06.26.09

Dude. [Sheepish] Update

Posted in Meh, Reno saga at 7:50 pm by jeci

Life is kicking my ass right now. I…I wish that I had some stunning “after” pictures indicating our triumphant completion of the renovations and unpacking, but no. Things don’t look especially different from the last set of pictures. There are still boxes everywhere, only now the boxes have disheartening tufts of cat hair collecting around their bases. In short, everything is a mess.

It’s not for lack of trying, you see. We unpack. Constantly. AND YET. The boxes, with all the boxes, with all the stuff, everywhere. I also make dispirited attempts to quell the cat hair with the vacuum, but it never fails that just as I turn the machine off, a new cat hair tumbleweed will come billowing out of some corner I couldn’t reach. ON ACCOUNT OF ALL THE BOXES.

If there’s one thing that will crush my spirit, it’s actions with no countering measurable outcomes. This is what the unpacking has become. Someone (JG!) very aptly compared moving into an apartment to those tile games that have the one missing tile. You know the ones, where you have to move a bunch of tiles out of the way in order to put one tile in its right place. But this creates a cascade of tile moving and shuffling and you end up having to remove that tile from where you put it in order to move around another two tiles, but then you can’t get that original tile BACK because there’s now FOUR tiles in its way. AND SO ON.

Well, anyway. I won’t keep you. I’m just saying. I’m not enjoying this. I know one day it’ll be done—probably quite soon, actually. (Ever notice how when you get to the point of being all “ZOMG I hate this and I can’t STAND IT ANYMORE and I’m so upset I’m going to COMPLAIN ABOUT IT to the INTERNET” it’s usually when you’re about to crest the hill, only you don’t realize it yet, mostly because you’re just feeling the whole lotta hill behind you.)

So, I’ll be seeing you soon, BBs. With pictures. AFTER PICTURES. Dammit.

**Nothing like whining publicly to light a fire under one’s ass. I…well, I never quite feel comfortable after I post about my frustration with something. Although it certainly helps me to vent (better living through sarcasm!), I’m not entirely sure it makes for the best read. But! Anyway! You wouldn’t believe how much better things are right now. We busted through the log jam of boxes and we’re getting close to living like normal humans again. I’m very excited! And—AND!—we scored a free futon for our spare bedroom! And—AND!—we found out that we were grossly misinformed about the cost of replacing our bathroom counter. Like, the lady we initially talked to must have taken a long, burbling hit off of her Home Depot bong before talking to us, because what we thought would cost, oh, $1000 plus change will ACTUALLY cost us $60. Sixty bucks. That’s it. That? We can afford. On with the renovations!

Anyway, it was a good weekend, a productive weekend, and it was AWESOME. And I’m feeling much better because, hey, I can walk from one of the spare bedroom to the other. Now, isn’t that something?

Life lessons learned from the last two months: a) Moving is hard. Use sparingly. (Starting…nnnnnnnnnnoooow.) b) Clutter: I can’t. I CAN’T. It makes me want to PEEL MY FACE OFF, but whether that’s before or after my stabbing spree, I can’t decide. In short, I need a clean, peaceful space and I need to STAY THERE.**

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06.02.09

Ta daaaa!

Posted in My Life Is Punctuated by Useless Bouts of Panic, Reno saga at 9:24 pm by jeci

Well, you’ve seen the before shots of the contentious spare bedroom and here we are, a few weeks later, annnnd:

Ta da! Just like in the design shows! (Sigh.)

Anyway, in the spirit of not curling up dispiritedly amidst the rubble of my belongings, let’s focus on the positives of the past week. First, a rather triumphant beginning to the bathroom renovations, with new tiles that look smashing and, even better, that didn’t involve our ripping down or putting up anything. The tiles before in, you guessed it, grimy beige:

And the tiles now, in gleaming white. And also aren’t they cool and funky all big and rectangular like that? Why, yes they are, if I do say so myself thankyouverymuch:

We also got the surround tiled all the way to the ceiling, which makes the room look bigger to a ridiculous degree. When we finally get to the point of putting up curtains*, I’m going to try to see what I can do to achieve something similar with extra long curtains that go to the ceiling or something.

As an aside, eagle-eyed readers will note that our tub is, like, the shallowest tub possible. We’d wanted to replace it with a soaker tub or, at least, a non-stunted tub that doesn’t look like the tub version of a creature missing a few chromosomes. Then we found out what was involved in getting a new tub: first RIPPING OUT THE WALLS (this is where they lost me, to be honest), next shutting off the water for the ENTIRE BUILDING, then cutting off pipes and sautering pipes, etc., etc., THEN putting in the new tub, and finally new walls and new tiles. HAHAHAHA. Not happening. Stunty, shallow tub it is! And that makes me sound more bitter than I actually am, since I’m basically too exhausted to be bitter and am quite simply pleased to be relieved of having to take on another project. I’ve also managed to retain a certain amount of rationality and that whole gong show just for the sake of an entirely unnecessary, (thoroughly and blatant) luxury item? It’s just laughable, really, up there with complaints along the lines of Chandler’s “My diamond shoes are too tight!”

