I'm sitting atop a pile of cardboard in what was once my living room...and bedroom. It is a disaster. I have movers coming in a few hours and I'm not packed. This is very typical of me, you should know. My left foot is soundly asleep and I ate McDonalds for lunch. I am a sinner and you know what that gets me? One shitty afternoon, folks.

Well, I suppose I should get on with it. But there's soooooooooooooooo much to do!

Maybe the movers will be cute.

If you're like me, you want to read all about Ann Coulter getting it up the ass... hard. This is so funny, I think I may have died and left a little of myself on the page.

Early, early Monday morning and I'm on the mend. Sure, if I lay for too long on my back I risk drowning in my own phlegm - but, other than that, I believe this mudder fudder of a cold is on its way out.

I'm at my new place and I'm on dial-up. It's not so bad...seriously.

It's been a relaxing weekend and I am grateful - even if I did miss out on a couple of tantalizing social opportunities. But I am fairly certain that if I had tried to go out I would have probably died. So, no regrets...mostly.

The fact that I lived through the weekend means I have to deal with this week. I have to move, clean the old apartment and deal with a banking fiasco that I just don't have the heart to tell you about right now.

I'm tired and I just remembered that I filled the tub with water ages ago. Luke warm bliss, here I come!

There's things to say but I'm so fucking sick it's beyond me. I scored many gifts from NYC. When I am well I will congratulate myself a bit more. I just ate my first meal of the day and it's 10 pm. I have slept 3 hours since yesterday and I'm so hopped up on speed (Daytime Tylenol Cold) I've grinded my molars down to kibble.

I drank 3 near beer tonight and hung around like a groupie for the chance to chat with Stroumboulopoulos. He is more than good denim. I think he should give me job. It's just good business, really.

I am hysterical. Who would like to slap me?

I am sick. Lord have mercy on you all.

It is a beautiful day. I am annoyed because in my haste today, I forgot to put on a bra. Not the end of the world, as I'm not wearing anything revealing, but still...

George Stroumboulopoulos is in the building today. Folks are all a'twitter. I am too lazy to go downstairs to scope him out. I've seen him on teevee and I will be part of the studio audience for a live taping of The Hour later this week, and I'm too lazy to take the stairs. He does wear nice blue jeans, as I've mentioned before.

I bought Evening Primrose oil, One-a-day vitamins and hair dye at London Drugs today. I am old. Ten years ago I would have been picking up rubbers and cigarettes.

are you there so and so? it's me blah blah blah


We've discussed this before. I'm pretty sure I'm going to be rich and famous. I 'm really not losing sleep over end results here. I realize that all this incredible bullshit that is continuously thrown my way will make for great post-success stories. But I confess I am getting a bit impatient. I mean there's no huge rush, but it would be nice to get the ball rolling.

We still have the same deal, right? I keep blindly believing and you (insert deity here) reward me. We're still cool?

Not in the Cards

Well, K2 called from NYC to leave me a nice long voice recording of she, CP and Justim at a recording of the Conan O'Brien show. It was exciting and heartbreaking for me. On one hand, I'm very excited and happy for them. On the other throbbing and meaner hand, the news breaks my cheatin' heart. It's very difficult to sit in a muggy office in chilly grey Vancouver all the while your friends are enjoying an experience that by all rights should be yours - or at the very least include you.

But it is very unbecoming to be jealous and nasty about such things. Especially when you know your friends appreciate how much you would enjoy being with them. And especially when they use their expensive daytime cell minutes to include you.

Very unbecoming indeed.

Oh, but hey - I have exciting news too! Oh, but hey - actually I don't.

I'm fed up. This move has worn me straight through. I'm exhausted and worried and completely overwhelmed. Fed up, like I stated moments ago.

Today:

A man on the bus smelled so bad I gagged - twice.

I stepped in dogshit (I pray it came from a dog) and didn't notice it until I tromped all through my apartment (the old one, thank fucking God).

I felt completely invisible. That is, except for the three new blemishes on my chin.

My brother called and gushed about his wonderful holiday in San Francisco. Lucky bastard. He sent photos. For some reason each jpg bruised me a bit. Nasty green-eyed monster.

Perhaps I need to lighten up. I need something, that's for sure.

I have taken on the task of selling Girl Guide cookies (Brownie cookies, technically) at work, because I am the helpful/competitive sort. So this morning I grabbed the rather heavy carton of cookies (with the words "Girl Guides" gaudily emblazoned all over it) and carried it to work.

