This morning I was humming Dean Martin's "Return to Me" as I stood outside Caffe Artigiano. I was preoccupied because I was worried that I had left my iron on at home. Thankfully, a dear fellow chose not to ignore my desperate phone calls and agreed to run me home so I could check. I jumped into his car and guess what was playing on the radio. That's right! And you know what was even weirder is that both me and Dean were on the same verse of the song. Freaky deaky. I thought maybe such a moment of synchronicity might mean good things for me today. Not so much.

I did receive a new phone in the mail - a fantastic gift from a friend overseas. It's a Nokia 6600 and it does nifty things. After much running around I finally got soaked for $50 in exchange for a North American charger and I was ready to make some magic... BUT of course, dealing with Fido is a complete nightmare. I have a very cool phone sitting in front of me and I can't do a fucking thing with it until those cock-knockers at Fido hook me up.

I have been on hold for... 67 minutes and 17 seconds. I have the bastards on speakerphone. They're very sorry for the delay but due to unexpected blah, blah blah. They sure would like for me to remain on the line to retain my call priority. A rude French-Canadian will be with me shortly to give me the run-around. Neat.

I still don't know if I have a job. The woman I'm subletting from called to let me know that she's coming back - possibly early. Imminent homelessness, unemployment and phonelessness. I've been doing some hard traveling, I thought you knowed.

***update: 80 minutes, 20 seconds and counting.

I read somewhere recently that transition for some means slipping out the back. Walking away from the important people who remain. This a frightening mindset and a convenient one at that. I feel sorry and sad. Too much hurt to navigate, but the alternative - to leave things to scab over - is the easy way out. A route I'm familiar with. One that's never done me right. Things change. Shitty about it, as an old and estranged friend used to say. The blame game is tiring and dull yet it's as addictive as high-stakes poker. I want to impress that there are never any replacements for anything, only additional characters. But who can penetrate deaf ears?

Gobbeldy-gook. I'm tired and I don't feel like myself. I'm not sure of anything anymore. Worse yet, I feel old and unattractive. I am left with the sensation of what it must be like to play Jenga on a moving train. Yeah, you figure that one out.

the nose knows another year goes

Yeah, I turned 33 last Saturday.

This year I was spoiled lousy with a trip to Saltspring, a yoga pass and some really great books. Ooh, and fancy chocolate and wine, a thick UK Cosmo and pizza from Lombardos.

And I forgot to mention that the women I work with took me out for a nice pedicure and a friend treated me to cosmopolitans and mussels at Subeez.

My parents came in for cake and to exchange gifts (my father and I share a birthday) and we had a lovely time. If I believe the rumours, there are more gifts coming - all the way from New York City! God bless us, everyone.

Late last night I was looking for something. A small cardboard card that I needed. I had to dig through boxes and bags jam-packed with memories. Photos, letters, concert tickets ... all from a previous life. Several previous lives.

Each plastic bag or torn envelope shrouded thoughts that I hadn't considered in months, years...if ever. I flipped through photos of me and my siblings as small children years before we developed the neuroses that keep us at eachother's throats.

I sorted through stubs from shows that I could barely remember attending and yet I could recall with precision the outfits I had worn and the drinks I had ordered.

I re-read letters that had me bawling just at the sight of the handwriting and I sorted through ratty piles children's drawings - unable to weed even one out. It was hard going. But really a very important exercise or exorcise.

So many different experiences make me feel a bit fragmented. Indulging in a good weep felt rather nice and it surely did help me sleep. One thing I can tell you is that growing up is very sad. Children know this. Teenagers forget about it. 20-somethings ignore it. And then you have your 30s and up to mourn your terminal adulthood.

Fuck me, I am a downer. Tomorrow I go to Saltspring Island for a very much needed break. I hear the air is much fresher when one's head is pulled from one's ass.

Just so you know, I am very mad at Kitto.

Sometimes the food is very tasty and nice there. And sometimes a super snotty waitress tries to charge you $0.75 extra to make you a spicey salmon cone. Her logic: "We make spicey tuna cones. NOT spicey salmon cones, so we will have to charge you $0.75 extra." I asked her if she could just bring some hot sauce and I could make it myself and she responded by telling me that a splash of hotsauce costs a body $0.75 nowadays. I really wanted a spicey salmon cone and so I allowed myself to be financially sodomized by my once beloved Kitto - who, not 2 weeks ago, made me a lovely salmon cone with all the fire of hades. And they served it with a smile and nary a surcharge to be found.

I promise to boycott Kitto until such time as I feel they have learned their lesson or until I'm very hungry and too lazy to walk to another restaurant.

It's raining. It's pouring. And that's quite alright with me. A few more days reprieve from skimpy summer clothing is never a bad thing.

A friend just gave me "The Stripper's Guide to Looking Great Naked." What a fun book, but it's a tad thin. I think I may need several volumes to accomplish the hot naked thing. Well, I've nothing to lose, so I'm willing to give it a shot.

I'm flipping pages as I post this (such a multi-tasker) and I've cum upon the old shape-your-areolas trick. I read about this in Cosmo ages ago. I never tried it as my areolas are just fine, I don't mind telling you.

I was going to write more tonight, but I think I'll go read up on "side lighting". Apparently, it's the most flattering light for nekkid ladies. Good to know.