Anyway, where was I? Positive things. The move that I was so dreading was, indeed, dreadful, and we were inevitably up until the wee hours of the morning frantically throwing things in boxes the way you always are the night before you move. All the same, the cats did cute things that warmed our cold heart cockles. For example, Logan took the time to demonstrate how bookshelves are better off sans books, since they make such nice, cozy sleeping nooks that way:

And all three cats made us feel loved by going to great lengths to ensure we wouldn’t leave without them, namely by climbing into our suitcases at every available opportunity (again modeled by Logan):

Finally, our friends and my tireless mother-in-law gave up their Sunday on the first day of perfect beach weather to help us haul furniture and boxes. And somehow our friends ended up with our camera and between the old place and the new place, they took the liberty of snapping pictures so that we would have surprise shots to ponder, successfully cracking my shit up. To wit:

And that’s all I can muster at this point, lambs. I’m off to bed because, weirdly enough, even though my life is upside down and rather squalid and chaotic right now, I still have to go do that whole job thing.

*Our current window treatments are garbage bags artfully tacked up with painter’s tape.

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05.26.09

Renos, Part 1 of, oh, probably 80

Posted in Reno saga at 10:31 pm by jeci

It turns out a highly effective cure for a fairly serious case of The Sads over having to move is to get yanked out of your malaise by a rip tide of DIY renovations on your new home. We took possession of our new place on the 15th (the same day, naturally, that we had house guests arriving from out of town, because isn’t that always the way?). And since roughly the moment our guests left until, well, just now, I/we have been scraping, spackling, repairing, priming, or painting something…with the exception of hauling things in and out, of course.

While this would seem the perfect place for some “Before and After” shots, what I can offer you are some “Before and What Things Look Like Right Now” shots. There were certain things that needed to be done before we could move in and, so long as all goes well, they should all be done sometime today. The rest, namely the bathroom renovations, but also a small number of fussy little things like, say, installing doorknobs or putting up baseboards have all been put on ice so that we can pack and, you know, MOVE IN. On Sunday. (Glack.) But first, indulge me in a brief word on the new digs?

The good:

We’re moving across False Creek, from Yaletown to Mount Pleasant. Another way of putting this is: We lead a charmed life and we’re moving from one awesome neighbourhood to another.

My 15 minute walking commute will be replaced by a 15 minute cycle commute that takes me along the sea wall. Ditto Kieran (see above re: charmed life).

We live right on the bike route.

We’re on the top floor and we have a stunning view of the Lions and the North Shore mountains. I would attach a photo, but unfortunately that’s not possible right now (see below).

We’ll have a nice roomy balcony again to enjoy said view.

There’s a sky light in the dining room that lets in an unbelievable amount of natural light.

We will have two (2) bedrooms. [Ed note: I am not pregnant. Please stop surreptitiously trying to eye my belly when I announce that. Thank you.] [You wouldn't believe how often I get that.] And two (2) bathrooms. Well, 1.5 bathrooms, if we’re going to be technical. This is the most space we’ll have had, like, ever.

The kitchen has already been nicely renovated and some rather lovely flooring was put in the kitchen, dining room, living room and hall. Which, in addition to making it a lovely space, might I add THANK GOD I DON’T HAVE TO DO IT. (So over renos.)

The bad(ish):

The balconies are under repair and the entire place is enshrouded in scaffolding, suffocating our stunning view. This situation will persist for a few months yet. It’s a bummer, but it’s actually a really good thing in terms of rain screening and other important, grown-up details one has to care about when one is getting a mortgage. And, also, the seller had to pay for the totally expensive repairs. Heh.

That’s pretty much it, actually.

The ugly: Picture time! I will stick to the areas we’ve tackled so far, namely the two bedrooms. First, and most contentious, is the spare bedroom. The drab, dreary, and grimy spare bedroom.

Grimy beige carpet, grimy beige wallpaper, and a grimy beige curtain. Beeeeeeige. I hate beige. Pardon the poor lighting, by the way—I’m not sure what happened with the flash. Anyhoo, Our plan was to tear down the wallpaper (Hahahahaha. HA. HA.), paint with a pretty colour, rip out the carpet, and put in flooring that matches the rest of the place.

