am? Going to bed before 1:00 would be a sacrifice, but I could try. After all, I gotta be responsible.

It's about seven minutes to 2:00 am to be exact and I'm still up (not typing in my sleep or anything. Dear me, no.) I have every reason in the world to get some shut eye, and yet here I am. The cats, I can tell, want me to go to bed. They sleep with me at night, and they're both bookending me, getting all in my business.

Here's the thing, though. I'm kinda sorta afraid of the dark and stuff. The Dude is in London (Ontario, not England) with his brother and brother's family. I'm going in the morning, where we'll be doing ye olde Thanksgiving dinner. He went a day early because he could. I've enjoyed having the place to myself to do such wild things as eat leftovers, wash the dishes and read my book. But I'm not looking forward to sleeping alone here for the first time.

I've never been a fan of that, really. As a kid I hated being alone in the dark in my own room. I didn't like it as a teenager, I didn't like it when I lived alone, I didn't like it nights away from whatever boyfriend I had, I didn't like it between boyfriends and I don't much care for it now.

Lucky for me, the Dude only makes these sort of jaunts once in awhile. They're planned in advance and I always know how long I have to suck it up.

You'd think being an adult, I would be able to just get over these silly feelings. It would be so sensible and orderly of me to go to bed at 11:00, and I do love me some sensible and orderly behaviour. I really do.

Well, it's 2:02 am now. I suppose I ought to scoop up Smokey and drag my sorry ass (and his) into bed. Having him there with me will actually be a comfort. No one is alone who has a cat. Or a small dog. Or a larger dog that doesn't hog the bed. Or a parrot that keeps you company during the day, but knows its place and lets you get some sleep. But not fish. They're not much for companionship, not with you. They just don't give a damn.

Goodnight.

Friday, October 9, 2009

Three Years of the Dude

Today marks three years that the Dude and I have been together. Three years. Well, it's kind of been three years, but the important thing is today was the beginning of what would become this whole deal, this whole relationship thingamagiggy. And I had no idea it would become what it has.

I've been a serial monogamist my whole adult life. Every relationship I've had has started out with me going, okay, this is just for fun. This is probably not going to last that long. Something about that particular attitude has resulted in three relatively long-term boyfriends. And none of it ever started out as a date. I've been on dates. I have a couple good bad-date stories. But the significant men who've been in my life have not come to me through traditional means.

And I like that. The Dude and I evolved as a couple very slowly. If you consider that we met in high school, liked each other then, and neither of us said a word about it till six years later, that's slower than grass growing. If you consider that from October 9, 2006, it took over half a year for us to become a committed item, that's pretty damn leisurely.

And here we are, living together in sin and such, for almost two years. See, the living together came on all sudden-like. That part was fast, unexpected, supposedly temporary. But when something works better than what you were doing before, you keep doing it.

In every major relationship you have it's natural to think about the future, mostly, is there one? In the others, there was always some sort of obstacle. There was doubt. There was too much compromise or not a good enough fit.

With the Dude, there's no doubt. It just works. There's no fireworks in my head or parades in my heart or butterflies in my stomach about it either, like what I thought would signal real love when I was a younger lass. No, it's a calm sense of knowing I'm going to grow old with this mofo, he's going to drive me crazy until I die, and I'm going to love him for it.

As I get older I'm defining love in more practical ways. When I was having a meltdown on the phone with Rogers and switched to Bell for 1.56 minutes, the Dude set it up for me while I composed myself. When I was stressed about the move and all the things I had to do, he sent me off to a party to unwind while he painted the new apartment. When we get heated over decorating issues, he concedes because it'll make me happy.

There's also the acceptance. I'm not easy to live with. I can cause offense. I say weird shit. I'm constantly hypocritical about the small things in life. I rant sometimes. I spontaneously quit paying attention and something in my brain slams the door on who I'm trying to talk to. These are all very agitating qualities. And he goes with it, doesn't try and change it, and even sometimes finds it endearing.

That's my kind of love. Sometimes it feels like we're an old couple. We argue like one. And who knew that's what I would need to be happy? But it is, and I am.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Materialism, sort of

Things I need/want

1. A charming tea set, preferably a charming novelty tea set that's not so large that I have no room for it in this smallish apartment. I am open to petal themes, bumble bees, owls, kitties or cupcakes. Actually, I'm open to way more than that, but if I were to envision the perfect novelty set from which to enjoy my peppermint tea, it would be one of the above.

2. Cushions for the new couch that go with the cushions it came with, and the red walls. This is actually a strangely hard choice for me. They're just cushions! I spent less time deciding on this apartment than I've spent mulling over cushion options. Hell, I think I picked my college program quicker than I've selected cushions. What's up with that?

3. A new pair of jeans to replace the only other pair I had, which I ruined while painting the apartment. As winter is coming, this is actually pretty desperate.

4. A loofah. Ho hum. But I need one. I threw mine away because I couldn't justify carting it around damp in a musty box, not something I rub all over my body. Ew.

5. A waste bin for the bathroom. I recently threw away the bathroom set I bought in college from Wal-mart. It was time. It felt good. I hate Wal-mart. Jerks.

That's about it. Oh, and a Wii Fit.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

What Not To Wear

I spend a lot of time looking at clothes I want to buy, specifically dresses. Dresses from ModCloth. I have about half a dozen items from this website and I want more. MORE!

