Moist and tender.

If you've kept up with my blog (and thank-you for that if you have), you may have noticed a trend for certain things to happen once every month. Usually, around pms time I write a blog that's dripping with deathly desolation, then write a blog about almost getting into a fistfight or some other altercation, then I cut my own hair. (Maybe Britney just has really bad PMS now that I think of it).

Thankfully, I have not shaved my head, but this months DIY haircut has turned out not too bad. I'm lucky that I don't mind having mental patient hair. I pushed my last hairstylist in Toronto to the point of getting really upset when I asked for more "trucker" in my layers. He said he just wasn't comfortable pushing it so far as for it to be beyond ironic and instead, firmly in the territory of just plain, god-awful. So I went elsewhere and he was right-it turned out god-awful but I'd rather that than soccer mom. I digress however...

This time, I simply figured I'd snip a few layers framing my face as my bob has grown long and boring. It turned out alright. I noticed, while brushing my teeth, that if I were to flip the layers out, I could look just like Linda Evans à la Dynasty. Not that I'd want to but still, interesting to note. At first, right after I had cut it in the morning that i woke up late, refusing to go any further with my morning ablutions until the job was done, even if that meant going to work in my pajamas, I thought: "OH no! I've given myself a DIY Davy Jones! I look the same as if I were a teenage kid in the late 60's who thought he could cut his own hair like Davy Jones to get more chicks but instead will have to wear a toque like Michael Nesmith to cover it up." But turned out, it wasn't all that bad. Actually, if the rest of my hair was much longer, it would totally be Bruce Dickisonesque.

That is my new goal by the way. Be more like Bruce Dickinson. I will ask myself, "What would Bruce Dickinson do?", each time I have a dilemna or trouble choosing an item off the menu at a restaraunt or whatever. "What would Bruce Dickinson have for dinner tonight?"

I used to consult Dee Snider. Obviously, that got me nowhere.

Ah yes, time and energy devoted to describing my hair through pop-culture and then publishing it online as if anyone could possibly care! I feel a poem coming on...a rhyming one....

Uh, nope sorry. I guess I don't after all.

Oh wait!

Hair hair
care care
dare dare
bear bear
And then you die.

Great eh? So deep and delicious. Moist and tender.

boring pictures

Well, it's minus 5 degrees Celsius and somehow, that feels like spring. You wouldn't believe it from this picture of my "back yard" as the sun rose this morning. Lot's 'o' snow.


How many picture out my back door will I inundate you with, you ask? Plenty, I'm sure. I'm just always moved by its' loveliness.

While we are perusing photos, here's the view from the windows at work. If you look closely, you can see all the major landmarks in Montréal: Mount Royal, the Jacques-Cartier bridge crossing the St. Laurent and in the last one, far at the top left corner, all tiny, you can see the Olympic Tower. Oooh, full of touristy goodness.





Montréal, t'es tellement froide.

if you don't speak german and english...

I had a dream last night that will probably only be funny if you speak German, and maybe not even then.

I was sitting outside of the variety store near my parents house, reading some Russian gossip magazines. Instead of photos of beautiful actors at parties and stuff, they were full of stereotypical Russian housekeeping women named Olga or whatever who looked like they could beat up a bear with one hand. Mostly pictures of them in their communist-issue, block-apartment-kitchens, plucking chickens and making vodka soup or what have you. Anyway, one article had a shot of one of these scary-ass type women walking down a nice looking, European street. The headline was about how this woman, who had kidnapped a figure skater, was now free and living as a citizen in Germany.

Now here is the part that's maybe funny if you speak German. My knowledge of German is less than rudimentary. I don't know the word for citizen so my brain made one up for this headline. "Kidnapper of Figure Skater Now a Freiwiehler in Germany."

So, small German lesson here, Frei means free or freedom. Wiehler means nothing as far as I know but with German pronunciation it sounds like Veeler or Wheeler. So the German word for citizen that I made up is a mix of German/German pronunciation of English that essentially equals freewheeler. Ah man, it's so layered. I think only my sister, mother and father will understand why this is funny...

