The thing with Lavalife

So I’m on Lavalife. Whatever. I must say that it is not nearly as exciting as I had imagined. I do imagine, however, that if you are a size two blonde with gigantic bosoms Lavalife could be very exciting. As it is I have received three smiles: one from JupiterGirl (though much appreciated, it kind of doesn’t count); one from a guy that looks like he was recently paroled; and one from a guy that looks vaguely like John Turturro (the guy that played Jesus in “The Big Lebowski). Kind of ironic, given that my Blogger nickname is Duder. And as if that was not bad enough, I get instant messaged when I log on to my LL account, and the gentlemen that are IMing me don’t have their pictures posted which kind of pisses me off. I hemmed and hawed about posting my own picture on the net (I’ll get to the reason why in a moment), but then I realized that I was scrolling through pictures of men like so much meat on a hook and that physical attraction is part of the whole dating scenario. I’m not saying I’m looking for the next Brad Pitt – in fact I bypass the traditionally good looking guys very quickly – but I would never date someone that I didn’t find attractive by my standards. Which are really odd. Yeah, I like Clive Owen, but I also find Topher Grace impossibly hot. Tom Cruise? Pass. Gord Downie: yes, please. But back to my point: I’ve got my picture posted up there (as good or bad as it may be) so if you want to IM me, you better have your picture up there too. Otherwise I’m going to assume you’re a fifty year old man who is likely typing with one hand and you’re third question to me will be something like “what are you wearing” or “have you ever kissed another woman”. And then I would say “I’m wearing ass-less, snakeskin chaps” and “I’ve kissed another woman, have you?”.
Another reason I was reluctant to post my picture is because there is a chronically single guy that works here and I know, I just know that he is scoping out Lavalife. Nice guy, bit of a player, shows up to various work functions with a different girl each time. I did not want this guy to come across my photo, because I think he would just revel in the fact that I am single. And in the last couple of days he has been extraordinarily friendly. Ah, beats going to the next Christmas party alone, I guess…
Maybe I should re-vamp the picture. Maybe I should just take my profile down because in the five days I’ve been on LL my self-confidence has taken a bit of a nose dive. Maybe I’ll just keep scrolling through, looking for “Foreman” look-alikes and smiling at them. Maybe I’ll remove my picture and start IMing guys ten years younger than me. I could change my handle to SexyCougar4 or something.
I think JupiterGirl hit the nail right on the head when she said “You need to check your reasons for doing this”. Amen. But let me just log on a couple more times to see if my odds have improved…

The ongoing saga of my nose

Have I mentioned how cool my life is these days? I am blogging again from a little café at 41st and Dunbar, sipping on another cappuccino. It’s good to be me. I woke up a bit later than I wanted to today unfortunately. I had errands to run! Important, necessary errands. Like getting my shoes re-soled, getting produce, going to Rogers to get some movies, chatting with L on the way down there, plus a 2pm appointment to get my nose piercing adjusted. I have been waiting for this appointment for a month because, if you have seen my piercing, you will note that the “coil” dangles down in my nostril and it looks… well, it looks kind of like there is something hanging out of my nose. So I hop in my car for my appointment, hoping that I get the same guy (we’ll call him B) for my follow up visit. I showed up and score! B was there. He kind of gave me the once over and a sly smile (okay, this was likely all in my head) and asked me how it was going. I said, “it’ll be going a lot better once we’re behind closed doors” and then I winked. Right, what I really said was “uh, good. Yeah. How are you?” as I surreptitiously checked for a wedding ring. So we go back to the little office and I’m checking him out rather unabashedly as he turns to put on his surgical gloves. And then does a little poking and prodding (in my nose, readers, in my nose) and says I have to wait another month to get it adjusted! What? I was so looking forward to getting the coil adjusted so it was no longer visible. As well as lying flat on my back while he gently ministered to my nostril… sigh. I have to wait another month. But on the plus side I guess I get to see him one final time. One last time to stare longingly at him and give offer monosyllabic answers to his questions and blush furiously for no apparent reason. I am suave. Of course I’m not his type, I think I have mentioned those strange ear stretching rings he has, and the fact that he probably only weighs an additional 20 pounds than me. And the tattoos (which are hot). I should have re-evaluated my outfit too; he doesn’t appear to be the type that would go for girls wearing GAP chords, Jacob tops with Mexx jackets, trundling along with their fashionably oversized purses (with their laptops stowed in the trunk of their Honda Civics, no less). But what I lacked in the “cool” department I made up with my lack of conversational abilities and my furtive, anxious eye-darting. Sweet. All I am missing is sweaty palms and a stutter. Ah well, I have a month to somehow develop some form of self assuredness.

Don't put your finger in your eye

After wearing glasses sporadically (ie for school and driving) for the past six years, I decided that I would bite the bullet and get contact lenses. I typically don't like to wear glasses when I run, so I often have moments of panic where I have to decide "is that a shrub, or an axe murderer". It also makes judging the amount of time I have to dart across the street a little more tenuous. Anyways, I balked at the optometrist that wanted to charge me $115 for a 45 minute session on how to put in contact lenses correctly. I told my mom "how hard can it be? I mean, aren't there seven year olds that wear contact lenses?". So she found an optician in White Rock that would not charge me to try out a pair of contacts. I go there with my mom, discover I have astigmatism and then spend ten minutes of mounting frustration trying to put these stupid contacts in. Eventually, face (and eyes) red I snap "I can't do it!". The optician looks at me as though I was a petulant child - which I was totally acting like. I felt too much pressure to perform and asked if I could the trial pair home and try on my own time. So we go back to my mom's place and she alternates between telling me how easy it is and then laughing at me. I result to swearing, as contact lens solution streams down my arms and hands (that crap gets everywhere). At one point I yell "I'm having some difficulty here" as I somehow managed to get the contact lens bunched up on my eyeball. My brother responded with "Are you blind yet?" or something equally witty. Finally they were in. Man, I was mad.
Then I visited L and T and played a rousing game of rummy. I told them about my adventures with contacts and L said "I can put mine in without looking into the mirror". Well sucks to you! You should add that to your Lavalife profile! We can't all be so talented: it was my first time. They tried to sell me on a game called "Pit" which is some kind of commodity trading game. L said, "You'll like it, there's lots of action and yelling". I replied "Do I get to hit people?" to which she looked at me strangely and said "No. There's no hitting". Well then it's just not as fun, is it??
Then I got to drive home in the pea soup fog with my contacts. How cool! Driving without glasses! I kept on thinking that somehow my contacts would "fail" and I would be rendered blind as I barreled down the 99 at 110 kilometers an hour. But it all worked out, except when I tried to take them out when I got home. I'm really good at rolling my eyes back in my head thereby making the removal of my contacts next to impossible. I told my mom about it this morning and she was like "ooohhh... how hard can it be? Seven year olds can do it". She's so mean.
That's all I've got today. I have to save something for tomorrow don't you know.

