I will not be a smartass

I will not be a smartass

I will not be a smartass

I will not...


Sauntered into a department-wide presentation this afternoon, the room full of colleagues, most of whom I count as friends. No need then to resist the temptation to toss a little snark-wit in the direction of the presenter about some email he sent out earlier. Quiet smiles on the faces of few, but I really expected a more enthusiastic response.

I take my seat. I glance down at the conference table. At the conference call system.

The lights are on.

The entire San Francisco office is listening.

I Am

Being raised in a country different than the one in which I finally chose to settle has its advantages. I've seen both sides of the cultural fence and manage to straddle it without pain. I can go wherever, whenever. I get all the jokes.

But there comes a time when there is no room for compromise, there is no room for equality. This town ain't big enough for the both of us.

In just such a time I discovered where my heart truly lives.

Can-A-da! Can-A-da! CAN-A-DA!

Just scarfed down almost all of what remained of my VDay candy. Oh! the rush!

Anyone who tells you there are things in this world better than chocolate is lying.

Shout it Out

Not twenty minutes into my day and I splatter coffee onto the front of my shirt. I typically have difficulty going a single meal without spilling something, but now my clumsiness has encroached into my coffee break as well? Sheesh.

Just Kidding about the Dwarves

I've always been able to remember what I've dreamt at night. For better or worse, I'm still glad they don't get lost in the morning fog since, at the very least, I can then understand why I sometimes wake up from a solid nine hours utterly exhausted.

Last night, an endless dream that I was being stalked by someone I couldn't see. It was high tension and terror; no matter how the scene or what I was doing changed, eventually there would come that rattle of the doorknob or a shade of movement in the window. And one violent attempt at a break-in with me frantically slamming deadbolts home, slamming myself against the door, screaming through the wood, "Goawaygoaway! Oh why won't you leave me alone?!" A few times I remember sighing, "ah... finally a new dream" only to feel his presence arrive a few moments later.

It finally ended, to be followed by crazed monkey sex with an arrogant hermaphrodite and two dwarves.

Now that I'm thinking about it, there was another rough one a few nights ago. Driving along with a friend in the passenger seat, highway speed in an urban zone*, when my brakes fail completely. I'm trying everything I can think of to do to slow us down, swerving to lose momentum, down-shifting, all the while with my foot buried to the floor in disbelief that the breaks are gone. Flying through a high-traffic area, through intersections, through clusters of pedestrians, honking to let other cars know we're coming through. I force my friend, who is completely relaxed about the whole thing, to reach over and flash my brights in warning since I need my other hand to down-shift. Nothing slows us down. Finally, there's a row of parked cars that I just can't avoid and I slam into the back of them screaming, totaling my car but walking away uninjured. My friend untangles himself from the wreckage, gives me a little shrug, and grins.

As said Blue Rodeo:
"I don't need a doctor to figure it out"



(*oddly, Reynolds Road near the intersection of Heatherdowns, in Toledo, Ohio)

Hot water heater broken this morning. Gave up waiting around 10:30 and took a cold (ohmygodsocold) shower. Parts of me are still frozen.

Elvis on Ice

In all this flurry, I've been meaning to write about our recent tubing outing. Those that don't live in a climate that requires you to wear goose down eight months out of the year probably don't understand some of our survival pastimes, such as this. Embrace the cold, baby. You sure as hell can't hide from it. So on a mild (-10C) afternoon, we tossed on some ski gear, picked out a few giant black-rubber doughnuts, and prepared to reaffirm our Canadianity.

The hills we went to were pretty nice, with lots of quick, bobsleddy runs, and hook-lifts so you could occasionally avoid climbing the fourteen flights of stairs to the top. I say occasionally because climbing those stairs is about the only way to keep your body temperature up and avoid being shipped home as a popsicle in fancy ski pants. Or so I thought.

We did a few runs, one a particularly amazing six-person blast down the ice, and were halfway up the hill for another when suddenly the pulley lift jerks to a stop. The woman next to me looks over at the run beside us, lets out a scream, and swoops her toddler up out of his inner-tube and on down the stairs.

At first I thought there has been an accident. Someone in beige snowsuit seemed to be sprawled about halfway down the hill. But he was moving. He was moving up the ice-covered slope. A silence slowly fell across the hill, punctuated only by the shouts of the facility manager, as everyone stood aghast.

There was someone climbing the run. And that wasn't no beige snowsuit he was wearing neither.

He fairly flew up the slope, crampons a-blur, wearing a harness, goose bumps, and a grin. As he passed, so close to where I was stalled, wedged into my own tube, there could be no doubt--Elvis was at it again.

I'd recognize that 40-centimeter steel-shafted ice hammer anywhere.

By the time he got to the top, the authorities and a few hundred wildly cheering bystanders were there to meet him. The real question on everyone's mind wasn't the obvious one, or even the one after that. The real question is where will he pop up next.

Flying down the highway this morning under crisp sunshine and flawless blue sky when Rick Astley comes on the radio. Singing along at the top of my lungs, oh yeah.

There ain't no mistaking
It's true love we're making
Something to last for all time
It's never changing
Can't you hear me I'm saying
I want you for the rest of my life

Together forever and never to part
Together forever we two
And don’t you know
I would move heaven and earth
To be together forever with you

Sammy baby, this one's for you.