Waiting at the bus stop, three different creeps in cars made crass "cookie comments". Very embarrassing when you are standing with others. One nice older lady smiled at me and delivered a disapproving cluck toward one of the nasty drivers. She told me she used to sell cookies for her three daughters and she had never had to put up with such rudeness.

The crowded bus trip up to work left my arms aching from the added weight of the awkward cookie carton and my body craving caffeine. As luck would have the bus dropped me off right in front of a Starbucks...and mother's lock up your daughters, the pervs were out in full force. Within moments, some smarmy business man wiggled his eyebrows and made a comment about me being a bit old for a girl guide. His friend added, "You'd probably sell more if you were wearing the uniform."

Um... Ew.

I sold three boxes before I had a chance to add too much sugar to my non-fat latte. That's $12 just for carrying the carton. Nice. Men are so disgusting, bless their hearts.

i tweed you to tweed me


I spent the day organizing the new digs and I think I may even be able to fit my beloved sofa among the subletter's belongings.

I love my sofa. It folds into a bed, has a secret compartment with a tabletop hidden under a removable arm cushion and is the same model that was used on the original "I Love Lucy" set. A couple of years ago I spied it in a vintage shop for $600. Many months and a student loan later, it was mine. Well, actually it was "ours" and I'm no longer a part of that particular "ours". It would be painful to give it up. There are many memories tied to the hulking, tweed-covered beauty. Mind you, those memories are as painful as they are pleasant - "cuz life's like that". Just like Avril says. We shall see how it works out.

I am thinking I like my new situation more and more. And I will say this, there are many attractive people in my neighbourhood - if you can tolerate the tragically hip. Sure, military caps are epidemic and there is a lot of faux-filthy hair, but there's also many a pair of nice jeans and a fair sampling of good bone structure. The women are alright, too. If you like your ladies with dirty hair and a sneer. Well, I'm not being fair, I guess. A few cute chicks walked past my place on the way to the market next-door. But I'm sure they get enough press in their own lives.

It is storming away outside. Tonight, back in the West End,I found a silverfish in my sink. I smiled benignly at it as I turned on the hot water tap.

Good night.

Whoa, I feel a black, black mood coming on. Stress-induced, I believe. I can't blame hormones, unfortunately. I have so much to do and I can't imagine where to start. I must stay off the phone today. My most recent telephone conversation consisted of my mother picking and prodding and predicting doom and gloom. I'm nervous enough about this latest twist in my dull little life without others pointing out worst case scenarios. I am feeling very prickly and childishly only want to hear words of encouragement. I do it for people all the time, why can't people play the same game as nice dysfunctional me? It's not like I'm asking for sincerity here.

Okay, I did it. I am now the proud sublet-er of a three-bedroom row house in Strathcona. I'm terrified. It's only until Sept 1st, which may seem crazy, but that is an entire summer in a real neighbourhood. Four months of space, a garden and super fun neighbours. I met a few tonight. The ones closest to me were eating oatmeal outside and few doors down a young fellow was having a party with a gaggle of giggling girls spilling in and out of his front door. The rent is $1000 and that includes all utilities - including cable, phone and internet. Now I must trim some fat. Streamline my life and get rid of a lot of stuff. I think it will feel good.

Tonight, on the way home, a strange guy introduced himself and informed me that he was heading out to celebrate his divorce. He showed me the papers. He seemed so excited. He told me that I have nice green eyes. I didn't bother to tell him that they're hazel. He told me he was off to meet his friends for drinks. He shook my hand and practically skipped off. It was strange and I couldn't help but find his elation just a bit contagious. Mind you, it only lasted a couple of blocks before my headache returned and I remembered how hungry and miserable I was feeling.

And so here I am. Freaking out a bit. So much going on and I'm all on my lonesome. On almost all levels, I know this is good for me. I will be very proud of myself when this is all said and done. So there you have it.

Well, I think I have a new place to live. I don't want to say for certain until after Friday night, when everything is supposed to be finalized. I am hoping to sublet a row house until September with the possibility of taking over the lease in the fall. It's a three bedroom with a back yard and a nice garden. Washer, dryer, dishwasher, juicer! She is leaving much of her furniture, but I think it could all work out. Fingers crossed and fuck you, silverfish.

Now I wait and rest assured that nights go by.

Yesterday I went to meet a potential family doctor. He was strange, but likeable in a sense. But more strange, definitely. He suggested that at this phase in my life I might want to consider having my tubes tied. That he doesn't really see children in my future and instead of messing around with birth control, I may want to consider surgery. He caught me completely off-guard. It was the first time anyone ever verbally insinuated that I am withering fruit on the vine. I am 32. I am upset.