don’t you think it’s boring when people tell you their dreams?

i sure do. 

i normally wouldn’t subject anyone to the bizarre inner workings of my subconciousness but, this time, i’m making an exception.

as often as i can, i write down my dreams.  then i go back and re read them months later.  usually i don’t even remember what the hell i was talking about until half way through what i’ve written.  then i go, “oohhhhh… i remember that one.”  so, i stumbled upon one today that i believe deserves posting.  disclaimer: weird.

october twenty ninth, 2007 

I was waiting to go to this formal event with some girl I didn’t know.  I was wondering what she was doing there because her dress totally sucked and I think she was way younger than me.  I’m pretty sure I didn’t like her.  I don’t remember what I was wearing.  We were waiting to get picked up to go to the party in a parking garage and we were having a conversation with some guy about what we would do at the party.  It was going to be at a carnival.  He said that we absolutely had to ride the zipper and some other ride that spun upside down and was under construction.  I said that I don’t go on rides that get put up and taken down for traveling carnivals because they’re not safe.  He said I didn’t have a choice.  He also said that the zipper had just been washed and so it was likely we’d get water all over us and in our mouths and we might choke on it.

The girl and I managed to escape the parking garage somehow and got a drive to my dad’s house except that it wasn’t my dad’s house.  It was a house in Forest Hill.  But I also seem to remember thinking that it was in Ottawa.  Again, not sure.  All the houses were bungalows.  The neighbour was standing outside of her house and she sort of looked like some kind of crazy cat lady and was wearing a see-through nightgown that looked like it was about to fall apart.  As soon as the girl and I got out of the car, she started yelling at us that we looked like trash and she called her redneck husband outside to yell at us too.

We ran into my dad’s and he heard all the noise so he grabbed a shotgun.  Dogs were barking everywhere all of a sudden.  My dad went to the neighbours house and had a talk with them.  When he came back, he said that I’d have to surrender to getting eaten by one of their dogs because I had bailed on the formal party at the carnival.  I looked out into their backyard and saw some ripped apart bodies on the ground from the dogs’ previous victims.  I begged my dad to please shoot me in the head so that I wouldn’t have to walk out into their yard and get torn apart by their dogs.  He said that he was sorry but these were the rules and that everyone in the neighbourhood would be mad if he didn’t do what they had all agreed upon.  I had a vivid image in the dream of being mauled by the dogs.  But this didn’t actually ever happen in the dream.  It was almost like it was me imagining what it would be like while I was dreaming.  I woke up before it ever came to the point where I had to feed myself to the dogs.

All of the dogs were Dobermans.

i’m back.

september thirteenth, 2007

So… it’s been awhile.  I don’t know why I haven’t written anything in so long.  It’s not because I haven’t had anything to say.  Trust me.  I think maybe it’s just that I’ve been so happy/busy that I haven’t had time to think of things to complain/rant about and/or make witty social commentary/scathing reviews of current goings-on. 

Well… I thought of something.  Not because I’m not as happy or as busy as I have been for the past few months.  Just because it’s exceedingly difficult for me to keep my mouth shut for too long.

So, here’s the thing…

I used to play a game called “Hipster Dude or Gay Dude?”  That was fun.  If you’ve ever been drunk with me on a Friday night at Sneak’s, you’ve most definitely played this game with me.  It had a good run.  And, the thing about the game was that it genuinely was difficult.  I’m sure you’re familiar with the skinny-pant-wearing masses and that lovely gaunt silhouette, wool scarves, pink tees, expensive high tops, designer sunglasses, anything ever made by Marc Jacobs… You know those dudes.  All of us do. 

No one ever won that game.  I suppose if I had to choose a winner, it would have to be the impeccably well-dressed young men called into question and held up against the highest standards of aesthetics for careful observation and much warranted admiration.  Yes.  It would be those guys.

But now, things have taken a bit of a left turn.  I’m not sure how/when it happened but, needless to say, I’ve had to do a drastic overhaul of my Friday night recreational reconnaissance.  A new game: “Hipster Dude or Homeless Dude?”  Okay… This might seem really bad.  But wait… I’ll explain.