Velveetatine's Day

I look so good in red. Happy vaselintines day. "Wah wah bitch bitch i hate valentines day it's commercial blah cry cry". Ah c'mon. What's so awful about everything being red and buying chocolate and flowers? If you're single, you buy chocolate and flowers for yourself and then go home and cyber-stalk someone. If your mate thinks valentine's is dumb or refuses to participate on principal, then they are probably boring jerks and you should send a valentine to someone more interesting. "Mwah, but I don't like feeling forced to express my feelings in chocolate heart form!" Pack it chump! It's just for fun! GAWD!
Who am I arguing with? I have already purchased sugary delights for this evening. I bought them this morning before work at a popular patisserie and there was nearly a war breaking out amongst customers. Beligerently eyeing each other lest someone make a move for the last "La Suisse" or "Tout Chocolat". Well screw those losers. They will not break my blood engorged heart throbbing at the control of my holiday spirit. I seriously don't know what the hell I'm going on about.

Any excuse to be celebrant works for me. Kneecap appreciation day. Powdered soy milk week. Phillips Head #4 annual Hoedown. It's all worthy cause to make a card and eat some cake. Simple as that.

time for a new work toothbrush

When I brush my teeth using my work toothbrush, should it taste like I'm eating some TUMS that have been loosely stored between the mouldy pages of a 1972 issue of Good Housekeeping magazine that's been sitting in a disused pigeon coop? Just wondering.

Today, on my way to work after seeing the doctor, my bus was stopped as it could go no further past all the firetrucks assembled on the downtown street. the sky was filling up with violently pluming, shooting smoke. From what I could surmise, something had caught fire in the back of a restaurant. Then to the left of where I was standing, some fire hoses became disconnected and started whipping about, jetting water at everyone. The firemen and policemen all doing a snake charming dance to get it under control and everyone pointing their phones at it to take pictures. Probably the highlight of every one's week except for the restaurant owners and the people who lived beside it. Ah yes. Human drama.

Attack of the killer of death

I am obsessed, obsessed I tell you, with peas in their pods. I can't stop eating them, I love them. Precious, perky little peas in their smooth, juicy, firm pods. So green, so earthy sweet. Pea pods peas, I betroth my broth of Beowulf to thee. I breaketh my brethren in thy honour.

This just in, bought a pillow, returned a pillow, got a different one, probably won't like that one either. SO hard to please (except when it comes to sweet, sweet peas).

On the other side of the coin. I have just about had it with those little mini carrots. Carrots, you bore me. I've had enough of you, it's over! Maybe I'll call you in a month. I might see a bugs bunny cartoon and get a craving but don't hold your carrot breath!

Potatoes.

So, I'm real busy here at work. I've perused websites that suited my particular fancy, exchanged a pillow and allowed an overly made-up representative of M.A.C. to find the right shade of eyeshadow to bring out the green in my eyes(Didn't work, it was this bright coppery pink-if you can imagine. My eyes looked hella green but my eyelids looked like the skin of some sunburned, sparkle-scaled, alien lizard. Uh, I'm re-reading Restaurant at the End of the Universe. I guess that's where the alien reference comes in. Notice how I had to mention that I was RE-reading it so you didn't mistake me for reading it for the first time at age 33. God forbid you should think I was behind in my geek-chic culture consumption. What was my original point?).

Belt=selling of the soul?

Uh..so anyway, yesterday saw me feeling the coffin lid closing on my dreams of one day being able to devote my time to creative pursuits. Perhaps one day, perhaps. Meanwhile, back in the now it is cold like one would expect of Montréal at the dawn of February. -11 everyday this week. -21 with the windchill. Aint' no foolin' around with those temperatures.

So I am here, surrounded by croissant crumbs and powdered sugar from these excellent,homemade,Lebanese, fig cookies. I was on a no-sugar or wheat regime but fuck man, it's -11 degrees Celsius and I haven't lost any weight or become any less bloated after a MONTH of doing it so up yours! I walk around everyday with what feels like some sort of evil balloon that has been given a soul whose main purpose is to expand inside of my middle and just keep growing until I explode. And it doesn't matter what I eat because it feeds on rage! I can eat nothing at all and it would continue it's mission to inflate me to death

Elsewhere, on the exciting-news-of-my-daily-life front, I went to a new dentist yesterday who gave me an enlightening exam. She gave me a mirror to watch and showed me all my cavities and how to recognize them. Floss ladies and gentlemens, floss. I know it now, but if only I had believed in my youth. Floss.

