Air + Loverboy = transition perfection.

NOTE:
I wrote this on Dec. 22, but am only now publishing it. So there.

Well, even though I'm at work, I consider the holidays officially begun! Last night T and I opened our gifts in celebration of the solstice and danced naked around the fir trees. Well, not really the last part but we did eat vegetable lasagna and watch Charlie Brown Christmas. The reindeer at the top of our winter tree was appeased by our seasoned joy or something to that effect.




Mmmm, presents.

Today, I shall mark time at my shortened work day by eating chocolate and thinking about how I should stop eating chocolate and then a train will whisk T and I away to my home town of Special K- Kitchener, Ontario. Home to: the second biggest Oktoberfest outside of Germany, a lot of deserted factories, a lot of crazy people, the inventor of and company for the dreaded Blackberry and a handful of womanizing quantum physicists. Oh yes indeed.

I am looking forward to it. Seeing my peeps(family) and peeping my props(not working). I am going to force T to watch Sound of Music with me. He thinks he can escape but he is mistaken! He will be singing yodlelay-hee-hoo before he knows it or can help it.

Can I please give myself a pat on the back for one of the best transitions on a mix cd ever? This will be a spoiler to my sister so Kris don't read this paragraph before christmas. So anyway, I start the cd of with some solid, vibrating energy goodness. Some homegrown stuff, this CD is mostly about Montreal and me so Arcade Fire, Malajube, Stars... Eventually I bring it down a bit for a few songs, the last of which is Run by Air and here is the great transition part: I wanted to do a quick mood change after the mellow out, bring things back to life after the beautiful, hypnotic Air some WHAMMY- Loverboy. Oh ya! Workin' for the Weekend. That's right and it is SOOOO sweet! Canada-love, 80's style. You don't believe me? I will send you the cd comp at your request and you will hear the perfectness of the transition yourself, and you will become a better person for it.

I hope you enjoy the hell out of the holidays and rock till your block has a hole in it's sock!

Merry holidays y'all.

my future ghost bakes cookies

Tonight, I shall eat a potato. Oh yes. Don't even try to stop me. There is just one lonely potato left. I shall microwave him because it's fun even though it makes the potato kind of spongy but potatoes are so good it barely matters and I shall mash it up with the left over canned peas and he will be king. I will eat the king. Tonight, tonight.

T is going to be all engineery tonight so I get to dine alone. Which I like because I can eat whatever small, weird bits I want instead of a normal, full dinner needed by metabolism-of-fire man.

So I have this interesting new manifestation of stress wherein my entire face is trying to scrunch up somewhere in the corner of my jaw. I can literally feel my shoulder and ear being pulled into my jaw! What in the hell? C'MON! Flying fuckballs from planet shittyshit! The only thing that relieves it is pressing really, really hard where my skull turns into my neck. That's okay, it looks perfectly normal to walk around with my thumb dug deep into the back of my head.

I bought some herbal tea from czarfucks thinking maybe that would help because...i don't know why. maybe I just wanted some. So I chose orangetastic-zinglicious-energygasmic-choo-choo of taste, flavour. I poured it into a glass to cool it off back here at my slave desk. Looks like a big glass of man pee. Almost orange, it's so piss-concentrated. Know what I mean? Why does guy pee look like that? So of course, all I can think about is how much it must taste like what a big glass of hot, steaming, fresh from the bladder man pee must taste like. Want some?

Christmas is coming and the goose IS getting fat. By goose I mean me and by fat I mean freaked. It's just all happening way to quick! All the snow disappeared a couple of weeks ago and there's just no time to relax on the couch in my pajamas watching my slave monkey wrap presents while my ghost(ya, that's right, my very own time-travelling, future ghost-me) bakes ginger and molasses cookies in my kitchen.

Instead, I'm at work, trying to unhinge my shoulder from my ear and finish off my steaming glass of pee while the snowless clouds hover over the skyscrapers of Montreal.

Since the boobwomen office next door moved out, I wonder if I could sneak around some corner and have a little nap on the plush carpet out in the shared hall. So quiet and boobless out there now. Maybe just hide out in the stairwell for a bit and relax. No one EVER uses the stairs here. Ever. By the way, I have seen four elevator factories in my life and they were all one-story.

Put that in your craw and smoke it.

...for it is a human number; it's number, is six-hundred and sixty-six.

Queer eye for Santa.

Please note: I apologize for the mish-mash of tenses used in this recounting of my tale. I wrote it in a hurry and I'm too lazy to edit.