The things I do for TV

What the hell. What is with all the goddamned reruns on TV these days? Is it too much to ask that these actors, who make like a billion dollars a year, make more than six episodes a year? In preparation for tonight (Thursday nights are the new Sunday nights, don’t you know) I worked out Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday night so I could take tonight off. I ate well. I didn’t have any alcohol. This was all in anticipation of being able to come home, sluff off my shoes, make some mundane dinner, have a couple of glasses of wine and some snacks and be entertained for a time. But it was all for naught because The Office and 30 Rock are reruns. I don’t want to watch Grey’s Anatomy. I care only vaguely about CSI and Men in Trees. Now what am I going to do? Socialize?? Work out for the fourth day in a row? I think I managed to do deep-tissue damage during my last trip to the gym: I need a night off! And Rodney Yee, with his I’m-a-contortionist-yoga moves can bite me. “Now, lean back until your head touches the ground and kiss your own ass”. I can’t do it Rodney! It hurts!
I know, I know, it’s only TV and I should get a life. I have several back issues of the Economist to catch up on, as well as the latest Vanity Fair. I also have a book about things that one can do daily to change the world in small ways. But I was really looking forward to cheese. Meh. Maybe I can practice smiling at myself in the mirror and then try it out on humans on the bus tomorrow. Or perhaps I will go for another run and pray to the god of cardiovascular exercise that I will be able to walk in the morning. The most likely scenario involves me going to bed at 9pm to catch up on the sleep I have been losing due to my upstairs neighbor that has taken to getting up at 5:45 and clog dancing. Who gets up at 5:45? Oh yeah… I used to…. when I used to work hard for a living.
Whatever. I miss Tina Fey…

Something that is cool

I like the “I saw you” section of the Georgia Straight. You know, the section where people write in things like: “You sat next to me on the #16 with your messy blonde hair and super cool nose piercing. I wanted to ask your name but your steely (vaguely terrifying) demeanor led me to believe you might break my fingers. Can we meet?”. I think this is far more entertaining and romantic than online dating. I’m sure one could get on any packed bus at rush hour and say “Who’s on lavalife?” and a quarter of the bus would raise their hands, and yet no one talks to anyone. What’s with that? As JupiterGirl says: “I’m going to put on my curious hat” (when she first said this I thought there was a literal hat that she would put on, indicating her curiosity in another human being).
What has made Vancouver’s single population so skittish that we can only talk face to face with one another after a certain internet “buffer” period has been exhausted? Kudos to anyone that has ever gone up to someone and said “hey”. I feel bad for anyone that I might have rebuffed in the past, because clearly I did not understand how difficult it must be. It is so, so much easier to look at your feet and avoid eye contact.
But back to the “I saw you” section: it is also kind of sad. How many people have put ads in this section and have had the object of their affection not read it? It’s a bit heartbreaking, really. And I have other questions, such as: do people post numerous ads in here? Like, every time they see an attractive person do they post an ad in this section? And do the wrong people ever respond to these ads? How does that work? The person shows up for coffee and the other person like, “Uh, no. The girl I was chatting with last time was good looking”. That could be painful.
But overall I like this section. I think it would be quite flattering to have been mentioned in this area of the Straight versus, say, being mentioned negatively in the “Savage Love” portion. Maybe by putting my “curious hat” on and making more of an effort to not focus on my shoes so studiously, I may at some point be mentioned here. And not in a finger-breaking kind of context…