Is the phrase “tear down the wallpaper” echoing in your head, perhaps hissed by a menacing voice that sounds suspiciously like a scary clown? Yes? Then I would say you have an accurate grasp of what tearing down wallpaper is like. In short, three days (or 40 hours) of three of us doing this:

And this:

I literally had nightmares (or at least weird, Sisyphean dreams) about it wherein I was ripping down wallpaper in a never ending room—wait, OR WAS THAT REALITY?—with recurring images such as this:

Annnnnd, I’m out of time. To be continued…

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05.12.09

Twentieth Time’s the Charm

Posted in Hmph, My Life Is Punctuated by Useless Bouts of Panic at 7:54 pm by jeci

First, the good news: we bought a condo. There are many things to be excited about—and you can’t tell, but I am actually excited, somewhere deep down—not the least of which is living in a space over 600 square feet for the first time in years. Thousands and thousands of years. OK, that’s obviously not true. But, you know, sometimes it feels like it when I see the cats literally walking backwards in order to get out of the way should I choose to exit the bathroom at just the right moment. What unimaginable luxury lies ahead of us: living in a space with enough room for a cat to turn around!

But I can’t right now. I can’t bring the excitement because I must gravely report the bad news: in order to occupy our new condo (perhaps you should sit down)…we are going to have to move. Remember this? And this? I can’t. I CAN’T.

I have mentioned before that I have a moving sickness that has, thus far, seen me switch homes 19 times, cities eight times, and provinces five times since I first moved out of my parents’ home 16 years ago. And whatever compulsion spurred me on all those years has since ratcheted into DREAD RESISTANCE. My moving bone is broken. I am in my Unhappy Place right now. I’ve stopped sleeping almost altogether, choosing instead to lie awake fretting over imaginary problems. And the more I like awake fretting, the more I lie awake fretting. And the more I’m completely spaced out for desperate need of sleep. The other day I put the kettle on…and then LEFT THE HOUSE to watch the hockey game.

Anyway, it’s not that I’m not excited, or ecstatic for that matter, or spending many an hour doing imaginary decorating. It’s just that…20. Twenty moves. I can’t wait to tell you all about how excited I am and how pretty everything is, but that’s going to have to wait until I get through this one more time.

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04.14.09

Confessional Updated

Posted in Drunken Jeci! at 8:58 pm by jeci

Three glasses of wine brings you:

I have never once done my own taxes. Ever. I’ve tried on numerous occasions in the past and, despite being exactly the type of person who typically receives a tax credit (student and/or well below the poverty line) every time, I had myself owing thousands of dollars. In decades past, my long-suffering roommate did my taxes. Yes. It’s incredible to me now that we were so open with each other about our finances, but then I suppose there’s no secret to how poor you are when you’re living in the ghetto together and often eating plain, boiled noodles for several meals in a row. Anyway, then I paid someone to do my taxes for a few years, which is an ironic waste of money. Now I have a husband who happens to work for the Ministry advising people on their taxes. Lucky me.

I am not, however, one of Those Women, who doesn’t know how to take care of her own finances and leaves it all to her husband. Apparently, these people still exist. But no, not me. What, on account of the 12 years of autonomy pre-marriage and, also, no. If anything, I am ever so slightly in charge of the books. There are spreadsheets. And graphs—pie charts, area charts. The area chart is my favourite. I can balance the books; I just can’t do taxes.

I hate cell phones. HATE. It is an irrational, deep-seated loathing that has not lifted in the slightest since their initial rise to prominence in the 90s. I hate listening to people talking on the phone everywhere I go. I hate the person having the self-conscious overly loud phone call on the bus. I hate people wandering in front of me on the sidewalk and cutting me off because they’re on the phone and not paying attention. I hate even more the innumerable times I’ve almost been run down in the street because someone is on the phone while they’re driving. I hate perhaps most of all the Grocery Store Talker who monopolizes an aisle because they’re having a conversation and have stopped dead in front of the teas and are oblivious to the fact that they are still, in fact, functioning members of society, a society in which someone else wants to pick out some tea and go home. Stop it. STOP TALKING ON YOUR PHONE ALL THE TIME. (See? Deep-seated loathing.) (I know I’m alone in this. I know.)

Guess what. I don’t own a cell. I can’t. I won’t. Many people find this reprehensible. But, let’s be real, people. I have a land line. I have a work number. There’s a 20 minute window period wherein I walk to work, not talking on the phone, not cutting people off or shutting people out, not oblivious to the world around me, simply taking the world in…and then I’m reachable by phone again. And you know what? No one ever calls me. There’s no editing emergency that necessitates my constant availability (”We’ve got a comma splice bleeding out here! Quickly—bring semi-colons!”). And I have tons of friends, but, again, it turns out that no one anywhere, ever, not even my husband, needs or even wants to have constant contact with me. It’s mutual.

For all the same reasons—the obliviousness, the shutting out—I hate iPods. (For the record, this peeve goes back to the days of Walkmans.) And it goes both ways too, this peeve, where I can’t stand listening to an iPod. When I listen to an iPod, I spend the entire time freaked out and stressed out that I can’t hear what’s going on around me. Did someone just call my name? Is there someone behind me? What’s happening? What did that guy say? Again, an unpopular, losing, fruitless position, hating iPods.