Friday afternoon I had a secret adventure on the mystery floor. Me and Scoob were scared at first....

I had to go to the silent floor at work. The second floor which can only be accessed by a special, magical elevator -it's true, it has a hidden button on it that you have to know where to press.

It's the floor of big wooden locked doors and silence. I've never come across anyone except the occasional janitorial staff member. It's where the old file storage room is for where I work. I go down with my dolly full of boxes to put in our locked room. Right away I notice that one of the other doors is wide open. I can see big windows over-looking the street and tables with balloons and a christmas tree. The lights are off and it's quiet. I throw all the stuff I need to into our storage room, leave the dolly in the hall in case I need to make a quick getaway, and tip-toe up to the open door.

I put my head in and look around. It's huge! Like a big ballroom but scattered with remnants of what looks like a kids party. Balloons, markers, jingle bells. I take some tentative steps in. I formulate the excuse of just losing my way if someone is inside asking me who I am.

On the walls, are a number of dark, faded paintings of priests and cardinals. Must belong to the church that's beside the building.

To the left is a wall with windows and an archway into another room with old 50's style couches arranged like a waiting room. Through the windows I can see there is also another door, a hallway to the right and another archway to the left. I go in. The left archway leads to a set of stairs down and what looks like a tiny lobby. I can hear Elton John music playing at the bottom.(Still Standing is the song.) I try to visualize the outside of the building but I can't think of what in the hell it could be down there. There is a central lobby with elevators in the middle of the building that everyone has to take and nothing else, or so I thought. I guess, the secret elevator brings one to the secret floor with the secret rooms and the secret lobby.

I am momentarily tempted to go down the stairs but figure I'm pushing my luck with that idea. I go down the hall to the right. All the while I'm thinking, " Souvenir. Need to get some kind of souvenir."

I pass a coat room, then onto the bathrooms. HAH! Perfect excuse to be in here. "I was just looking for a bathroom!"

I try them out. They look kind of like the ones on all the other floors except way less fancy. No marble counter top and really bad toilet paper. Just like a religious bathroom should be.

There are a few more closed doors in the hallway which I sneak past. I don't want to walk in on any creepy church stuff going on behind closed doors.

Back into the ballroom and I see at the other end is an entrance to a very dark kitchen. I figure I'm going to get caught any second and am starting to feel a little panicky but I HAVE to go into the kitchen. Again, it's gigantic. Big silver fridge, dishwashing station, stoves, middle island with shelves, shelves, shelves everywhere. Just like a restaraunt kitchen. I decide I have to economize my snooping and just pick areas of particular interest.

Nothing in the fridge. Big freezer has hotdog buns, little butters and ice cream. I picture myself sitting on the counter, eating straight out of the ice cream carton in the dark with a plastic spoon and the flick of the light switch as I'm caught. Instead, I grab a herbal tea bag (orange flavor) as my memento and decide I've tempted fate long enough. I hurry for the door but not without noticing a drawing tacked up on a board, amongst others, near the christmas tree. In a split second I know my real souvenir will be nabbing that drawing. I know also that I cannot steal an innocent child's christmas drawing so, I know that I will have to scan it and bring it back, pushing the limits of sneaking boundaries not once, but twice!

Just as I'm leaving I hear the elevator ding. I run to my dolly to look like I am doing important business and head for the hills. A tired looking girl pushes a cart full of bags of chips and plastic plates past me without even casting a glance in my direction.

So I go back upstairs. I scan the picture, grab another box as an excuse to go back to the storage room. I was hoping the door to the ballroom would be closed so I could just slide the drawing under the door all anonymous-like, but the girl was still there. I hung out in the storage room trying to think of a good excuse to walk in and put the picture back on the board. Do I do it without a word and leave her guessing? Do I pretend I found it on the floor? Do I tell the truth? As I'm trying to decide, she walks past and I hear the ding of the elevator again. She's gone and the door is still open. Luck out! I pin that sucker back up and consider it all a job well done.

And after all this, I must say I am pleased with my find. Check out this wicked drawing of Santa Claus. The artist's take on Santa seems to be that he is a slim, stylish santa (note the work casual pocket details on his suit and fetching,low slung belt with urban purple accents on the sleeves.). Look at the great stance he's got. So rakish!
I also love how he is not saying Ho ho ho. He's THINKING Oh oh ho ho. I hear it in an exaggerated lispy, gay man caricature voice in my head. "Oh oh ho ho people. Sthanta Claus is in the house!" Someone yells, "Work it girlfriend!" in the background. I just know there is a Prada wallet or something designer in that present box he's holding.