My Monday

I am so cool. I am sitting here at 2pm in my little local coffee shop on this rainy, windy day, looking like a chic hipster (in the outfit that I should’ve worn to the Whip on Saturday night versus the one I did wear that said “I am a pampered Kerrisdalean”) with my laptop and my cappuccino. Awesome. Scurry people! Scurry back to your offices! Scurry to pick up your children! Scurry to get your banking done! Yawn. Sigh. Stretch.
So the weekend turned out to be very eventful. A veritable adventure if you will. It started out with me not wanting to go to the gym on Friday. I decided to go to Rogers and pick some good, older movies that I hadn’t seen. As I was picking out Ed Wood, House of D and deciding that I needed to re-watch Fargo my phone rang: it was my good friend P, who seemed desperate to go for a beer. I said absolutely and she and another girl that I had graduated high school with that I had not seen for roughly 7 or 8 years met me at the Cheese, where our conversation was punctuated with screaming as we arrived in time for the last period of a PPV Canucks game. Which they lost. It was a great, unexpected evening and I really enjoyed the company. We had some good conversation, a little debate about everyone’s favorite topic: gay marriage. We discussed internet dating, which I find utterly intriguing because I have never had the chance to use it. P indicated that she was willing to try speed dating which surprised me. I have a lot of respect for her for having the balls to try something like that; it seems to me that it would be awkward and stressful. This is likely because I am a stressful and awkward person. Plus, I think that eventually you will be sitting across from the guy that thinks he is God’s gift to women and perhaps you will have had one Cosmopolitan too many and you’ll maybe be a little tired from repeating your name, age, occupation, hobbies and favorite movies six thousand times and you will just spit out “you’re an ass hat. And I hate your face”. Yep. That would be fun. Then you would pick up your drink, go find the one guy that you did find remotely interesting and attractive (who would be midway through a five minute conversation with someone prettier and more successful than you) whereupon you would tap her on the shoulder and say “there’s a guy over there that wants to talk to you. Beat it, blondie”.
Yes. So on Saturday I picked JupiterGirl and A up and we went to the Whip. As mentioned earlier, I don’t think my new $128 jeans and high heeled boots were the best choice for this joint where the dress could best be described as “bohemian beatnik lesbian logger”. There were some fine, grizzled, bearded men there. The kind of men that I am sure like to drink whiskey by the fire and furrow their brows as they play chess with their childhood rugby chums and plan to fit in peacekeeping missions to Somalia between their art shows. Hot.
After this we decided to go see what was shaking in Kits. Let me tell you what was shaking: nothing. So puzzled was I by the way that every drinking establishment was either closed or in the process of closing down – at eleven o’clock no less – that I turned to JupiterGirl and confirmed that it was indeed Saturday night. The Smoking Dog: closing down. Vintropolis: closed at TEN O’CLOCK. Some weird flatbread place that served alcohol but clearly was uninterested in gaining any new customers was closed, though their sign said they were open from “5 o’clock onwards” and they had not locked their door. They looked at us like we had asked them if we could come in and skin some kittens at the corner table or something. JupiterGirl muttered “no fun city” which normally bothers me because I tend to think that Vancouver is a pretty fun city, however on this particular night I was definitely inclined to agree!
Then a weird sequence of events happened, which could only be described as fate. We drove over to the King’s Head: parking literally in front of it. However when we walked in there was not one available table, though we did see a group of people getting ready to leave. We decided to stroll down the street and see what else was shaking. The Urban Well: closed! Yew York: half empty and the name was stupid. Malones…. Yeah… we started walking in that general direction and then JupiterGirl demurred “I just can’t”. Don’t blame ya! Rossini’s: full of old people that looked like they were regulars. JupiterGirl whimpered that she had to pee so she said she would dart into the King’s Head and then we would go. I said fine, that I would do one more circle to see if any seats had come up and lo and behold, the table that was in the process of leaving the last time we had been there had cleared out! Success! We grabbed the table and ordered some drinks. Then we met a weird girl that was sitting by herself (she was a “friend” of the drummer). She overheard us gossiping about some men and wanted to dish. We were accommodating and rated pecs and asses for a while, still kind of unsure of our new found friend, who disappeared with the drummer when the band went on a break. At this point a group of eight thirty-somethings came in and wanted to switch tables with us. I was willing to oblige, but JupiterGirl seemed perturbed and asked “what’s in for us? A round of drinks?”, which I will admit is usually the standard quip when someone asks to switch. Nonetheless we switched, and we actually did get a free round of drinks. And when this table found out that it was JupiterGirl’s birthday, they bought her a beer as well. Very nice! I like random acts of kindness such as this. It makes me want to kill people just a little less.
Then our strange friend came back and proceeded to at first sit next to JupiterGirl and then proceed to half-clamber over her to interject into the conversation happening at the table of thirty-somethings behind us. It was at this point that she really started to give me the no feeling. A left us after a round of high fives, and at some point JupiterGirl went to use the washroom whereupon I asked our new friend what it was that she did. She said she was a mature student at UBC, studying psychology and biology. Interesting. I told her I was an accountant. She told me I had a beautiful face. I searched wildly for JupiterGirl while trying to keep a pleasant smile on my (beautiful) face. I had a vision of her slipping a date rape drug into my coffee, taking me back to her place and making lampshades out of my skin. JupiterGirl returned, and soon it was last call and the drummer joined us. Hot. How come crazy girl gets the hot drummer? Damnit. He was clearly intoxicated but having a really good time and I kind of felt sorry for him, like he sort of didn’t know what he was getting into with this odd girl (who told me that she had only known him for a couple of weeks). I hope he’s okay. I hope he has not been made into several lampshades. He would make such a hot lampshade.
And then yesterday Michael came to visit me. He was supposed to come at one, though he thinks he told me three. I saw him a couple of weeks ago and had told him to come at four, and he came an hour early. Perhaps he was trying to balance it all out subconsciously. Whatever, I was just happy to see him because he was going to help me log on to the internet. First we went to Starbucks, where we logged on successfully (for $7.50!!) and determined the issue was not with my laptop. Sweet. It was totally non-stressful. Yeah, nothing keeps my blood pressure down like going to the coffee place that I hate which was crazy busy, squeezing in next to people that are not speaking English and therefore are clearly talking about me, and trying to fit a laptop, two coffees, a yogurt parfait and a fruit bar on to a tiny table while children scream and people in wheel chairs roll around and bump into things. Awesome. And why do they not put the coffee at the coffee bar? Why does the coffee get picked up at the cash register? This is inconsistent. It angers me. Though I wasn’t as angry as the size two Kerrisdale mom that was pissed because the barista hadn’t made her three year old son’s hot chocolate correctly. You know what I got when I was three? I got beats. Yeah, that’s right. I got spanked for not eating the crust on my toast. Fuckin’ hot chocolate at Starbucks. I love Kerrisdale.
So we ended up at Esquire’s and we were finally able to log on. It has to do with IP addresses and the wireless network assigning them every so often. I really didn’t entirely grasp what Michael was explaining to me. He said something about IP addresses and I was like “Yeah, I have to pee too”. Whatever. Then I fed him a horrible dinner and chased him around the apartment quoting Bertrand Russell to him. I don’t think he’ll be back any time soon. Which is bad because I gave him my car. This is what I have to do to get boys to like me: give them expensive vehicles. Damnit. I wonder how drummer lampshade boy is doing today.

