11.13.09
Posted in Meh at 3:05 pm by jeci
It’s come to my attention that perhaps no one is aware that they should be feeling sorry for me right now. The world continues to spin on its axis and everyone is carrying on with their own lives, focused on their own problems, even though I’m sick. It’s weird, right? To expect a grown woman in her thirties to know what to do with herself when she’s sick, as though most people her own age somehow manage not only to take care of themselves, but growing children too? Ha! See? I knew it! It’s weird!
Perhaps this has been some kind of miscommunication. Perhaps people aren’t fully aware of the gravity of my situation. I have a mild fever, people. A MILD FEVER. Sometimes I feel cold and kind of achy. Yeah. I KNOW. How such things can be trifled with when there’s an international pandemic going on is beyond me. People are critically ill and dying, but what about me? What about that gentle aching in my shoulder that can almost be ignored?
And to make matters worse, my totally flexible employers have been entirely sympathetic and understanding. When the doctor ordered bed rest and was so serious about it he wrote a note to my employer*, my supervisor shoved his note back at me, muttering things about how entirely unnecessary it was, and gave me a hug. And, get this. GET THIS. I can work from home in these situations, if I’m up to it, so that I don’t have to use up my sick days. Sure, my sick days are paid and guaranteed because I’m in a unionized environment, but they’re also banked so that one day I’ll get paid out for those days. How is that fair? Or you know what else? I can choose to go in next Friday to make up time, even though I usually get every third Friday off — in addition to my four weeks’ paid vacation, that is. How can I be expected to work a day that most places I would be required to work anyway?!?
So, OK FINE, I have many attractive perks and options that most people, even those of us lucky enough to be in the industrialized world don’t have (except for maybe the French), but I have big problems here, BIG problems that overshadow all of that. Being home alone all day is boring. I may get to sleep in and then shuffle to the living room to loaf about in my pajamas while no less than two cats snuggle me, but maybe, JUST MAYBE, I don’t want to watch movies anymore. Did you ever think of that? Or maybe people aren’t posting to their blogs at nearly the rate I need them to. Or maybe I am in between library books and am being forced to wait until this evening for my husband to bring me home new ones. (I know! A husband who brings me things! ON TOP OF EVERYTHING ELSE. My GOD the humanity.) Yeah. They’re here and they’re real, these problems. REAL.
And did you hear the part about the mild fever?
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*Well, OK, yes. The slightly serious thing in this whole mild (MILD!) debacle is that I have a pulmonary infection. Also mild (MILD!), I suspect, in the grand scheme of pulmonary infections. Except that it affects my breathing in a most inconvenient (yet mild!) way. Oh that’s right, folks. A MILD INFECTION. You can go ahead and send chocolates, puppies, and kittens directly to my home address. Thank you.
Also, yes, those who have been subjected to my Facebook status updates, my tweets or, let’s say as a ball park figure, those who have been within a 10 mile radius of my person in the last several months will have heard me inevitably whining about being sick PREVIOUS to now. I have been sick this whole time. So. I probably should have gone to the doctor sooner. If you want to feel sorry for me for legitimate reasons, you can pity me for being such a dumb-ass.
[Post inspired by Jen who managed to make me smile today, but who also once cracked me up on her old blog talking about her renos. You should go read her new blog.]
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08.15.09
Posted in Meh, My Life Is Punctuated by Useless Bouts of Panic at 8:51 am by jeci
Sigh. This right here is one of the more awkward aspects of blogging. Where you write something and put it up and then after you’ve marinated on it for a while you change your mind. You didn’t like how it came out. In real life when I’m perhaps saying sarcastic, graceless things, as I am wont to do (most unfortunately), I have the benefit of other people’s falling facial expressions to provide useful cues as to when to STFU. Here, I say stupid things and then have to wait half a day for my brain to catch up with my mouth. And then I have to writhe in horror that I’ve said something stupid on the Internet. Where many, many people can see it.
Which is to say: my post yesterday…I don’t like how it came out. It came out all negative and jabby at blogging in general (hopefully not at other bloggers, because nooooooooo), when what I was trying to say is that **I** suck at this. At blogging. Me. I suck. (Case in point: RIGHT NOW.) Blogging doesn’t suck; I do. Because I’m not entirely convinced that what I’d hoped would be a self-deprecating tone didn’t ratchet into just plain old deprecating, I’ve pulled the post. I don’t know how much weight anyone gives to my opinions in these here parts, but I don’t want Blue Yon Belly to be a negative space. I’m posting this retraction for the four of you who pick me up in your reader. So, gentle readers, if you caught that last post, forgive me.