I will never tire of Law & Order. Did you know that there’s a Law & Order UK now? With Jamie Bamber? You’re welcome.

iPod Update: I’ve been working on a rather tedious project at work (putting the “Technical” in “Technical Writer/Editor”), a project that involves not so much my brain as my ability to cut and paste and categorize (the fancy term is “Information Architecture”) and really just…staying power more than anything. And so it came to pass that I borrowed Kieran’s iPod and swiftly revised my stance on both iPods and Kanye West, because it turns out that what makes tagging a bearable activity is listening to the catchy rythyms of a fame whore megalomaniac. But I will maintain that trying to listen to an iPod outside of the confines of my office still freaks me the hell out.

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03.30.09

We Interrupt This Recession To Bring You: A Brief Dissertation on Middle Class Consumption

Posted in Meh at 9:14 pm by jeci

You know what I loved back when Kieran and I were engaged? Um, other than simply being engaged and planning a life together? The planning books. I appreciated very much the fact that someone far more organized and experienced than me in planning a wedding had broken down what needed to be done into manageable chunks and provided a handy budget estimate to boot. I basically would like all of the facets of my adult life to be broken down in this manner: checklists, to-dos, timelines, budget percentages. Because…please? PLEASE? I give up. I GIVE UP. Daily, weekly, monthly, yearly—I need help.

Anyway, I’m just going to be perfectly honest despite the risk of having people hiss at me for being materialistic and THE RECESSION, etc.: the guide I appreciated the most was a little pull-out section from (yes) a Martha Stewart Weddings magazine that provided a checklist of household items you should register for, complete with suggested quantities and (AND!) a brief explanation of how they arrived at those numbers. Go ahead and roll your eyes. I’ll wait.

Now, I know that the world is divided into two camps: those potential wedding guests who deeply appreciate the bridal registry, as it saves them from having to figure out what in tarnation to give as a gift and in what colour, and those who think it’s unspeakably tacky and gauche to openly acknowledge that people, as a general rule, bring gifts to weddings and that, no, you do not want a potato clock (true story that, by the way). So, yes, I am familiar with the arguments, and to that I say: Open. Bar. Now leave me alone.

Anyway, the checklist. I actually gave the checklist a fairly thorough examination, eliminated a number of items that seemed ridiculous and particular to a Martha Stewart existence (see: matching luggage) as opposed to a jeci and Kieran existence (”Honey? Did you put the Louis Vuitton bags inside the tent? I don’t want sparks from the campfire to ruin them!”), but mostly followed what seemed to be rather sensible advice. Like I said, it was relieving to have someone who’s taken the time to figure out such things, because, tell me readers, how many towels do you need in a household? Have you ever thought about it, the specific number of towels the average household needs? Yeah, me neither. But there’s a formula and it involves you, the laundry hamper, and surprise house guests. And all of a sudden, Martha Stewart’s ridiculously anal little list is looking pretty awesome when you are able to hand your guests nice, clean towels that you never once had to use to dry off an irate cat you had to wrestle into the tub after it gave itself diarrhea from eating the houseplants.

At the time, I wasn’t sure about the list. For example, are 12 dishes instead of eight really necessary? It felt a little gluttonous to bleep in the extra four plates with the little registry-making zapper, but the explanation that some will break over the years seemed sound. And here we are. It’s been three years and some change, and my faith in the list is slowly building. For example: three years and change appears to be precisely the amount of time for your linens to begin to disintegrate, and I’m here tell you that, indeed, Martha Stewart was right. First to go were the sheets. I don’t know how many sets of sheets Ms. Stewart recommended, but I remember deciding to ignore her advice and registered for only one set. I further ignored the brisk treatise on thread count and registered for the one (1) set of sheets that came in the colour I liked best, despite the fact that they were a polyester blend. I believe this decision was based on the notion that we were already in possession of sheets, however dismal, but not so much in possession of a roomy linen closet. Fast forward three years and the pretty, inexpensive sheets are sporting various and sundry stains* and, now, an enormous spreading hole. The backup sheets, now 10 years old, are in a similar state. And, guess what? We have a series of house guests lined up in the coming weeks and, suddenly, the role of guest sheets is coming to light as I contemplate the notion of my guests flipping back the covers and pretending to be comfortable climbing into…someone else’s stains**. So, yes Martha, I am going to buy guest sheets and they will be 100% cotton this time and will have a midway respectable thread count. I am also cheap, and not nearly as materialistic as this post may imply, so I will not be replacing my wedding set entirely, but will instead be casting about to find a new fitted sheet that somewhat matches the existing set. Or a fitted sheet that is on sale. Whatever.