Success

Finally, after many frustrating weeks of trying to log on the internet at Esquires: we have lift off! After proving that the issue did not originate with my laptop (by paying a whopping $7.50 at Starbucks to log on to their T-Mobile Hotspot for a measly hour), Michael and I trundled down to Esquires to have yet more caffeine and try to figure out the wireless network here. So here I am, in Esquires, blogging on a Sunday... what am I going to do at work on Tuesday?
Michael says I react well to laptop issues. He extends his sympathies to my network admin. "You must just scream when something goes wrong, and then start throwing cups around and then start crying and curl up in the fetal position". He just said those exact words to me. I just through a cup at him. I feel a bit like crying. Could be the excess caffeine. My heart is beating a lot faster than normal.
On another, unrelated note: Happy 30th to JupiterGirl, who is Elton John's biggest fan. But more on her birthday extravaganza tomorrow when I return... for more free internet!

Misunderestimation

I remember, about a week or so ago, chatting with a co-worker and fellow runner about the gym. I told her that I had gone a couple of times since January 1st and I was surprised at how not busy the gym had been; I had been expecting hordes of people trying to fulfill their New Year’s resolutions and shed the extra weight that seems to creep up over the holidays. It appears I spoke to soon and totally misunderestimated the situation. I hate George Bush. Where was I? Right, I went to the gym last night to find that there were NO treadmills available which angered me, so I signed up for one. I thought fine, I’ll work on the old guns while waiting for my machine and – lo and behold – the weight room was chock full of guys. Young, attractive, buff guys. Yay. When this type of proliferation of men occurs in bars, or coffee shops, or even in my dreams it is a happy time. This is not the case when it occurs at the gym. It’s a bit unnerving to walk into a room where you are a) at least two inches shorter and b) at least forty pounds lighter than everyone else and pick up a pair of twelve pound dumbbells while the guy next to you hefts the equivalent of half your body weight over his head while making strange wheezing sounds. I have been going to this gym for over five years so I’m pretty good at spotting the regulars (who, because they are smart, arrived about half an hour after me when the place was starting to clear out); the majority of the people in the weight room were not regulars. This was evidenced by the attitude of “you don’t belong here” that was subtly directed my way when these guys made a point of leaving their weights everywhere so that it was a veritable obstacle course to get from my little work out space to the weight rack, and by the way they kept encroaching on my space as if to squeeze me out entirely. No, I can’t bench press two hundred pounds and yes, my tricep kick backs are a little feeble, but I paid my drop in fee and I have just as much right to be there as the crazy guy that smells like garlic, peach ass and the blind guy. Jerks.
When it was finally time for me to hop on my treadmill I noticed two people loitering around it, just waiting for me not to show up. Are sign in sheets so totally difficult? It’s not a hard concept here, people. My machine: hands off.
Then another regular showed up: the hot guy that always dresses in black. I was like, “hey hot stuff”. Okay, in reality I didn’t so much as glance his way, but whatever. And it was at this point that my machine started to crap out. Yeah, I guess the connection with the emergency stop was loose and the vibration from my pounding feet kept engaging it because the stupid thing started to stop every minute. How lame! I’m flying along (okay, okay, flailing along) and then the machine comes to a complete stop and the readout says “Fix emergency stop connection” or something. And then it said “You’re slow, fat ass” and then “I’ve had sixty year olds than run faster than you”. So I started crying and went home.
Basically, now I am just waiting for everyone to give up on their resolutions, have another ding dong and decide that watching American Idol is a far more valuable way to spend an hour than slogging it out on the gym. Fingers crossed man, fingers crossed. I hope I have misunderestimated their tenacity.

Overdoing it

Alright, so the possibility exists that I overdid it this weekend, engaging in more hedonistic activities than was healthy. Meh, what I am going to do? Stop? I kicked the weekend off on Friday with Big D: we ordered some sushi and watched the Big Lebowski. This is the second time that I have watched this movie in the last couple of months and, for the second time I really can’t remember how it ends because I got baked again. I can’t watch movies when I’m stoned. Plotlines? What plotlines? Every sentence out of each character’s mouth becomes a story in and of itself and is suddenly immeasurably meaningful. Two minute dialogues seem to take eons. I start to convince myself of three things: that the creators of whatever it is that I am watching have made this specifically for people that are high; given the seemingly endless conversations the characters are engaging in the movie will surely never come to a close; and that at any moment the cops are going to bust down my apartment door. Not the most fun way to watch a movie. Then I ate a lot of chocolate.
The next day I slept pretty late and then remained in bed to watch some shite on the W Network. Whatever. It seemed important at the time. I also re-watched Lost in Translation which I still think kicks ass and still made me cry at the end. Later on I hopped a bus to join JupiterGirl’s 30th birthday celebration at Steamworks. It started out low key but I have a recollection of trying to pull a gigantic dildo that had been fastened to the table in front of me off, with little success, so that the end result would’ve looked like I was giving a hand job to a penis that had sprung forth from my table. Awesome. I don’t know why I can’t get any dates. We then decided to go to Bimini’s, but as usual there was a line up so we ended up at Hell’s Kitchen. I got home around 1am which wasn’t bad but I must’ve inflicted some major damage in the interim because I woke up with JupiterGirl’s vibrator (a gag gift… well, not so so funny I suppose) in my purse. Apparently I had liberated it from her the night before. Have I mentioned I haven’t had any action since November? Look what I have been reduced to!
On Sunday I called Michael out of the blue and we decided to go for a walk around his neighborhood in North Vancouver. He laughed when he saw me. I was looking and feeling a little haggard. It got really cold on our walk and at one point I could no longer feel my face, which was somewhat concerning. We then went to Coral Court for awesome Chinese food. I love Coral Court. I guess Coral Court wasn’t enough, because upon my return home I ate some of the leftovers and then decimated my kitchen cupboards. Jupitergirl? That artichoke and asiago dip? Never bring it to my house again! I attribute any weight gain to you.
I went grocery shopping on Monday, which was really exciting. Then, because Michael and I thought we had resolved the issue of my inability to log on to the FREE internet at Esquire’s, I went to Esquire’s where again, I could not log on. I think at this point there was still some residual pot, chocolate, alcohol and artichoke dip in my bloodstream, so I was calmer that I might otherwise have been, though I’m sure my face was a healthy shade of red nonetheless. Frick my IP address and frick my network adapter. And frick the DNS error. Rrrrrrrrrrrrrr……….
Yeah. So not the healthiest of healthies. I failed to get in my weekly 10k run which is doubly disappointing because I’ve signed up for the Sun Run through work and because I have to beat the Newfie Pimp shortly (and apparently he’s been training). I have to beat him. I was telling C that I was still trying to beat 50 minutes for a 10k and he said, “you’re slow”. Well thanks. Thanks for that. If you had my strict diet and exercise regime you’d be slow too. God, I think I can feel my arteries hardening.