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06.26.09
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 end 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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03.30.09
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?
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*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
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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12.19.08
Posted in Meh, Uncategorized at 1:39 pm by jeci
Stuff in the First
I have been getting, in increasing numbers and intensity, less than subtle hints that I’ve not been posting enough. This is true. I don’t know why. Except that it’s been a weird year, one in which I’ve been at once overwhelmed and underwhelmed and often didn’t know whether I wanted to write about my state of mind to begin with, and to end with, I didn’t know which state of mind to whine write about if I was to go ahead with writing. Anyway, my life has finally settled into a pleasant routine, and I have been at least thinking about writing here a lot more than I used to. And every now and again I actually sit down and do it. So, again, forgive me while I jerk through these…”getting back into it” posts until I (hopefully) get my groove back.
Stuff in the Second
Speaking of perpetually occupying at once opposite ends of the mental health spectrum, remember at my awful old job how we were all forced to “get our colours done” but it turned out to be less “team building exercise” than “scary clown nightmare?” IMAGINE MY DISMAY when I was informed by my new boss that all new employees have to get their colours done. (And, get this: it turns out there are NUMEROUS cults/companies that market this concept of ascribing colour wheels to Jungian personality archetypes. Am I the only person who finds this a little bizarre?) Anyway, the workshop to which I was sent this time was infinitely better than the last one, possibly due to being put on by a different cult/company. But then, how could it not be better, really? For starters, it was run by our HR lady, not some random, over-sharing loon. Also a bonus, our HR lady has a degree in psychology and she, at the very least, knows how to pronounce “Jung” correctly, lending more of an air of authenticity to the exercise. And, finally, when I once again came out as a 50:50 split between introvert/extrovert and hypersensitive thinker-feeler/adventurous, impulsive doer, instead of publicly scolding me for falling into paradigms not ascribed to by the colour cult and telling me I’m an impossibility, the HR lady responded kindly, pointing out that I’m normal, since, if nothing else, there’s no such thing as abnormal.
We also got detailed profiles this time and I’m sure those of you who have met me will be shocked to learn that I am XXXtremely social and tend to be chatty, bubbly, and silly…except for those times when I’m nursing my bleeding, pinko heart, and weeping over baby penguins who may or may not be suffering in Antarctica as we speak. And of course, after chatting us up about our “good day behaviours” (”Your fun-loving and warm and people want to be your friend!”) they douse a little salt in our “things we already know about ourselves but try to ignore so that we may go on” wounds by pointing out our “bad day behaviours.” APPARENTLY, I have little to no tolerance for boredom and when I’m angry or stressed, I’m sarcastic and cynical. To which I say: HA. As a colour wheel cult, you CLEARLY know EXACTLY what you’re talking about…Yawn. Is this thing over yet?
Finally, the other revelation of note was that everyone was given two personality profiles, one representing their work persona and one representing their home persona. Except for me. I only had one profile: work, home, SAME THING. BECAUSE I HAVE NO FILTER. The HR lady said this usually only happens when people are within a year or two of retirement because they stop caring. When I looked a little dismayed at this (it occurring to me for the first time that perhaps it really is obscenely misanthropic to say things like “mother of fuck” in front of your boss*), the HR lady waved me off and said warmly “It’s great! It means you’re very WYSIWYG! People always know where they stand with you.”
Which brings me to…
Final Stuff
It occurred to me after my last post that I may have given off a distasteful whiff of false modesty, the way I was all “Guess what Internets? I GOT PUBLISHED! YEAH! But as an afterthought I’ll tack on something about how I didn’t like one of my pieces so you don’t think I’m bragging.” Someone recently pointed out to me that false modesty (and its kissing cousin irreverence) are somewhat rampant in the blogosphere. There’s all those bloggers who are just clever and witty enough to pull off the (as my beloved Jenni G. so aptly put it when describing this phenomenon) “Oh I’m so silly, look at me posting another picture of myself in my bikini. WHAT AM I THINKING? Here’s one more though, with a better angle on my abs. I’m so embarrassed that everyone can see how much weight I’ve lost!” Um, suffice to say, I’m not one of these people (see above).