So, I was riding my bike on Ossington the other day and I spotted a guy waiting for the bus at College.  The skinny jeans were in full effect but… wait… what’s this?… holes in the knees???  Could it be???  Yes.  It could be.  I slowed my pedaling to get a closer look at this nouveau hipster in his natural habitat, all the while conscious of the possibility of being pegged as some sort of creep on a bicycle staring people down at bus stops.  A risk worth taking.

So this is what I took in while wheeling by:

On top, a lumberjack-style button-up jacket.  Red and black, inexpensive looking.  And, y’know… now that I think of it… it didn’t really look like he was wearing anything underneath it.  I saw a few straggly chest hairs on amazingly white skin.  Glowingly white, even.  But, that’s neither here nor there. 

The hair… the facial hair.  It was a full-on lumberjack beard.  Coureurs des bois style.  Not even exaggerating.  There easily could have been shit living in there for all I know.  Like a nest of baby birds. 

His hair was black… long-ish, greasy-ish, unbrushed for days-ish.  The complexion: sallow.  He was a little hunched over.  An uncanny personification of melancholy introspection.  But… Still really, really hot.  For some reason. 

He kinda reminded me of this uncle that a friend of mine had while we were growing up.  Tall, super skinny, sort of an unkempt-on-purpose look.  We all loved him.  He chain smoked cigarettes and drank cans of Old Milwaukee and worked on cars and wore tattered band t-shirts.  Also… Francophone.  I’m melting.

So, what is all this?  I mean… Is this what we’re doing now?  I know that someone said grunge was going to come back but I thought they said it when they were hung over or pissed off or something as some sort of cruel joke or caustic premonition.  But, here we are.  And I can’t help but be reminded of the dozens of skid-bags that picked me up when I used to hitchhike from Ottawa to northern Quebec when I first got out of high school.  I wonder if they knew their shit style would be cool in a major metropolitan centre nearly 10 years later. 

The funny thing is… I’m not hating on the style.  I love it when people take something gross and just say, “Fuck it.  Let’s do this for awhile.” and they turn it into something massively scene and disturbingly yet still compellingly sexy.  So sexy that you can’t put your finger on the appeal of it.  It’s beyond us.  We don’t know why we love it but we love it and it works. 

Maybe it’s the same reason why dogs will roll in anything that smells like shit. 

not for the faint of heart.

may fourth, 2007

Last night, my worst nightmare came true… I write this while paralyzed by the icy death grip of sheer terror…

I had just gotten home from boxing and was looking forward to showering, putting on something cozy and making myself a chocolate soy milk protein shake. It’s the simple things in life…

So, I was unpacking my bag and hanging up my sweaty hand wraps to dry and Zeek was passed out on my bed (as usual) in his standard position (on his back, all four legs in the air). And then, entirely unexpectedly and entirely randomly he became strangely agitated. He sprung up from his coma-like slumber and started pawing around at the blankets. At first, I thought it was some sort of desperate attempt at cardiovascular exercise to convince me that he is, in fact, serious about his weight loss goals. I even considered the possibility that it was a devilish ploy to get my attention so that I’d dote over him and put food in his dish.

But, it was neither of these… No, it was something far more horrific. Far more sinister than the depths of human psychosis….

Like the most repulsive scenario envisioned by Takashi Miike or the most hideous of beasts imagined by Terence Fisher, a two-inch long silverfish leaped out between the folds of my sheets and disappeared like a flash of lightning into the abyss underneath my bed.

Let me explain something… I’m not afraid of very many things. Mice? Bring it on. Snakes? No fucking problem. I get in the ring with tattooed hispanic dudes named Diego. I’ve been fucking shot in the leg, for christsakes.

However… it just so happens that bugs are my kryptonite. They make my heart hurt. They render me speechless (and precious little does…) I’m immediately unable to breathe. I can’t move or think or cry for help. Nothing.

And that’s exactly what happened. I backed up against the wall and stood there… Waiting. Zeek had attempted to pounce on the culprit and had followed him directly under the bed which I found quite endearing but pretty useless. Unfortunately, he’s a fat boy. He needs to take breaks half way up the stairs.

For those of you who don’t know, a silver fish is…. well, it’s just plain disgusting. That shit is gross. Google it. You’ll see what I mean.