The blog that was a long, long time coming

My boss has found an interesting way to insult me without doing it directly, which has proved interesting over the last couple of days. The first little jab had to do with a pair of red shoes that I wore to work. These red shoes are super cool and I wear them because I am a super cool person. They are slip on running shoes from the Running Room and, as mentioned, they are red. The day that I wore them at work there was snow on the ground so, while trapsing through the snow and slush I was wearing an old pair of hiking boots, some Calvin Klein cargo pants and a white shirt. When I got to work I kicked off said hiking boots and put on my trendy red shoes. I would say that my overall appearance was sporty/casual. I did not feel that this was inappropriate because I did have wallow through the snow and I didn’t feel like doing it in what little finery I have.
Now I will explain the way in which my boss was able to infuriate me in a roundabout way, without giving me a direct reason to give her an open-handed smack in the mouth. She comes into our (unfortunately) shared office and starts talking about the inappropriate comment that her boss had made to her. I will briefly interject here that, throughout the span of my eight hour day, I listen to her verbal diahrea for at least one hour. She then says something like, “And you know, that’s just an inappropriate and irrelevant comment for him to make to me. It would be like me saying to you ‘What was with those shoes you were wearing yesterday? Did you think they were appropriate? Don’t you think you should have been wearing socks?’.” I was so dumbfounded I could not speak. I gave a wan smile and turned back to my computer while fantasizing about running through the streets of downtown Vancouver with her head on a pike (which is an atypical fantasy for me, since I usually tend to lean to fantasies involving George Stroumboulopolous interviewing me on the Hour. And by “interviewing” I mean something much more risqué. And by “on the Hour” I mean “for an hour”). So that may seem a bit mundane, but then today she attacked my hair. I don’t mean attacked my hair like the time a crow came after me and chased me down 26th avenue cackling incessantly, cause that was really weird and more scary than one would think. No, this time she had interrupted me to tell me about the upcoming party she is attending in February that she wants to make a brilliant appearance at, and how she should wear her hair. Her hair, like mine, is highlighted blonde. Unlike mine it is also prolific with grey, and that is because she is an old cougar. At any rate, she said that she wants to have her hair done well before the party because she likes to have some of the dark roots showing: like mine. And then she actually asked me to pull back my hair to show her the extent of my roots. I am not making this up. What does one actually say to this? And then a few minutes later we were talking about bus drivers and she interjects that she has never had to run for bus, obviously inferring that because she is so attractive the bus drivers just automatically wait for her. I have had to run for buses. I have had buses pull away from me because I missed it by one nano-second, and the driver has flipped me the bird and tried to splash me by driving through an inordinately large puddle. Okay, maybe the last thing didn’t happen, but still. The final straw came when she gave me up to her boss about my filing habits, or lack thereof. The files for all our customers are kept in the filing cabinet next to my desk. A couple of months ago I noticed that both my boss and her boss would pull files from this cabinet, and instead of returning the files to their appropriate places, they would simply place them in a pile within the cabinet. I filed them away properly the first couple of times this happened, after which my boss indicated that I should probably just leave them out because she and her boss would be pulling out the same files over and over again, and when they were done with them she would file them away. So upon returning from a trip to the lavatory (where I tried to decide just how atrocious my hair actually is, and lamented over my current choice of footwear) I come back to find my boss all atwitter. She wants to tell me yet another “story” about her boss and what a jackass he is. She tells me to shut the door. So I get up, out of my seat to shut the door so she can waste yet another three minutes of my life that I will never get back. She proceeds to tell me that her boss came in, was agitated that he couldn’t find one of the customer files, whereupon my boss says to check in the pile of yet to be filed files and her boss bitches about the lack of filing. And my boss (who told me not to return the files and said that she would bring the filing up to speed) says that I’ve just been really busy, so that I haven’t had a chance to get to it yet. Clearly I was to blame. Oh. My. God.
And even when she was talking about how much weight she wants to lose and made a comment to the effect of “you know, when you’re sitting down and you have that little roll over the top of your jeans?” I could’ve said, “no, I do not know which roll you are referring to, because I am in really good physical shape, so I cannot collaborate with you in this particular instance... you ass hat”. But I didn't, because I have some modicum of what, decency? niceness? class?
So to sum up: my hair has roots and I am one mickey of Silent Sam away from looking like I should reside in a trailer park; I clearly do not know the boundaries of appropriate office dress (this from a woman whose hair is unwashed as often as it is clean and whose own wardrobe is as resplendent with as many chords, jeans and t-shirts as is mine, and who wore the same hoodie at least twice this week and is wearing running shoes today); my filing skills are suspect; and bus drivers think I am ugly. And the real kicker is that somehow, she is my boss and I cannot tell her -when her phone rings for the umpteenth time today and it is her other cougar friend calling from Mexico to tell her how much she hates her husband and how she threw a high heeled pump at him – hitting him in the head – and how is it that he incites her to such anger that she would actually throw a shoe at her and oh yeah, her son is sick too and should she take him to the hospital or just wait it out a little longer - to kindly shut her cake hole and that she is the most neurotic has-been that I have ever encountered in my life, which is infinitely more rich and healthy and full than hers.
I have resisted from dissecting my work life on my blog for the longest time, but today… today is apparently a special day. Maybe I am tired from working the extra day a week and have less patience. Possibly I am irritated that I allowed her to get under my skin more than normal today. And I suppose that, deep down, I should pity her because she is married to a man that she appears to despise and her children seem to get in the way of her binge drinking, and she likely looks at me and wishes she was 10 years younger and forty pounds lighter, but I can’t. She is a fuck nut. So I need to remember that I am okay too. I caused a man driving down Granville to scream “Hey, can I get your number?”. I was at a house party where an attractive (and sober) gentleman serenaded me with “You’ve Lost that Lovin’ Feeling”. A girl hit on me once. A Tim Horton’s employee gave me five timbits, when I had only asked for two. A Trees Coffee employee told me that it would be better if I stayed to have my coffee instead of taking it to go. A bike courier chatted me up in the elevator (why did I not get his number??). A guy smiled at me on Howe Street once and I almost walked into a bus. Yeah. That’s the ticket! You know what? Roots or no roots I think I’m going to go out and get myself a coffee. I may even sit down and read the paper and check out the wildlife. I just wish I was wearing my red shoes.