It’s doubtful, actually, whether lacking the capacity to filter myself makes me less of an obnoxious human being than the type of person who is at least aware enough of how off-putting immodesty can be to make a coy attempt to mask their bragging behind lowered eyelashes and coquettish self-mocking. Regardless, when I feel proud enough to brag about something, the words will come tumbling out of me of their own, completely unapologetic accord. It does occur to me from time to time that I should try and formulate some kind of diffuser to my “THIS IS HOW I FEEL AT THIS EXACT SECOND” function**, but it never fails to occur to me immediately on the heels of that thought that I lack the guile to seamlessly execute such an exercise and will inevitably make myself look like even MORE of an ass should I try. So, while on the one hand, I am glad and proud to possess a dependable amount of naturally occurring sincerity, on the other hand this could also speak to the fact that I can be something of a simpleton, incapable of carrying off the subtler nuances of the human condition as well as oblivious to the more sinister, dishonest aspects of these nuances, resulting in my being easily manipulated and sucked in by others.
So, suffice to say, the bit about not liking the piece (which was, may I remind you, AN OUTLINE), was true. It freaked me OUT, dudes. And I wasn’t just saying that to try and pretend like I didn’t bounce all over the apartment squealing about getting published like a bloody cockapoo on methamphetamines. Because I did that too.
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*It’s OK. My new boss is from New York City. She routinely busts out an emphatic “What da fuuuck?!?” while gesticulating wildly. My flair for obscenities is not only accepted, but appreciated.
**There are exceptions to this. If someone is unpredictabe (or predictably mean), I can be extremely repressive and blank-faced to a degree that is near pathological (XXXtreme poker face!). But, again, there’s no middle ground. Either I shut down entirely, or BLAH BLAH BLAH NO FILTER TRALALA WHEE!
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08.27.08
Posted in Meh at 7:28 pm by jeci
Something to ponder: I’ve lost a bra. I don’t necessarily have a running tally of my undergarments, but this particular piece was notable because it was a) new b) expensive c) comfortable and, therefore, d) beloved. How does one lose a bra, one might ask. And one might answer I SERIOUSLY DON’T KNOW, as this particular undergarment a) did not yet have the opportunity to travel and is, therefore, not crammed into a secret inside pocket of a suitcase b) did not have to leave the apartment to be laundered and, as such, the old fate of dropping out of the laundry basket and languishing on the basement stairs before being discreetly whisked away by the building’s janitor does not apply (the only place for it to fall would have been my kitchen floor and that is something that I would notice, underwear on the kitchen floor) and, therefore, c) one can only conclude that the bra has never left my apartment except when I have been wearing it. Which brings me back to the original question: How does one lose a bra? The only options here are for it to have become lost WHILE I WAS WEARING IT, which is DEFINITELY something I would notice, or that it somehow…vaporized in the wash*.
Anyway. Next time you’re walking down the street and you see a random undergarment lying in the gutter and you think to yourself “Seriously, people, HOW DOES THIS HAPPEN?” you can think of me. I don’t know how it happens either, but it DOES. Who knows—maybe I have a pair of shoes hanging from a telephone wire and I just haven’t realized it yet.
(It could be worse. It could be like the time I lost a skimpy thong and tracing my steps lead me to the realization that I had left it in my father-in-law’s guest bedroom. Only he wasn’t my father-in-law yet, just my boyfriend’s dad who I’d just met. CLASSY.)
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*Such things happen. I knew a lady who kept losing her pantyhose. She thought she was going nuts because she’d put them in the wash, throw them in the dryer, and then they’d just be GONE. She’d look behind the dryer, behind the washer, on the stairs…And then the dryer started acting up and it turned out it had been emitting some kind of gas that was literally causing her nylons to vaporize. Can you imagine? Having to question your sanity like that over pantyhose, of all things?
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06.09.08
Posted in Meh, My Life Is Punctuated by Useless Bouts of Panic at 10:27 am by jeci
Much as I’ve tried to prevent it from happening–and by tried I mean thought about it fleetingly–it’s been rather touch and go for me here in the blogosphere for the last year. In other words, it’s been rather touch and go since we uprooted our lives, biked across Canada, and relocated to Vancouver. And that right there would be why. The uprooting our lives thing. To be blunt, I simply don’t have it in me these days. I was talking to my friend the other day and I said I feel like, mentally, I’m crouched in a corner waiting for the dust to settle. In general, it’s not the best head space and it’s certainly not the best head space for humourous, lighthearted recounting of the minutiae of life. “Today I fretted about the future. Hahaha. The End.”