So, as soon as I was able to breathe, I let out a series of whimpers and bolted out into the living room. I guess the look on my face was quite telling because my roommate immediately knew something was up. I was hysterical. But quietly. Which is the worst type of hysteria. I didn’t say much. I just went downstairs and got straight into the shower. I felt dirty. Violated.

I did, however, convince myself to squash the fear and get my revenge. Armed with a broom and a can of raid, I climbed the stairs in nauseating anticipation. I pushed everything out from under my bed with the broom, tears streaming down my face. Sobbing, Shaking. Sweating. Now every piece of furniture is pushed to one side of my room. I just left it like that. One step at a time…. Maybe this evening when I get home from work I’ll have summoned the courage to further investigate.

I never found him. So, I made a bed for myself on the couch. Zeek was there. The can of Raid was within grabbing range. Things were fine.

Of course, this had to happen on the one night that Robin wasn’t sleeping over. It figures. He did give me an open invitation to go over to his house for the night but I thought I should at least try to stick it out. I’ll eventually have to face my tormentor. Or, at the very least, send Robin in to face it for me. Or Zeek… since he seemed so willing in the first place.

Thank God for the men in my life. And thank God for potent bug-killing magic potions. I don’t like shit playin’ under my bed. There’s no way this fucker’s moving into my house. Not on my watch. No dice.

life is far too short to miss out on grade 8 pizza parties.

april twenty seventh, 2007

So… being short is alright sometimes…. People pick you up and spin you around a lot and stuff. That’s fun, I guess. You can hide pretty easily too. But, I usually have to ask for help at the grocery store. Cereal that’s on the top shelf is always an uphill battle. I can scale the side of the shelves but I’m always worried the whole thing will come crashing down. It hasn’t happened yet but I’ll be sure to write a Facebook note about it when it does. And, believe me, it will. My days of scaling-shelves-while-not-knocking-shit-over are numbered. Count on it.

I’ve more or less been the exact same size since grade 7. My shoe size hasn’t changed, I still weigh the same and I haven’t grown an inch. I’d like to think that the shape of my body has changed. I’m going to say that it has. Yeah… Let’s go with that.

I rarely think about the fact that I’m small because I’ve always been a loud-mouthed asshole and it makes me feel taller, I guess. And then every once in awhile, something happens that serves as an instant reminder and snaps me right the fuck back into reality…. Like today, for example.

There was a guided tour at my work… These kids got to see the animation studios and post production facilities and audio recording rooms, etc. I wanted to get some tea so I started walking down the hallway toward the main entrance and they all came pouring out of this one room. All of a sudden, I was in the mix with all these kids. Grade 8s, I think. Most of them were taller than me so I couldn’t really see where we were going and I was just sort of going with the flow of the swarm. Before I knew it, I had been herded into a boardroom where the kids were having a pizza party. So, I did what any normal person would do in that situation…. I grabbed a juice box and got the hell out of there.

Yes. I was out like Richard Simmons… vis-à-vis a closet.

if i ruled the world.

april twenty sixth, 2007

I’ve got a bone to pick with Facebook. Here are a few things that are really starting to grind my gears…

I find the news feed more than a little imposing. Why do I need to know when my friends become friends with other people that I don’t know or when they decide that they no longer like a certain book, tv show or quote? Is that really “news”? And, quite frankly, I’m a little wary of the fact that everyone gets to read about what I’m up to daily. All of my “status” updates, clever as they may be, aren’t really intended to be put out there in the mix so heedlessly. So, I end up putting mostly everyone on my limited profile (if you’re reading this, you’re one of the privileged few not on my limited profile…)

Also, I love how it breaks shit down so that if you add a bunch of things to your interests at once, it’ll tell you all of them separately. Like, “Johnny Nobody added “douchebaggery” to their interests.” And then two hours later, “Johnny Nobody added “getting shit faced” to their interests.” Sweet. (If there’s actually someone out there named Johnny Nobody, I’m sorry. Not because I used you as an example. Mostly just because your name sucks. Mostly.)

It’s also funny when people remove things from their favourite activities or interests. Because then it’s like, “So and so removed “summer picnics” from their interests.” Or, “So and so removed “Golden Girls” from their favourite tv shows.” What…. All of a sudden you’re not down anymore? You’re just over summer picnics and Golden Girls? Did Blanche Devereaux offend your sensibilities? (If so, I understand. Afterall, she’s a 60-something-year-old whore. That’s just wrong. I’ll be nice and say “a woman of easy virtue”… but we all know that boils down to a harlet. Straight goods. Any way you slice it…. Gross.)