TPS reports

So the snow was scary last night. It was coming down so hard on my bus ride home that things got a little dicey. I kid you not; the wheels on the bus were spinning out a little. And you know, I think the bus driver was kind of having fun, because instead of easing into the various bus stops he would kind of slide into them. Dude, it’s a bus, not an ’87 Supra. And then heading up the hill into Kerrisdale I thought we might have to get out and push. I was thinking, “Hey man, I paid my discounted fare of $1.80. I am not pushing this bus”. But we didn’t have to, which was cool. I’m not a big fan of driving in the snow, so I don’t. It’s really safer for everyone involved: myself; my passengers; other drivers; pedestrians; trees and fences. And with this morning’s cold snap my living room window has frozen open. How the frick does that work? Talk about ironic! I leave the window open because my apartment gets so damn hot and I have no control over the heat, and now that it’s really NIPPY out there and I want to close it – I can’t!
I re-watched Office Space last night. Damn, that is one funny movie. I had forgotten just how good it was. Let me please recap the dialogue between Peter and Joanna:
Peter: Well see, they wrote all this bank software, and, uh, to save space, they used two digits for the date instead of four. So, like, 98 instead of 1998? Uh, so I go through these thousands of lines of code and, uh... it doesn't really matter. I uh, I don't like my job, and, uh, I don't think I'm gonna go anymore.
Joanna: You're just not gonna go?
Peter: Yeah.
Joanna: Won't you get fired?
Peter: I don't know, but I really don't like it, and, uh, I'm not gonna go.
Joanna: So you're gonna quit?
Peter: Nuh-uh. Not really. Uh... I'm just gonna stop going.
Joanna: When did you decide all that?
Peter: About an hour ago.
Joanna: Oh, really? About an hour ago... so you're gonna get another job?
Peter: I don't think I'd like another job.
Joanna: Well, what are you going to do about money and bills and...
Peter: You know, I've never really liked paying bills. I don't think I'm gonna do that, either.
Love it. LOVE IT. So that’s really the extent of it. Skidding through snow drifts with my bus driver Mario Andretti and re-watching movies from the ‘90s. It's good to be me... didn't you get the memo?

The curious incident of the Corolla t-boning the Subaru in the night

Last night I decided to go for a run outside. Yep, no more running on the treadmill like some kind of demented hamster for me (when do I get a food pellet??). I piled on a couple of shirts and my capri pants because it was, after all, a balmy two degrees and I exited into the dark and foreboding night. I was feeling pretty good, bopping along there in the dark, trying not to break my ankle missing a curb and doing a pretty good job of avoiding puddles. Traffic was relatively light so I didn’t have to wait to cross many of the major streets on my route. And the piece de resistance was that I wasn’t stalked and sexual harassed by a bunch of assholes in a Civic: score!
On my way back I was running up the little incline that leads to the intersection at 33rd and MacKenzie, surveying the traffic sidled up at the four way stop there. It can be a bit of a tricky one to cross, so I usually pay attention to it. As I look I see a Subaru starting into the intersection, going west on 33rd. Out of the corner of my eye I see a Corolla coming up MacKenzie, heading north. I anticipate the Corolla slowing down and stopping as it approaches the intersection, but then in a blur of movement I realize the Corolla isn’t slowing down. At all. I get a sickening feeling in my stomach and then I discern that what I think is about to happen won’t happen. I don’t have my glasses on, so maybe my depth perception is messed up. There’s no way that – CRASH! And that is how a Toyota Corolla goes from 40 or 50km per hour to zero in a millisecond. It was surreal. The silence that descended upon the intersection was almost palpable. I remember saying “Oh my god,” and then running into the middle of the intersection where the Corolla, that was the most badly damaged, had come to rest with the driver’s side of its hood caved in and steam ticking out of it. I balked, momentarily, afraid of what I might see when I looked into the car, but since I was one of the first people on the scene I went ahead. The driver of the Corolla looked like she was in shock. The only way I can describe it would be to say that her eyes were rolling around in her head. She did not know what had just happened. On the plus side (and thank god for this) everyone had been wearing their seatbelts so I didn’t see any blood. Other people were coming into the intersection now to help the people in the Corolla, and to move it off to the side, so I relegated myself to the sidewalk to watch. It was really quite horrifying. In my mind’s eye I kept seeing the Corolla sailing into the intersection and hearing the horrific crunch of two cars impacting each other. The driver of the Subaru was out of his vehicle and was obviously agitated, but was okay. Me and another lady gave him our numbers. Someone else called for help and within three or four minutes several emergency vehicles descended upon us. And so I decided to take my leave. Oddly, for the remaining five minutes of my run home I continued to hear sirens, leading me to believe that someone – likely the driver of the Corolla – was being taken to the hospital.
I was fairly shaken myself, experiencing some trepidation at crossing 41st and being unable to focus for a little while. I think everyone was okay. I hope everyone is okay. Again, thank god for seatbelts and for the concerned people that stopped to help at the site of the accident since I was pretty much useless.
It did get me thinking though: taking a first aid course might be a good New Year’s resolution. Teaching myself how to stay focused and calm in otherwise scary situations might also be more advantageous so I can do more than run around in little circles, wringing my hands and moaning, “oh my god” the next time I come across a high-stress situation.
And guys: please look both ways before you enter an intersection, whether you are driving or walking. If I had been one minute faster in my run last night, I would probably be dead. If the Subaru driver had looked both ways before entering the intersection, he might have been able to avoid the accident. Also, your parents say hello and want to know why you haven’t called lately…