Ah yes. SO this is what goes on in secret church ballrooms on hidden floors in office buildings. Children get together, play with balloons, eat hot dog buns and ice cream and draw pictures of gay Santa Claus. Well alright! Mystery solved.

Too much information

Feeling better. Always the peak of emotional maelstrom the day before the period. Menstroooation.

I had a cathartic epiphany last night brought on by a film. Shall I tell you which film? I guess. Shortbus. I thought it would be a cutesy, showy, "oh look at us urban people" movie but it was really really good. There was subplot of a depressed man who could process, intellectually, that he had an awesome boyfriend who loved him like crazy and he loved him back and he knew he was lucky but thought he would never be able to really feel it, emotionally. Like really feel it and feel the happiness. I was crying, crying , crying. I empathised, but it also snapped the elastic in my head. I's the same situation that happens to people all the time when given advice they know is true but can't really feel it until that moment when it clicks..the whipcrack moment when you finally get it.

Anyway, the movie made me crack open the desire I had to FEEL that some battles are best not fought. Happiness is more important than being perfect and right. If a battle, no matter how just, seeps into your happiness like poison you can and should walk away. Joyfully. Laughing as you wave your white flag. Gleefully flinging the money in the robbers face, giving him his ill-gotten gains that he can rot with if it releases you to be free and happy. etc. I'm not talking about hedonism; thoughtless, immorral, selfish pleasure seeking. I'm not saying abandon all responsibility...you know what I mean. I saw all those sad people in the film, trying so hard and not seeing. I do that too much. I have so much that I keep myself from being able to enjoy. I don't want to do that.

Let's see how long it lasts. It's in print now, so you hold me to it!

On a lighter or icky, depending on wether you are a mucklewhite or not, note:

I am usually wholly prepared for my period. This month, I completely lost track of where I was in the month. I use the Keeper, which I love, but I have been caught without it today- much to my horror.

I had to borrow a tampon and was given 2. The first one was perumed fer christsake! Disgusting. I threw it out and decided to just wait a while. When I decided to give the second a look, I wasn't sure about it either. It was in a plastic applicator and had this faint perfumey smell. Was it the applicator, was it the tampon? Then I realize, sitting there in the stall, that I have a tampon shoved up to my nostril and I'm sniffing it furiously like a rabbit sniffing out danger. Then I realize that i'm sitting in a toilet stall, with a tampon shoved up to one nostril, laughing like a maniac. I mentioned to T that I'd rather just bleed down my leg then go back to those evil, chemically bastards. Maybe I'll try that declaration out today.

A big bucket for the vomit.

It's barely 9am. So far:
-Reading on the train, a novel so sad. Feeling it like it's happening.
-A contened looking man, absorbed by his muffin, on his way down the escalator.
-Tiny, tiny raindrops, barely visible, melting all the snow.
-A bright, new, red leather chair through the window, in the empty lobby of a street level office.
-A woman, working alone in a currency exchange depot, staring at her Starbucks take-out cup.
-My own peacock blue gloves glowing in my periphery vision against the grey of everything else.
-An exchanged glance of weariness while waiting for the elevator going up.


What a shitty week. All because of one stupid thing. I shan't elaborate. I won't even hint at the nature of it as my new strategy, on which I am working hard, is to just let it go. I'm not very good at that. Each daily injustice, of which there are many, wether it be personal or global, tiny or grand, burns me. Flaming, flaming fire of injustice and I just keep thinking that there is some way! I need to let it go. It's the balance. Knowing when to fight and how much. I can't become apathetic or timid which is impossible for me. I must learn to balance the fight with life. Think of good ole Kenny singing it in your head: " You got to know when to hold'em, know when to fold'em."
Damn straight. Who wrote that for real? Surely not Kenny Rogers. My dad would know. Must make a point to ask.

Can you read between the lines?-the fire that is burning through, almost to my finger tips. Wanting to lament, lament, lament and counter all my efforts. "Lies!" my fingers want to type. "Never give up! Destroy yourself before giving in!Injustice!Injustice!, Injustice!". I need poison control. I know when to fold'em I just can't make my brain beleive me.

I think I just don't drink enough. Booze is the answer! Maybe I'll start drinking at work. A big bottle of hooch on my desk and a big bucket for the vomit.

ill-ustrated

Small note: I claim to have drawn the following in purple ink and that is true but the colour scan at works sucks ass so it is in black and white and that's that my friend.





P.S. I wasted HOURS of vluable work time doing this. HOURS!