Also, the real name thing is kinda off-putting. It’s like my virtual form of social interaction is getting all serious and shit. And it also means that people can find me. Jesus. Honestly though… sometimes a trip down memory lane can be about as pleasurable as a stroll through a field of hypodermic needles and dog shit. “Catching up” is really just a euphemism for collecting information for the purposes of in-depth scrutiny. I prefer friendship that’s blurred through a lense of obscurity and falsification. It’s more likely that I’ll actually like you if I don’t really know that much about you. Sorry… It’s kinda true.

See… I feel exposed. And not in the way I usually expose myself… This is entirely new territory. I’ve spent years carefully constructing social barriers to shield my disdain-for-others and disparagement-of-self and now it’s all falling down around me in a flurry of status updates. My empire is crumbling.

One more thing worth mentioning… The event invites. I’m always like “Maybe Attending” because I don’t want to flat out refuse an invitation. It’s so much pressure. Because as soon as you click “Not Attending”, you’re in a group with a bunch of other people who evidently have way better things to do. Or maybe they just hate you. That’s cold. I’m not about hurting people’s feelings. (The people who invite me are probably like, “I don’t give a shit if you come or not…” But still… I have this overwhelming urge to make you feel okay. That’s just me.)

I know, I know. I signed up for all of this. And, dammit… I’d do it again. That’s right… I said it. I’m living my life on the edge, people. Tasting the fruit in the Garden of Eden.

God is going to smite me any second now.

Also…

honey-glazed baby back ribs.

april eighteenth, 2007

I had some requests and I’m pleased to announce that the highly anticipated “Jodi’s Next Blog” has arrived. See… I told you. Once the weather gets nice, I’m always inspired to write. The weather’s not nice yet, right? And when we did get that brief stint of sunshine coupled with warmth, did I not soothe your jangled nerves with a poetic appraisal of Parkdale? Didn’t I?

I should also mention that I’m now transferring blogs from myspace to facebook. So, if you didn’t get a chance to read them on myspace, now’s your chance to peruse the archive on another web-based social utility/waste-of-time. And if you have had a chance to read them on myspace…. Well, you can read them again for the first time. It’ll be like Christmas. Except the kind of Christmas where your parents take objects already in your home and wrap them up and you’re supposed to act surprised when you open it but really it’s a cushion cover and some weird picture of a clown that you discovered in your basement one time and it scared the shit out of you so vowed never to speak of it. And then, there you are, face to face… This never happened to me.

Right now I think I’ll write about my ribs. Because I’m sitting here in agony and it’s all I can think about. Why my ribs? Well, I’ll tell you why.

It was a dark and stormy night in September (it was actually a pleasant Saturday afternoon…) and I was sparring, as usual, with a super-colossal bull dyke. (Hot, I know…) She fucking nailed me in my left side with a right hook. Hard. I heard a tiny pop but it wasn’t until the next day that I woke up completely doubled over in pain. Here’s my solution to things like that: Walk it off. I tried to. For days. It didn’t take. Robitussin? No dice. I went to Toronto Western mostly because my mum was prepared to come down to Toronto and drag me, aching ribs and all, in through the Emergency entrance if I didn’t do it myself. I figured I could at least save her the trip. She did, afterall, give birth to me. (Although… that was kind of a long time ago. Hm. That can’t be leverage forever, can it?)

Two ribs were fractured. There’s not anything you can do about it. They can’t very well put a cast around your entire midsection. The only remedy is a minimum of three weeks without any physical activity whatsoever.

Now, anyone who knows me, knows that’s the equivalent of asking Christopher Reeve to do a fucking two-step. Particularly now that he’s dead. Not happening… Although I’d pay good money to see it. That has “Vegas” written all over it. Come to think of it, maybe I will have the luxury of seeing it at some point… more than likely in my most ghastly and macabre of nightmares. And by nightmares I mean daydreams… Looking forward to it.

So, I kept living my life as I normally would and just hoped it’d somehow go away. And then… much to my amazement… it kind of did. I felt normal. Right around mid-January. And, since then, I’m disappointed to report that it’s been a steep downward journey.