In View

I really love the new Tragically Hip CD: World Container. Love it so much in fact, that I was quite upset to discover that I had left the CD in my car when I lent it to Michael. I tried to compensate with Day for Night, but I kept wanting to hear the new track “In View”, which kicks ass. When my car was returned to me I asked Michael if he had at least listened to the new album since a) he bought it for me for my 30th and b) it rocks and c) we got to see the Hip perform it on CBC’s The Hour, hosted by George Stroumboulopoulos (it was the closest I ever came to achieving multiple orgasms - key words have been bolded for those of you that don't know me). He said that no, he had not listened to it, which made me feel that it was all for naught. I’m not sure why I felt compelled to blog any of this, except that Gord Downie is damn sexy and I like the new look he is showcasing with his jaunty cap. So tall and wiry…
The weekend was a little more low key than most, coming down off that crazy Christmas/New Year’s high. There was no one to play UNO with, though N apparently hosts game nights (involving “light strategy”) which sounds like fun. Alas, she is off to Venezuela and other tourist friendly, politically stable and economically ports of call. N: plaster the Canadian flag everywhere! Hand out Hip CDs to the locals. Only smoke duMarier. Say “eh” a lot.
I watched Little Miss Sunshine at a friend’s house on Saturday night and gorged on chinese Food. I actually watched it twice because she pours large glasses of wine, and I was a bit buzzed the first time I watched. Yep, nothing like being half cut at 9pm on a Saturday night. The movie was good though, I definitely recommend. If I were to sum it up I would say it’s a movie about a family that is singly and jointly dysfunctional that pulls together to help a young girl achieve her naïve dream, while both protecting her innocence and fostering her individuality. In other words, my parents would totally hate it.
Sunday was P’s art show at the Whip, which Michael attended with me. And sat next to a couple of hotties. I think he was actually flirting with them, which was interesting to watch. He’s surprisingly good at it. Yeah. So, there was that… But we were there for P and for her art, which was fantastic as always. When she told me that she was doing silk screening I had visions of richly hued, asian inspired pieces in my mind. When she sent out a sample of her work I was caught off guard – she did warn me it would likely not be what I was expecting – and then I quickly took a shine to it. And bought two pieces. One of the hotties at the opening commented on P’s versatility, and I must say that one of the things that I enjoy about her work is that it is unexpected, and yet always engaging, interesting, thought provoking and enjoyable. Congratulations again, P: you rock!
So, I guess that about wraps it up. Except for the hour long phone call with my dad that degenerated rapidly into an argument about real estate (though he did phone back to apologize); the ten kilometers I ran to get in shape for my upcoming “challenge” with my good friend the Newfie pimp; my listening to the new Hip CD more than one would think is healthy; and almost hurling my laptop into traffic because I can’t figure out how to log on to the FREE internet at my local coffee shop (the fact that I was hooped up on a grande hazelnut latte did not help matters). It's hard to be a hep cat when your face is flushed livid red and you have managed to convince yourself that the harder you press down on the keyboard, the more your Dell will understand what exactly it is that you are trying to accomplish.

Cats eating my face

Is it sad that I was so excited to get home and watch NBC’s line up last night? I love The Office. Scrubs? Come on, who wouldn’t want to have geeky sex with Zach Braff? And by geeky I mean the kind of nerd-dom that comes with being on a hit sitcom and writing your own excellent movie. I wish I was a geek. This is all topped off by 30 Rock (which, being the retahd that I am, I just discovered stands for “30 Rockefeller”). But it’s cool, it’s cool. Walking along Arbutus on my way home last night I saw that White Spot and the Cheese were jammed (how lame is it that White Spot is the place to be in Kerrisdale?) because it’s a Thursday night and those with lives go out on Thursday nights. If you were in either of those fine establishments then yes, I was the lonely looking girl whose breath misted the window and she forlornly peered in. All good, all good. I had my fried egg sandwich and NBC to look forward to. After my sandwich (which was stellar, thank you) I decided to call my mom. I mean, a mom’s love in unconditional, no? But yeah, she was watching Diet Confidential on CBC so she didn’t really want to chat. So pretty much I’m going to die alone and my fourteen cats are going to eat my face.
Okay! Enough with the pity-party. Here are some of the good things that happened yesterday that I failed to mention:
• I did not scissor kick my boss in the back of the head
• I ate two cookies after I brushed my teeth
• The checkout clerk at Safeway was really, super sweet to me. I think she was touched in the head
• I trimmed my toenails which were getting so long that they would likely be deemed a security risk if I tried to board a flight to anywhere
So in all reality, I really do have it going on. And I’m not alone in thinking this! This morning a hot guy sidled up very close to me on the bus. I’m quite sure it had nothing to do with the fact that we were crammed in tighter than what would seem humanly possible without ending up on some weird reality show that centered around the oddities of public transit (JupiterGirl: we are totally going to make that documentary!). No, I’m quite sure it was a mixture of my winning personality which is easily deduced by carefully studying the way I don’t smile – or even look – at anyone, ever, and my effervescent scent: an exotic mixture of 5th Avenue and traces of pot. Note to self: don’t smoke pot in the bedroom when the closet doors are open. I’m sure also that my wicked sense of humor was adequately evidenced when I laughed out loud at the person that didn’t exit the bus fast enough and so was carried against their will over the Granville Street bridge when they really had deigned to get off at 5th Ave. Sucker. I wonder how many cats they have…