I've been neglectful, I know. Of this blog and a whole lot of other things (the first to dare say "RRSP contribution" is going to get spanked). What with trying to reverse-engineer release notes into a user guide, writing last minute technical bulletins, and closing chapters for print, I could barely squeeze in a few fantasies about how nice it would be to have someone nearby to insert the caffeine drip and maybe rub my shoulders a little. Ah... sweet sweet caffeine drip...

Ahem. Where was I? Oh yes, my busy week, or rather, my busy life. I've realized that in addition to work, I've been running full out over the past few months, packing my days and nights with endless amounts of... well, stuff. Dance classes and concerts, movie nights, gym nights, and squash games. Skiing and sledding, tubing and luging. Dinners, and breakfasts, and bars, oh my!

Okay, maybe I lied about the luging (do I look sucidal??). Anyway, I don't know what has gotten into me. Home, once a comfy, if tattered, haven, is now just some place I come to crash, shower, and store my clothes. I miss sleeping in until midafternoon on Saturdays, I miss lounging on my couch watching championship bowling, I miss puttering about the apartment, watering the few plants that survived since my last bit of loving care. And hush up about the bowling -- I don't have cable, alright?

So the solution to all this whining should be simple. If I want to slow down, just do it. Right? Just stop. But I can't, I can't, I really really can't. I don't know what's going on. Perhaps it was turning thirty. I thought I was okay with flipping over to a new decade. And I finally made peace with all my new wrinkles. Most of my new wrinkles. But through this foggy haze of exhaustion comes a sneaking suspicion that I'm busily in denial, perhaps trying to cram in as much living as possible while I've still got all my teeth. Or perhaps simply trying to outrun death. I don't know, and frankly, I don't have much time to think about it.

So for those who've left me messages along the lines of:

"Hello...? We remember you--do you remember us?"
"Where the hell are you? Aren't you ever home?!"
"I've been trying for two weeks... Oh god, I'm calling the police."

I just want to say I'm sorry, I love you, I miss you, and I'll call you soon. Not tonight, because I've got plans and won't be home until late... but tomorrow. No, tomorrow's gym... Thursday. Thursday for sure.

Step 1:

That's it, these online tests must stop. I take them first thing in the morning, and last thing before I pass out at night. If I see a link on a friend's site, oh no... Not another one. I can't... I... I must take the Ass Test.

Congratulations!
Your outstanding ass score of... 81 % has gained you audience with my butt.

Ooo yeah. *thud*

You can’t believe that I’m every word that I write down
What I am is too far in and can’t be found.

(Jann Arden)

Rapunzel, Rapunzel...

Had an absolutely lovely day yesterday (in spite of getting trounced playing squash) which was made even better by an odd little occurrence in the mid-afternoon. I was with a couple of my guys... we'd just finished a yummy breakfast and walked back to my car, which was piled with freshly fallen snow. But they were chivalrous and R grabbed for the snow brush thingie without my even having to say "Do you want to ride in the trunk? Well, do you?!" a single time.

He was having a little trouble though. You see, my snow brush actually folds open to double in size, but first you have to push the big red button.

R: How the fuck...?!
M: *laughing*
Me: Master's degree, eh?
R: *more fumbling* *creative swearing*

As this goes on, some cute boything wanders up to them and says something helpful-sounding. So I, being all the way over on the other side of the car, ask him if he would be so kind as to show my friend there how to open the brush. Which he does--instantly.

Then he cleans my car. My entire car. Brushed and scraped.

At this point, I'm in the car cranking up the heat and trying not to giggle, with M in the passenger seat beside me looking perplexed. I lean out the window to say thank you.

Cutething: Let me give you my card.
M: Yeah, I'll call you next time it snows.
Cutething's Friend: Not for you, buddy. For her.
M: Oh.

What really surprised me is that he did this in spite of the fact that I was in the company of two guys. How did he know he wasn't about to get clobbered by an irate boyfriend? Cheeky.

And that makes this the second time that some guy has volunteered his snow-removal services. The last one actually dug my car out snow piled all the way up to the door, the sweetheart. It took him something like forty-five minutes of hard labour and he refused to let me help. I guess here in Canada, your knights in shining armour really wear touque's, ride in white 4x4's, and come armed with a shovel and a snow brush. Who wouldda thunk?

Got asked out (by someone I know for real) via email. That's the third time, the third guy. What is up with that?!

No Surprises There

I am:



A result which is, they say, "higher than the worldwide average 38%".

There I go again, blowing the average scores right out of the water. I am such an overachiever.

Ah... the sweet, sweet taste of Sleeman's.

Decline of a High-Tech Empire

It's the beginning of the end, folks. My company provides us with wine, decent local beer, and cases and cases of glorious Cape Cod potato chips on Fridays. I barely suppressed a scream when I pulled back a box flap moments ago to discover my Golden Russets have been replaced by Humpty Dumpty ketchup chips, fer chrissake!

I knew we had to watch the budget, but I had no idea things had gotten this bad. I better go and check the beer case--
they've probably switched us to Budweiser. Oh god.