I haven’t told anyone about it except Robin because I know people are going to reprimand me for not initially taking care of it. And Robin wouldn’t even test because he’s smarter than that. (Let’s just say I’m not a big fan of being wrong. Shit’d get scary.) But, now I’m telling all of you. Because I don’t care anymore. I know my sisters and roommates and even Zeek will be disappointed in me for pretending for so long. I just didn’t want them to worry… That’s all. Entirely honourable intentions.

This morning, I noticed that it was bruised. The spot where the sore ribs are. I’m not sure why it’s bruised. I haven’t hit it on anything recently. Do you think it could just be pressure mounting from the inside causing surface bruising due to interior swelling? Hm. I wonder.

So, what now? I think it’s time for another round of “Pretend it doesn’t hurt and hope it doesn’t get worse.” Fun game, that one. So basically, my prescription is continued idiocy. If you need some, I can probably write you a prescription for it too. I’d give it to you for street value…

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with Christopher Reeve’s corpse.

Ah, the good old days… *sigh*

i wanna live at king and jameson.

 march twenty seventh, 2007

I fucking love Parkdale.  It was so nice outside today that I decided to go for a walk on my lunch break.  King and Dufferin to Queen and Landsdowne.  There are lots of pleasant things on that route.  And even more not-so-pleasant things.  But that’s what makes Parkdale what it is: Pretty awesome.

It’s like this:

Old ladies in surprisingly hype old-lady-style afternoon hats.  Mothers yelling at children from balconies to not ride their bikes in the street.  A red and yellow sign that reads: “Satyam – A Store for the Whole Family” and proudly displays an odd assortment of things… A bust of Elvis.  Some multi coloured wind breakers.  Skipping rope.  Naked plastic dolls.  Velcro shoes.

Dudes in yellow track pants and oversized Sean John t-shirts nudging each other as I walk by in my 9 – 5 clothes and stilettos so they can make kissy noises and cat calls in unison.  Like a dirty chorus line.  Hoola hoops hanging in store windows beside 30 year-old bottles of Vim and laundry detergent and some kind of toothpaste I’ve never heard of.  This is likely a bodega/drugfront.  There are certain tell-tale signs. 

13 year old boys smoking cigarettes in front of corner stores.  The north side of the street swathed in sunlight so that shop owners have had to cover up windows with stained curtains and old sheets and the cool darkness of the south side where fresh fruit and vegetables are displayed on wooden crates.  Endless rows of colourful, damp laundry hanging from balconies of high rises.  Games of half court pick-up and double dutch in school yards.  Old men on park benches, smoking cigars… The lines in their faces and wrinkled hands remarkably prominent in harsh mid-day shadows.  Hot and flossy Parkdale bitches getting their weaves and their nails did in a beauty parlour (mint green on the inside) run by three Korean women who wipe beads of sweat from their brow as they delicately paint toenails and braid shiny strands of hair. 

A young girl with cornrows and turned in knees and a pink coat one-size-too-small.  A boy with a backpack and a baseball cap eagerly pulling her along by one hand… I imagined they were cutting class together to find a secluded area of the schoolyard for an awkwardly unskilled and clumsy make-out session.  I bet I was right.

Baby strollers and shopping bags.  Teenagers.  Crosswalks.  Hopscotch.  Mothers talking to one another about their children, with obligatory shakes of the head and overly dramatic sighs.  Babies precariously balanced on their hips. 

And, to me, that’s what life looks like.

Life looks like Parkdale. 

the stupid things that people do.

march twenty fifth, 2007 

There are countless social mistakes and oversights that really grind my gears.  In general, I’m mostly annoyed by other human beings.  9 times out of 10, I’d rather be alone.  So, when something happens that reaffirms this aphorism, I take note and store it away for days when I think I might like to have some company so that I can cycle back through incidents like this and snap the fuck out of it. 

I got together with some of my girlfriends at Czehoski and we were standing at the bar, drinking, talking, laughing… etc.  We hadn’t seen each other for a few weeks so we had nuff things to talk about… much gossip, stories about dudes, shoes we bought, bitches we hate, and so on and so on.  I could see this fucker eyeballing us from the other end of the bar but I didn’t think much of it.  For starters, he was blonde and had blue eyes.  For anyone that knows me, you’ll know that this dude didn’t stand a chance anyway.  So, I ignored him despite being able to feel his boner through his eyes.  Hahaha.  Funny.  And gross.