Grandfather (in-law) kisses

So this relationship hiatus thing, yeah… it makes for some unclear boundaries and expectations. I picked Michael up from the airport last night when he came in from Penticton. The first bit of weirdness occurred when he walked right past me and it took me a couple of moments to recognize him. He looked good. His hair was all blonde and curly and he had on a new black leather jacket which made him look pretty hot, and rendered him virtually unrecognizable (to me, apparently). So I say hey and comes over and then we do the awkward “should we hug, kiss or shakes hands thing”. He goes in for the kiss and I do the happyfuntime intimacy avoidance dance that I’ve become somewhat adept at over the past two years in trying to avoid my grandfather in-law’s kisses. Hey, friends of mine out there? I will hug you. I will not kiss you. Okay, maybe there’s a couple of friends that I would like to slip the tongue to. You know who you are. Jupitergirl, you old dog…. Kidding. Where was I? Right. So he says nothing about my nose being pierced for a good ten minutes while we chatted and waited for his luggage. This means that he doesn’t like it. That’s okay, because he has FUBU socks and I really don’t like them. FUBU, do they still even make that shit? We catch up a bit on the events that transpired over Christmas and New Years and then we head back to my place to exchange gifts. I must admit I was feeling a bit nervous and out of sorts in his presence: I hadn’t seen him in a couple of weeks. It was quite a strange juxtaposition of emotions: on the one hand I was feeling a bit awkward, somewhat like one does on a first date; on the other hand we’re opening presents from his family that are addressed to me and him and talking in an intimate way about family, friends and work. There’s six years of history there, which can’t really be denied. Though sometimes I try to suppress it with wine.
After a couple of hours he decided he was going to head out and then he goes to hug me, whereas at this point I wanted to kiss him. And then I get the grandfather type kiss from him that I seek to avoid from my actual grandfather-in-law. I’m not sure whether to blame my reaction on my many neuroses or the fact that the most intimacy I’ve encountered recently was the gentleman that fondled my left nostril, but I wanted more. I wanted to be wanted. Yes, stroke my ego! And other things! I felt a bit bereft and rejected when he left, though certainly a steamy make out session would have done little to help us determine our true feelings during this time of separation.
I guess it’s more than fair to say that I am confused. There are lots of strands in old Duder’s head, man. Ah. Such is life.
In other, late breaking news: I’m only on day two of my four consecutive work days in a row and I’m exhausted! How do people do this? I may call in sick tomorrow. Though I did see a preview of my new paycheque and I must say it feels nice to be living just above the poverty level now. No more cat food sandwiches for this kid!

A perpetual state of UNO

So I believe I left off resolving to party hard given that I will be going to four days a week this month. And party hard I did. Let me fill you in on my first taste of the UFC. Now, I will preface this by saying that I really had no desire to watch this pay per view debacle at Darby's, yet my friends Jupitergirl and C are both staunch advocates of this sport and for the most part I tend to respect their views and decisions. So I hop the bus down to Darby's and, as I walk towards the entrance I see it: Nirvana. It was a bar entirely filled with attractive men in their twenties and thirties. Like, entirely filled. I didn't see any women. And while I was excited that I had found the hiding spot of all the attractive men in our fine city, I was unprepared to walk in alone. After confirming that C was there, I entered this delicious den of iniquity and saw men strewn everywhere like so much confetti; they were draped over the bar and sitting on the floor. Oh happy day. Then the UFC matches started, and I must admit that I had prejudged the sport: it was not as violent as I had anticipated (though Jupitergirl advised me that it normally is more bloody), and it was very well refereed. I wasn't paying as much attention as I could have though, because I was engaged in some furtive eye flirting with a cute guy across the bar. In retrospect, this attraction was probably all in my head and the guy probably thought I had some kind of weird eyeball palsy. And then he left. C later admonished that I need to actually make an attempt to talk to members of the opposite sex and, though I did not state it at the time (thank you, alcohol, for robbing me of this most excellent retort) I would like to say that no, when there are 15 men for every one woman, they can come to me. Yeah, that's right: flock to me.
The next day I decided that nothing brings a year to a close like having a needle stuck through your left nostril, so I went to get my nose pierced. I've been contemplating it for a few years and, since I didn't have any homework to worry about (!) I decided to get 'er done. I arrived and lo and behold if attractive men don't just turn up in all sorts of places. Yes, the guy that was going to mutilate my nose was quite hot. I'm not sure if it was the gentle way he applied the iodine to my nostril, or if it was the infinitely patient way he said that if I didn't like where he had placed the dot to mark where the piercing would go he would rather move it a hundred times than get it wrong. It could have been the sleeved out tatties or the curious way in which he had buttoned his shirt to the very top. Or possibly the tight jeans. In no time at all I was flat on my back. This was mostly because he told me to lie down on the table. And also cause I was still kind of tired from the night before. The piercing went smoothly, and then he took a very long time to tenderly and carefully clean off all of the iodine, his cute face scant inches from mine. As I was telling P and Big D on New Year's: "I really need...".
And then it was New Year's Eve. Jupitergirl, P and Big D came over to ring in the New Year and play games with me. Oh sure, everyone was a little leery of playing UNO, but then for the next hour the only things said were: back to you; pick up four; you suck; skip a turn; I'm going to burn your house down; ever had tabby?; it's yellow!
We counted down the final seconds of 2006, wondrous as it was, and then raised our glasses to herald in the new year. Six seconds later I said, "Well that was anticlimactic". Such good timing. And was it anticlimactic? I don't know. It was great to be with my friends for the evening, and yet where did 2006 leave me? I finished school, but I don't have a sense of closure. I am going up to four days a week at work after just turning down another job that would've looked great on my resume and paid more, but was located in White Rock. My six year relationship is in limbo. But that was last year! That was so 2006. I do believe that 2007 will help me achieve a state of constant UNO: I know where to find cute boys when a UFC match is on, and my nose jewellery may be a valuable conversation starter. Or it may somehow get caught on my scarf. The world is my oyster!