I did, as I alluded to before, follow the guidelines for towels and—you know it’s coming—well, Martha Stewart was right. One of our towels has mysteriously ripped (a good guess is that it fell from the towering pile of laundry and got caught in the closet door) and, upon discovering this this morning, I quickly did some calculations and, even when if I’m always behind on laundry, guests can pop in and still count on receiving a respectable towel. No, really, guys. I promise.

So, I’ve been appreciating that list all over again and I’ve come to realize that I want more. Lists like that, I mean. Lists from people who are experienced and knowledgeable and far more detail oriented than I such that they actually take heed when a pair of tongs go missing and anticipate the impact this may have on their household. And more than any other list, I would LOVE a list that details just the right number and kinds of clothes the average person should have. For example: How many jeans is just the right number of jeans? You’ve got to have your basic, everyday, favourite jeans that you wear to the grocery store and the like, but then you also need something dressier for going for drinks or for casual Fridays (but not too casual—oh, misnomers), and there’s always laundry day that has to be accounted for. And what about sweaters? Is there a magic combination of cardigans, turtlenecks, and sweater vests that cross-references all the possible weather conditions with your slacks and shoes? I want to know, because I hate shopping. Hate. I want an efficient, failsafe, time-proven system that maximizes my dollar and minimizes my time in the shops.***

And here is where I get to the crux of the issue: it’s not because I love stuff so much that I want these lists. It’s because I hate clutter and waste so thoroughly that I want them. I want to be guided through making well thought-out selections with an eye towards quality and longevity and, moreover, towards just enough. Yes, in all honesty, the wedding registry is a rather shameless exercise in conspicuous consumption. And yet…we all need towels and sheets and plates (and jeans!), and there’s something rather beautiful in having a home full of carefully selected items, none of which are in excess of what you need. I rather wish I could say the same about my closet. But, sadly, my closet is a hodgepodge of misfires: shirts that have lost their shape because they were too cheap; too many brown dress pants because…I don’t know why, actually; one sad pair of black dress pants that languish unworn most of the time due to an untrustowrthy fly; and five pairs of jeans (definitely too many), none of which I like and all of which contributed to my overconsumption of jeans in the vain hope that the next pair would be the winning ticket. It all seems to be such a thoughtless waste—of money, of space, of (oh, dear God, but it’s true) child labour—and I just wish that I could cut to the chase and figure this muddle out before wasting any more.

And, finally, just because this is very much on topic: I thrilled when I saw this and suspect you might too. Yes. YES. TELL ME EXACTLY WHICH SPICES I NEED AND WHICH ONES ARE USELESS so that I may never again have a spice jar launch itself from my bursting cupboard, cracking me on the side of the head, showering me in cinnamon, and causing my right ear to ring for nine hours. Because, HAHAHA, wasn’t that swell?

—————————————————————

*Before you start blushing and pretending I didn’t just say that, please know that I’m referring to an ink stain (who even knows anymore how these things happen), a large milk stain from when I tried to soak the ink stain in milk (usually works if you get to it right away), and (sexy!) some hairball stains from the trinkets that the cats occassionally leave as a lovely bedtime surprise. Really, Martha Stewart would become apoplectic if she knew.

**I will not be able to provide the above footnote to my guests when they climb into bed.

***This is all supposing a world in which a) I actually have spending money and, also b) there is no recession and I am not in danger of getting laid off. But, you know, hypothetically speaking.

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03.09.09

So. How was YOUR February? And, also the return of Top Five Tuesday!

Posted in Meh, Top Five Tuesdays at 10:21 pm by jeci

I did not write for the past month because I was gravely ill. Except not really ill so much as…something really bad happened and, due to nothing but the complete assholery and neglect of the Vancouver Coastal Health Authority and its band of egomaniacal, dismissive, God-complex-endowed ASSHATS, I got a severe infection that I was forced to live with for SEVERAL WEEKS until finally granted permission to lurch, crippled with pain, into the hallowed office of the elusive Specialist. The Specialist treated me to another dose of disinterested scepticism until she actually SAW said severely infected Serious (Now) Condition, at which point the mood shifted rapidly to one of containing the emergency that all the other doctors had refused to acknowledge lo those many weeks prior, and I was treated to…emergency surgery. Yes. Fun for everyone!