Just when I had forgotten about him completely, he came up to us and said, “I’m sorry.  I have to interrupt…”  And we were like, “Yeeeeah…. And???”  His response: “Oh, I don’t really have anything to say.  I just had to interrupt.”

Excuse me?  What kind of pick up line is that?  Are we that out of ideas?  Is this what we’re doing now?  I mean, holy fuck.  And the last thing you wanna do is interrupt a group of girls who are catching up on three week’s worth of conversations.  That’s like a fucking suicide mission.  Kamikaze style. 

He was German… I could tell right away by his accent.  And I started thinking to myself, “This better not be about some fucking weird video.  Like, “Frauleins Gone Wild Part III” or something.  Was there a part I and II?  Maybe. 

So, out of the kindness of our hearts (and by “kindness of our hearts” I mean “desire to see this guy make an idiot out of himself”), we entertained his advances momentarily.  We asked him where he was from, what he does, why he came to Canada and a bunch of other shit.  He didn’t ask us a single thing.  Not a single thing! 

Here’s some advice for any dudes reading this: Girls like it when you ask them shit about theyselves (that’s not a typo… I just think it sounds street… Haha.)  We’re fucking thrilled when we get to talk about shit… anything, really.  But especially if it seems like someone is genuinely interested in us and what we’re all about.  Some random who’s just going to stand there like a big dumb fucking loser is just a waste of everybody’s time.   

We eventually got bored of humouring him and gave each other the patented “let’s bail on this guy quick-time” look and we were out like Ellen Degeneres.  He was wearing the stupidest sweater too.  God. 

Let this be a cautionary tale… If you’re thinking about approaching girls at a bar but you don’t really have anything to say… Think again.  I mean seriously think and come up with something.  You can’t go into that kind of battle empty-handed. 

Otherwise you’ll end up as the subject of some girl’s blog. 

Scary, I know.  But also true.

white boots and tight pants.

march fifteenth, 2007 

 

I’m sure most of you are familiar with Kevin Clarke?  Toronto’s would-be mayor who can often be seen cruising around on rollerblades and wearing a sheet?  He frequents the neighbourhood that I work in which is Liberty Village.  I see him every so often on my lunch break, rolling around and acting crazy.  None of this is out of the ordinary, as I’m sure you know if you’ve ever had the luxury of being exposed to his psychosis.  But, there’s a key difference here between normal interaction (or lack thereof) and what has blossomed into the relationship that Kevin and I share.  I believe we’re inextricably linked somehow by a powerful cosmic force.  Our lives were destined to intersect at a precise moment in history… when all the stars and planets align under a celestial, sparkling blanket of glorious nebulas and galaxy dust…

 

Okay… Slightly over the top.  But, here’s why I think that:

 

I used to work at the Rivoli.  Sometimes he’d breeze by the patio in the summer, shouting things and waving his voodoo stick around.  On one very special occasion, however, things took a turn…. for the worse?  I hesitate to say that.  He came rolling toward the patio as usual, but this time he was holding two paper plates out in front of him.  Both of them had pieces of poo on them.  I’m going to assume it was dog poo.  For some reason that’s way less gross than human poo.  He started offering it to the customers sitting out there.  They were all just minding their own business, having a drink after work or perhaps sharing a bottle of wine on a first date and, all of a sudden, a poo plate was being thrust in their direction.  I suppose I should’ve done something.  But I was laughing too hard.  I had to run inside and stifle my giggles of disgust/delight.  Mostly, I was just glad it wasn’t happening to me. 

 

I went for a long time after that with no Kevin sightings.  I was wondering where he could’ve gone.  And then I figured he was probably just busy with his mayoral campaign.  Fair enough.

 

So now I work in the other end of the city as I mentioned before… Near Parkdale.  King & Dufferin-ish.  I guess this is Kevin’s ‘hood or something because I see him all the motherfucking time.  And, for some reason, he’s taken to shouting things specifically at me.  Why?!  Is there something about the way I present myself that suggests I’d be into it?  I mean, am I asking for it?