Change is good, except, you know for all the ways that it’s not so good. For many months after this move, I was rather annoyed that things weren’t going more smoothly. That we seemed to be careening from one debacle to another and that, with each passing month, the trajectory of our lives post-move was angling towards even more uncertainty rather than towards finally being settled. Today, as Kieran starts his third job in nine months (also a temporary gig that will need to be replaced [sigh]), as my writing contract dangles uncertainly and I am casting out for a new gig just in case, I’m no longer frustrated with the world and feel strangely optimistic anyway. Learned helplessness? I don’t know.
I…I’ve gotten the memo: The job market in Vancouver ain’t so shit hot. Got it. Duly noted. FINE. Oh, there’s lots of JOBS, yes. But not so much professional jobs. And it’s my choice that I refuse to be an admin assistant (to me, it makes more sense to continue temping in admin jobs because the money is the same and there’s no pretense that I have any intention of staying should something better come along). And it’s possible that because it’s now been a year (almost to the day) since we started this journey and the memories of everything we gave up to come here–the salaries, the stability, the fantastic rent–continue to recede, I have just accepted where we are. This is going to take time. FINE.
The thing is, we’ve had a stretch of generalized bad luck. Things could have gone a little more smoothly, there could have been no homelessness, no family fiascoes, no job up and leaving for Toronto, and all those things freaked us out. And yet, Kieran and I are fine. Our relationship is rock solid, we’re getting through and making ends meet, and we still had a houseful of friends last weekend. So I’m becoming slightly less nervous about whatever curve balls might be thrown at us before the dust finally settles. I’d thought that the dust would have settled by now, but I don’t know what I based that belief on. Now I’ve just accepted that this will take time and I have no idea how long, but it doesn’t matter because we’ll be fine anyway.
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05.29.08
Posted in Meh, Top Five Tuesdays at 6:32 pm by jeci
- Deadlines. Never ending. No really. I think the only words that have escaped my mouth in the last month have been “I can’t. I’m on deadline.” Meaning I can’t: Go out with you, stay in with you, sleep, bathe, or… stop obsessing about my deadline du jour.
- The writing project that took me deep into the heart of Google to no avail and thus compelled me to…[wait for it] go to the library to do my research. That’s right. I couldn’t find what I needed online! I had to go outside and use my limbs to propel me to the “library!” Only to find out, of course, that I could have accessed the periodicals online anyway.
- Not that that’s been any use. All the information for this project is in French. My second language. There is a big difference between being able to haggle with a cab driver in Montréal and being able to conduct research in French*. Such is life, I suppose, when you’re profiling a Québecois organization. MERDE!!!
- Speaking of profiling a Québecois organization, thanks for not returning any of my calls or e-mails, Québecois organization. I’m sorry I presented you with an opportunity for free publicity. I can see how this would be incredibly inconvenient to you. I realize that it’s not really the job of the Director of Public Relations to handle this type of thing. OH, WAIT. (Va te faire foutre, eh?)
- T-24 hours until deadline/my house of cards comes crashing down. Tick tock, tick tock. This means I’m officially procrastinating. I can’t blog; I’m on deadline.
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*There was a time when I was bilingual. Now is not that time. Although, my reading comprehension (and swearword retention, for what it’s worth) is still high enough that I’m not royally, uh, tabernac(ed). Just a little…stressy.
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05.12.08
Posted in Meh at 1:18 pm by jeci
- First thing in the morning, pull on beloved, supersoft A&F hoodie. Be sure to wear something white or cream-coloured for the purposes of this exercise. Shuffle to kitchen for procurement of coffee.
- Sit, slumped, in front of celebrity gossip sites while waiting out your pre-caffeinated fugue state. Sip coffee slowly, patiently waiting for the coffee to sufficiently massage your synapses and convince them that they’re ready to start firing.
- Lean forward, dipping tie from hood into coffee mug, allowing the tie to become thoroughly saturated before sitting back.
- Fail to notice what you’ve done.
- Sit back, allowing coffee-soaked tie to flop into position against the sweatshirt so that it produces a large, spreading stain across your bosom.
- Fail to notice.
- Begin to move about so that coffee-soaked tie flops around, creating a splatter pattern of stains across entire body, somehow even involving the cuffs of your garment and your BACK LEFT SHOULDER.
- Fail to notice.
- Proceed to shower and change and, in manner of the slob that you are, chuck the offending garment onto the small mountain of laundry that dominates a corner of your bedroom. Ensure that the offending garment lands prone, coming to rest on one of your white work blouses, thus allowing the coffee-soaked tie to draw in an innocent bystander and continue its reign of brown terror with the creation of a new spreading stain on an entirely different and unrelated garment.
- Fail to notice for two full days, allowing ample time for all stains to set with little hope of recovery.
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