And she really meant business, too, when the words “emergency surgery” were uttered, as I had thought that we would surely wait until Kieran would be off work to come hold my hand or at least for me to digest what the Specialist meant when she asked if I am afraid of needles (which: shrug, no) before procuring a sizable, rather stabby looking needle and explaining where it would go (which: I take it back—I am afraid of SOME NEEDLES. Namely, THAT ONE). Anyway, I should have gotten a lollipop for being such a good patient, because after being presented with my options, I put my big girl panties on (truth be told, I actually took them off, but I think the humiliation in this tale is already complete enough as it is, so never mind) and opted to do the procedure with a local anesthetic so that we could get it over with right then and there and, also so that I wouldn’t die of septicemia while waiting for an O.R. Which, by the way, was only presented as a distant possibility and I was more so deferring to my paranoid policy of avoiding general anesthetic whenever possible on account of that W5 special I saw years ago about how a disturbing number of anesthesiologists are cracked out half the time from injecting themselves in the toes with varying doses of their own medicine.

Anyway. So what I’m saying is, I was cut open while conscious and no one was there to hold my hand and I did not cry or really do much of anything except provide a running commentary on all the things I thought would hurt more than they actually did. And then I left flustered and in a daze and forgot to call a cab and became disoriented out on the street and couldn’t find the bus stop either, so I WALKED HOME. ACROSS THE BRIDGE. While bleeding rather profusely. I still can’t get over the walking home because I was too weak and it was far too painful for me to so much as stand or even sit for the subsequent four days. Must have been a rather heady combination of local freezing and a good wallop of adrenaline. And, anyway, I dunno, maybe the doctor’s office should consider CALLING A CAB THEMSELVES on behalf of their patients after said patients are released from surgery. (Jerks.)

I am now living through the denouement of this particular saga and I am mostly healed, although not entirely out of the woods. Granted, I have a hunch a person pretty much feels like a million bucks no matter what they’re going through as compared to having a severe infection. At least so far as I can tell.

So, without further ado: Top Five Things To Do While Recovering From Surgery

Rent all the movies on iTunes that your husband never wants to watch. This will include a viewing of The Notebook because you feel like you must have missed something when you were the only person you know who found it neither magically romantic nor tragically sad. While you still kind of think it’s a tad saccharine for your taste, you are perhaps in the right head space for a bit of self-indulgent schmaltz, and enjoy yourself anyway. Until the end when you have to pause it during the Alzheimer’s outburst scene in order to sniffle over Google chat with one of your best friends about how saaaaad Alzheimer’s is.

Spend a great deal of time Google chatting with all of your best friends, not allowing neither the constraints of virtual real time nor a rather tiny text box to deter you from intensely detailed psychoanalysis of your respective life events. Realize tangentially while you’re dissecting the nuances of your relationships (boys!) that Google chatting is merely an updated version of the elaborate notes you and your friends used to pass one another in high school.

Frantically Google your condition at various intervals throughout the day, at times spiralling into panicked and maniacal cross-referencing of possible complications and outcomes.

Google mental health conditions that might lead one to obsessively Googling one’s health problems. (Diagnosis: Boredom.)

Read the news. Wish there was something else to talk about other than the Global Economic Crisis of Never Ending Doom. Develop a sick fascination with the way things seem to find a way to get worse every time it’s universally declared that things couldn’t possibly get any worse and, despite yourself, devour all the coverage anyway.

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02.06.09

Here’s Something

Posted in Sparkle at 9:31 pm by jeci

I told you that I GOT a job, in my field, for not minimum wage, but did I tell you that I love it? Yes. I, me, jeci, am one of Those People. You know, you hear about them, the people who love their jobs, and you think a) “…Really? Are they, like, workaholics/sociopaths/some kind of misanthrope?” or b) “It sure would be nice to be a Hollywood movie star/professional athlete/Bono.” But no, it CAN happen. Even to me. Me (I?), who hates working in an office. Me who hates getting up in the morning. Me who hates dressing up or paying attention in meetings or pretending that I care about whether we should go with what the Chicago Manual of Style says this year on bolding the colon after a bolded “Note.” (In case you haven’t heard, bolded colons are out. It’s all about letting bolded words stand on their own two feet these days. Be strong, “Notes” of the world!) (Aside: Am I the only one who pictures the editors of the Chicago sitting around a boardroom table having heated debates about these things until finally reaching a consensus based on the persuasive evidence brought forth by one rogue editor? Because why do these things change? Why does the treatment of a colon change from year to year?)

Anyway, I’m telling you this now for a couple of reasons. First, because it’s true. And let’s just dwell here for a moment, shall we? Here in the happy now I mean. I love my job because, well, there are many reasons. List time!

I can come in anytime before 10:00. As a result, I now wake up at roughly the time I had to be at my desk for my last office job. And quite unlike my last job, I am both well-rested AND nobody is giving me the side-eye when I’m rushing in panicked and grumpy because I’m four minutes late because there is no such thing as four minutes late. You come in when you come in, and you leave when you leave. You know, in manner of a woman who has been out of her nappies for quite some time now.

Come to think of it, nobody has given me the side-eye ever at this new job. Again, quite unlike my last job, where many messages were communicated via the vehemence or frequency of the side-eye.