 

It all started maybe a month ago when I was strolling down Liberty St. on my lunch break and I hear someone shout out, “Hey white boot!”  (Anyone who knows me knows the boots he was referring to… the Captain Americas… classic.)  So I turned around and of course it was Kevin, in hot pursuit I might add.  So he’s rolling after me and shouting some other stuff like, “Why are your boots so white?”  etc.  I’m lucky I have a huge hood on my winter coat so I can hide in there if need be.  Like a fucking ostrich… with white boots on. 

 

Anyway, I let that slide.  I’m like, “Yeah… well, my boots are white.  It’s true.  So I can’t even hate on Kevin for pointing that out.”

 

But today… On my lunch break…

 

I was, once again, strolling down Liberty St.  There were lots of other people around.  Everyone was on lunch break, I guess.  So, I’m walking along, thinking about what kind of soup to have, and I hear from across the street, “Hey!  You walk funny!” 

 

Oh no!!!  I panicked.  I was like, “Holy shit.  What do I do?!”  See, I wasn’t even wearing my coat with the big hood.  I kept walking in the supposed funny manner in which I walk…  And then he hollers, “It’s because your pants are too tight!”

 

Zing!  Oh man.  He totally called it.  My pants are fucking tight.  Jesus. 

 

I guess he figured he had humiliated me enough and he moved onto his next target.  But, I spent the rest of my break concentrating on my walking steez.  I was like, “Is my shit fucked up?  Am I walking weird?”  I honestly don’t know anymore.  But, apparently Kevin Clarke thinks I am.

 

Based on these events, I’ve made the following decision… I’m going to befriend him.  Shit, we’re gonna be closer than two grade four girls who just exchanged fluorescent gimp bracelets.  Fuck yeah.  We’ll be closer than Vanna White and Pat Sajak.  Done deal.  But, what’s my next step?  I need to find some common ground.  Let’s see… I hate rollerblades.  But, I do like sheets.  So, I’ll cozy up to him and be like, “Kevin, your sheet is lovely.  Is it 300 thread count Egyptian cotton?  Oh… You found it in the garbage?  Well… It’s quite exquisite.  Decadent, even.” 

 

Man, I have lots of sheets.  I should just bring him one so he can make some crazy turban out of it.  That oughta do it.  How else do you get a crazy guy to like you?

 

 

That’s all I got.  I’m out of ideas…

 

 

 

lucky strikes.

march second, 2007

This is going to be brief… Maybe.  I always say that and then I get carried away.  We’ll see…

I wanna talk about the snowstorm for a minute.  What’s the deal?  I got home yesterday and I felt like I had been in fucking Vietnam, smoking Lucky Strikes and listening to Creedence Clearwater Revival.  Except without the Lucky Strikes and Creedence Clearwater Revival.  And, I suppose there wasn’t any napalm either.  So, truthfully, it was nothing like Vietnam.  You can go ahead and scratch that comparison.

Then I got all excited because of that old saying “In like a lion, out like a lamb”.  And then I realized that was hogwash.  Truly.  It could be winter until July for all I know. 

 

And there were a few of you who scoffed at my dog sled idea… I bet if I had’ve actually done it, all y’all would’ve been blowing up my phone asking for rides to work and so on.  Ha.  I win. 

And another thing:

I think girls who live in climates that are cold for a sizeable percentage of the year have it “going on” in the conventional sense, particularly when it comes to parties, dancing and other activities that inevitably result in lots of fun.  And everybody likes it when girls have fun.  What can I say? … We’re a fun bunch. 

Now, I can only speak for myself, but I’m ready to wear as little clothing as I can get away with without being arrested and party until 6am and pass out in a park or stumble home drunk in a halter top, cut offs and pink ballet flats.  I feel like I need to give a gigantic ”fuck you” to winter.  It’s the same reason why you see those assholes saunter around in Bermuda shorts and flip flops in March when there’s still fucking snow on the ground.  Yeah… I’m as bad as those guys.  Except that my outfit will be waaaaaay cuter.  And, somehow, that’ll make it okay.  More than okay.

I promise I won’t write anything else about how much I hate winter.  But I can’t promise that I won’t write more about how much I love summer.  I guarantee I’ll be particularly inspired during the first stretch of days when the temperature is above 32c. 

Then your appetite for my blogs will finally be satiated.  Wait for it…