I got into a dress kick after realizing how depressing it was to wear pants. I hate pants. They're always too long, which makes me feel too short. Low rise gives me muffin-top. High rise on my short-waisted body makes me look like Steve Urkel. Medium rise works, but getting the butt, thighs and waist to all co-ordinate into something flattering takes an act of God.

I do own one pair of nice jeans that fit. I got red paint on them while we were painting the apartment. Le sigh. So now I have zero pairs of jeans. And winter's coming. My pretty, pretty dresses and skirts are not likely to cut it. Actually, I even have a new dress on the way. But I justify that because it's the perfect little black dress I've always wanted. I bought it to ease my suffering after the Rogers fiasco.

Back when I was about 20, 21, I dressed like a hobo. I wore clothes that had seen me through art school (we're talking paint splatters, charcoal, general grime and wear and tear) AND high school to boot. I had this pair of shoes that finally gave up and died one winter (I was using them as boots) after having worn them for about four years, day in and day out. I discovered a large hole in them, which explained the river that flowed out when I took them off to examine why my feet were so icy and clammy.

My sweaters had holes too, and my pants were ill-fitting or worse: loose with elastic bands (all the better to gain the freshman 15 and keep it with, my dear).

After college I interned at Wedding Bells magazine. I learned a number of things working there, but what has stuck with me the most is I finally learned how to dress myself like a real person. The women there offered pointers, guidelines, and positive reinforcement when they saw me wearing something they liked.

When Smokey peed on the boots I'd been wearing everyday, my boss saw the bright side: new shoes. When I wore a skirt to the office, she came in to see me, having been alerted to this fact and offered praise. How could I not respond to that? I was living off of $1,000 a month in Toronto with rent that was $675. And I went shopping.

I threw away everything else I owned in a fit of What Not To Wear glory and started from scratch. My early 20s were not an attractive time for me either. I managed to lose the college weight easy enough. I quit drinking pop and eating fast food. 10 pounds fell off in about three months. I grew out and cut off crispy hair left over from a blonde experiment gone bad, and then I coloured it red.

But it wasn't until I was about 24, I'd say, that I really hit a stride. No more fugly pants that don't look good, no more boring T-shirts, no more lame shoes (Though I still wear holes in my shoes now. Hey, when I like something, I like it). Throw in some exercise (Not a lot, but any is more than my natural inclinations), growing out my hair to something finally not resembling a child's hairdo, and I have an appearance I can feel reasonable about.

I was just thinking the other day how I wasted about half of my 20s looking like a bum. Kinda bummed me out. One good thing about growing up is developing a sense of self, with it a sense of style and actually, it almost makes up for the slowing metabolism. I'll revisit this thought when I'm 30.

Monday, October 5, 2009

Bed.

Sometimes I find it hard to get out of bed. Not because it's too depressing, but because for a few precious moments I like to pretend I don't have anything I need to do. Like this morning, for example. I had to give Smokey (my 16-year-old diabetic cat) his insulin injection. I had to clean the litter and give him and his brother fresh water. I had to call the vet and order more insulin, and since Bell called and needed me to cancel my technician appointment again, I had to do that too.

I have about 1,327 things I could be doing right now. The kitchen looks like hell. It'll probably continue to look like hell until the new shelves go up. I could unpack a few more boxes. I could take some garbage out. I could find homes in this place for the various items that are laying about scattered on every surface.

So in lieu of all these things, I'm taking a bath. And then because I can, I'm having a butter tart for breakfast, at noon.

And then I'll be all grown up and shit and do something productive.

Saturday, October 3, 2009

Sweet Jebus

Moving is ass. It's so ass I could die.

The actual move went okay. We hired El Cheapo movers and they got the job done for almost the same cost as renting a truck + gas +mileage. That part was fine. It took $320 and three hours.

The hell began once we got here. Rogers. Fucking Rogers. Okay, so technician dude comes on time and can't get everything working. He says someone will come by the next day.

The next day arrives with no phone call. No one at Rogers seems to know what's going on. No one comes and I have to miss a day of work. (Read about my job here.)

This morning yet again no one had called me, and no one at Rogers seems to know jack. By now I'm missing a second day of work, and have no information. I'd called about half a dozen times and talked to about 15 different people. The last straw came when the tech guy I spoke to talked down to me, and essentially said he didn't like my tone. I was in tears. All I wanted to do was work, and be done with the whole thing.

So after hanging up with one more empty promise to call me on my cell once he knew something, the Dude and I called Bell and set up a service call. And then as I was on the phone with Rogers for what was going to be the last time, the doorbell rang and a Rogers technician was there to make everything better. We had no idea he was coming. The whole empty promises thing what with the phone calls and such.

And now we have service. The technician was cool and aloof and walked on eggshells around me, seemingly unaware of anything I'd been through with his company other than that I threw a fit over the phone with his boss.

Sweet Jebus. This whole thing has had me chained to my house for two days. I've not left in the event of possibly missing a window to have this crap resolved.

Now I'm sitting on my new couch, on the internet, and waiting for the Dude to come back home with dinner, and a spray to tackle the musty linen cabinet with. About 3.47 minutes after he left minus an umbrella, a torrential rain shower began. Poor soul. It's been a rough few days.