I don’t really have to dress up. Jeans every day might be pushing it…but then again it might not. I go for cords or khakis most days. Never heels. Never, ever, ever, ever. In fact, I somehow hurt my toe (I must have stubbed it and promptly forgotten about it, because I have no recollection of how I actually obtained the injury) and my toenail fell off (I hope you weren’t eating just now) and I haven’t been able to wear anything but sneakers for the last three months and, again, no side-eye. In fact, the other day my boss kind of playfully stepped on my foot and said “Hey! Cute kicks!”

If I swear, it really doesn’t matter. You have NO IDEA how relieving this is for a sailor mouth like me.

Drum roll please: I have my own office. Yes. This is a first for me and it’s ridiculous how much better life is. When people are forgetting to use their inside voices or, even more to the point, when I don’t feel like human interaction for any amount of time, I can just…CLOSE MY DOOR. Genius.

I enjoy my co-workers. They’re creative and professional and I learn something from each and every one of them every day.

My boss is, like, a fireball of positivity. She plays to people’s strengths and we all shine as a result. Granted, she won’t hesitate to tell you to sack up if you need to stop whining…but all the same. It has been a long time since I’ve had a boss with whom I can be both chummy and from whom I could learn (that’s a shout out, Sylvia, if you’re reading!).

My office is a 15 minutes walk from my apartment. Life doesn’t get much simpler than that.

Another drum roll please: I get four weeks’ vacation. To start. It’s like living in Europe!

I also get every third Friday off. (My work has apparently figured out the old secret that the less time we have to actually spend at work, the more we’ll get done.)

I, of course, get benefits. And these benefits include unlimited massages. Word.

Oh, and, I actually kinda like what I do. I would have been the last person to guess that writing public legal education materials would be so interesting and gratifying…but it really is. It’s amazing how knowing that what you’re doing is helping people—that at least trying to give a voice to people who are marginalized and lost in the system—can make wading through an acre of legalese and translating it into English rather exciting and fun.

So there’s all that. In short, it’s just a damn good fit and I feel so. very. relieved and blessed to have found it.

The other thing, though, is that I was beginning to worry about me. About how sour and embittered and cynical I was about working. (Case in point: here and here.) Which is not to say that I was one of those people who felt like I shouldn’t HAVE to work or that I was entitled to anything I hadn’t earned. It wasn’t anything like that because…well, I’m not retarded. (Food costs money. I need to eat food. Therefore, I need money. Therefore, I need to work. Until I am able to re-invent all of Western society, dwelling on this reality is a delusional waste of energy.) But, I had been so bored and restless or downright horrified by the human race as a result of my other jobs and had been miserable in this regard for so long that, well, I was worried that it was ME.

You know how, at some point after a certain number of shitty and failed relationships, you just have to ask yourself whether it IS you? Like, sure, dating some cheating bastard and breaking up with him because he stepped out on you is not technically your fault…but how many cheating bastards can you date before you start to wonder JUST A LITTLE about your taste in men? So I was at that place, the cynical place where on the one hand you’re like “I didn’t like that job because it SUCKED” but you’re also like “…But why do all my jobs suck? Is it my attitude? Because it FELT like I tried.” So, again, I am immensely relieved to know that I do, in fact, have the right attitude…it just has to be appreciated in order for me to sustain it. (And thank Goddess I didn’t lose my positive attitude after all!) I like not being cynical so much more.

But there’s a final thing to all of this. And that final thing is that despite it all coming up roses and feeling so right, it might not last. I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but there’s, like, this global economic crisis going on? So we’ve had our first round of layoffs. And it sucked. Because of course it did. We lost an amazing member of our team and one of our managers. And my boss’s job is in jeopardy as we speak (we’ll find out next week) and it will break my heart if she goes. And after all THAT there is yet another round of layoffs to go in the summer.

My initial instinct when all this went down was to jump ship. I mean, they tell you the ship is sinking and you don’t linger on the poop deck (heh) taking in the view, right? But then, first of all, how stupid would it be to walk out of a job you love when nobody knows better than you how hard it is to find meaningful, not stab-me-in-the-face-please work? Add to that the fact that EVERY ship in the whole damn ocean is sinking and nobody is sending out life boats and, well, it just seems like the prudent thing to do is stay put and hope for the goddamn best. Because the best actually does happen from time to time, doesn’t it? And I’d like to be there when it does.

I was going to write about my love affair with my new job weeks ago, as part of my New Year’s post. And then the rug got pulled out from under me a bit and I lost the heart. But I’m doing it now because no matter what happens next week, or the week after, or the month after, I want to remember that this did really happen, I was really happy, and I am capable of feeling fulfilled and of going in every morning and feeling like I have something to offer. And I don’t want to settle for anything less. (Which: Ha! “Want to” doesn’t often come up in one’s grown-up, employment-related choices, does it?)