I also am on a new kick whereby I sport a belt around my waist as decoration. T and I had a real discussion about it on the weekend. He was wary of this unusual custom.
"But a belt is meant for holding up pants? Why wear it up so high?"
"I'm wearing it at my waist. It's where a belt is meant to go."
"That's not your waist. Your waist is down there."
"Those sir, are my hips."
I had to find "waist" on wikipedia to prove to him that it was in fact located above the belly button. Sometimes I wonder what goes on in a Quebec person's youth....
Granted, I never wear pants around my waist and therefore haven't used a belt up that high in a pants-related sense but I felt like trying something new. Throwing a belt around my waist just to show I had one for a change - Not the most radical idea to hit the fashion scene but it completely stumped T. He just could not accept, without a great suspicion something was awry, that I would wear a belt for a purpose other than to hold up my pants. Maybe he's right...This whole business of accessories. Truthfully, I think he couldn't be more wrong. Never met a man so convinced that accessory was a shortcut to mindless, moral decrepitude. I am slowly showing him that to accessorize is not always to hand one's brain on a platter to the corporate, capitalist devils.

Shut-up and coast.(Warning: Highly negative attitude herein.)

Today is agonizing. It just is. Just the sort of day where you can't even believe you have to keep moving one foot after the other, carrying your thousand tonne body to work. Every step you think, why? then why? then why? Why do I keep propelling myself forward to that which destroys me? Why don't I just lay down here, in the middle of the walkway and go to sleep and maybe someone can just drag me out of the way. Why? they will ask. Or maybe they will already know.

Perhaps I am just weak. None of that hardy, working spirit. My job isn't difficult. It's just soooooo far away from what I wish I was doing and wonder if I'll ever be able to do. Soooooo faaaaar away. I am on Mars and the life I want is freezing and icing into oblivion on Pluto, not even a planet anymore. My life is on a rock formerly known as a planet, now stripped of it's title and cast outside of the circle of the other planets that obey the rules.

Cram it down and wait. Cram it inside as far as possible so that it's signal is nearly muted and deaden your senses and coast. Try not to hope because it opens the wound. Just shut-up and coast.

syrupy indeed

So I am back at work, still sick mind you, but a gal's gotta make a living. I am fascinated by my cough syrup. I tend to be stoic about cold and flu symptoms during the day(by stoic I mean I complain and act all wimpy). I usually take something at night if it's unbearable but I have this Germanic notion that to get rid of the cold more quick, you have to bear the symptoms cold turkey. Not really based on any scientific research I've done or anything...

This time around, I decided to give cough syrup a whirl. By gosh, it's stops me from coughing! Huh! Makes my ears stop feeling like they will explode outward also. Who knew? However, it also turns me into a super-focused zombie. Like, I can stay awake but if I blink too long, I start dreaming. Close my eyes for 2 seconds and I'll be out cold. Which is actually pretty cool. I"m sure there is abuse of this drug. Didn't know it was so sedative. Mmmmmm, sedative......

After a long wait and then getting it and having to wait again while it got re sized, I have a ring which denotes that T and I are now super-twins! It's our version of engagement rings. For both of us dammit! Not really being a diamond girl myself and preferring to eat and pay rent as opposed to sporting some expensive ring on my finger, we chose to both get matching silver bands.Simple as it sounds, it took us months to find what we were looking for. Boring to hear about I'm sure, but I feel swell about it. I love that T and I have an exact match in our ratio of romanticism versus pragmatism. I think matching that ratio is hugely important in a relationship. A person's individual ratio can be so nonsensical and irrational but having someone share the same balance...do you know what I mean?

Wait a second. I'm coughing and I just took that damn syrup less than an hour ago! Still spaced but coughing. What a rip!