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01.22.09

This Year’s Love

Posted in May the Universe Respond, Sparkle at 9:29 pm by jeci

I am, I think, more belated than ever in posting my New Year’s resolutions this year, and do you want to know why? For the first time ever I haven’t been able to think of any. Not that my life is above resolutions for improvement. To the contrary, actually: I still allow laundry to pile up until the closet door strains against the weight of the mountain of smelly clothes; I still space out at work every day between 3:15 and 4:15 and all but drool all over myself while staring out the window with unseeing eyes (I call it the zombie hour); and I still go for too long between haircuts, have pores that can be seen from space when I go without a hearty spackling of Mac foundation, and my bum, in just the wrong kind of pants, can look like a displaced sack of rocks.

And I’m satisfied anyway.

I have a theory about this: it seems that, outside of the grace borne of living a self-examined life, there is no peace, no contentment to be found in chasing your tail over your own imperfections. So this year, instead of focusing on the things I’m doing wrong, I’m going to focus on the things I’m doing right and simply…do those things more. We all have something perfect inside of us and I want to chase that instead.

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01.05.09

Looking Back (Part 2)

Posted in Drunken Jeci!, Sparkle, The Farm at 4:00 pm by jeci

Go ahead and read Part 1 first, if you’re chronologically inclined.

Between my generalized feelings of dull panic and with the undertow of a long series of deadlines pulling me under time and again, I was remiss in writing about 2008’s key shining moments. I would hate for 2009 to get underway without first paying proper homage to the best of 2008.

I met another blogger

Shannon! She came to visit me in Vancouver for a couple of days (her account is here). In the photo above, I’m about to take her on a three-hour walk. I like to treat all my guests to militant, relentless, boot-camp style tours of Vancouver! I’m not exactly sure how things got so far gone when we decided to go for a walk—we headed to Stanley Park and I just kind of…kept going. We did eventually make it to the Lost Lagoon (after we went fairly deep into the forest at which point I remembered out loud that once upon a time there had been an axe murderer lurking about said forest), where we spent a lengthy period of time cooing over the baby ducks and marvelling at the swans. (There are no pictures of the swans because I was scared of them. Really.)

After we finally made it back to my apartment, I procured some homemade wine and, keeping things classy, asked my guest to uncork it because I couldn’t do it myself.

We proceeded to enjoy an evening of food and drinks and spent a lot of time giggling and chatting and at some point I put on some sparkly shoes and we: went for dinner at a jazz club; had a B-List celebrity sighting (complete with possible working girl) (Shannon played it more cool than I did, as I literally pointed and brayed something along the lines of “Who? THAT GUY?!?”, while Shannon coolly pretended to go to the bathroom on a reconnaissance mission); had an interesting discussion about graphic novels that opened up a new chapter in Kieran’s life; and mostly just laughed and talked a lot. I’d never met a fellow blogger before, but the experience reinforced that kindred spirits have a way of finding one another, even over the impersonal Internet. Had we lived in the same country and gone to the same school, Shannon would have been the friend you sat on the kitchen counter with, chatting and swinging your feet and drinking hot chocolates.

I went to a glamourous yacht party in the Okanagan

This was a weekend-long event for our friends’ anniversary. The yacht party was preceded by a whirlwind weekend of drinking, laughing, going to the beach, swimming in the lake, lounging by the pool, and…actually mostly just laughing. The yacht party was simply a gorgeous cap to what was already a weekend full of hilarity and friendship.

It should be mentioned that I somewhat famously got spectacularly drunk at the party (everyone did, really) (it was one of those things where I happened to be with all my guys friends and they kept buying me drinks). Anyway, I thought the four-hour boat ride was actually taking us on a TOUR of the Okanagan and throughout the night would point at lights on the hilltops and say things like “Where do you think we are now? Vernon?” or “Hey I bet that’s Summerland!”, when in fact we were circling the harbour in Kelowna the whole time. So my friends had to keep saying “No, WE’RE STILL IN KELOWNA.” Still waiting to live that one down.

I went to a family reunion and hung out with my cousins

We ate. A lot. And drank a lot. And sat around in lawn chairs, reminiscing about all the other times we hung out and ate and drank a lot.

There was much cuteness to be witnessed with the wee ones of our clan:

Especially when my cousin Blair busted out the fireworks:

I took a road trip to Alberta for Thanksgiving

First stop was Calgary, where I did the Run for the Cure with my dear friend Karla. Unfortunately, neither of us thought to bring our cameras so we don’t have pictures of what turned out to be a great run for both of us. I’d never done a run before and Karla, ever the good friend, made it a whole lotta fun.
Next stop was Drumheller:

Where we finally got to see the amazing Tyrell Museum, a spot we’d planned on seeing when we biked across Canada but the wind had had different plans for us.