Today I read poetry. A dangerous thing to do. 

Reading someone's chosen words makes me think.

And thinking makes me think some more. 

Thinking more makes me contrast and compare and compare and compare...

Drawing attention to the anxiety pit growing in my stomach.

Don't look down. 

It's embarrassing to say what you really want. You know?

thursday

You know when you have a point? You may even be right and you feel pretty sure you should make your point because they say communication is essential...communication is key.

And so you go ahead and make that point. You're going to talk about your feelings because it is important to talk about one's feelings in life.

You have something to say.

You open your mouth and you hear your voice -- wheedling, whining -- and you want to really and truly stuff a sock in it. "It" being your mouth. Your trembling mouth from which your point is dribbling down your chin. It's really quite terrible. You can hear the tears and snot in your voice.

You are emotional.

You are tedious.

You wonder when did this happen? When did you become a person to be tolerated? When did this transition take place? Weren't you funny once? Wasn't there a time when others sought you out - maybe even desired you? Surely you were the apple of someone's eye and not so very long ago, right? Right?

Not this sad sack moaning about respect and self-esteem. What. A. Drag.

And since you cannot stuff a sock in it, you finish. No one feels better. Your point cost everyone a little something something. Time. Patience. You wipe your nose. An embrace. A truce. A bowl of chips.

Call me Heinz

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3 more sleeps...

Another Christmas will soon be in the can. For the first time ever, I think, I can't wait for it to be over. What I'd really like to do is run away to some place that is very quiet and hide out in bed for a week. Or two. Alone. Not even a fantasy fellow would be invited. I'm too tired and low feeling to entertain such make-believeness. In fact, I can't even fantasize myself into feeling attractive enough for pretend bodice ripping hijinks. Maybe I'd bring a book, but even that feels like a lot of work. Oh boo-hoo. Another sad sack blue Christmas blog post. Just what the world needs.

I'm eating kale and quinoa. Healthful.

Tis the season to...

... do the wrong thing for the right reason. Being a grown-up seems to involve a whole lot of looking the other way, turning the other cheek etc and so on in order to keep the peace. And this season is all about peace, is it not? It's the time of year where families all over the world spend a good deal of time pretending in order to keep everyone happy.

Every year I try to recreate these wonderful Christmases from my childhood and every year I fail. It doesn't feel the same. It's not as warm and I'm nowhere near as happy as my parents were. So, I fake it. I fake a happy family Christmas while beating myself up for not being able to pull off the "real thing." But here's a scary thought... maybe my parents were faking it, too. And what if they're parents were faking it, as well? This means the bar has been set impossibly high for generations. Kids grow up believing Christmas is this amazing, happy time of year completely ignorant to the anxiety of their parents. And so when it's time for them to put on their own festivities, they too crumble under the pressure, fuck it up and cover it up .

And what am I going to do about it? Nothing. I'm going to put on apron and bake some more cookies, watch Christmas movies and try pass this queasy expression off as a smile. I'll fake it until I make it and let the next generation sort it out.

Newfound appreciation for chubby chasers and lactation freaks...

It's been over 4 months since I had my son and I've finally given up the dream that all this extra weight will melt away. Just last week I trundled my way through a bootcamp class. This was not an easy decision, you know. I've invested a fair amount of time sneering at women who sign up for "bootcamp"fitness classes. But, desperate times etc and so on. The workout was painful and demeaning - just as promised. I looked like an idiot trying (and failing) to complete at least one push-up and I couldn't walk or sit or stand for several days, but the worst part of the whole ordeal was having to buy workout clothes. What a GIGANTIC drag.

A) I look terrible in anything tighter than a potato sack
B) I had to go to Lululemon and was waited upon by a skinny girl with an unnaturally great ass
C) I had to spend over $100 for an article of clothing that I will never, ever wear in public
D) A decent sports bra costs more than dinner for 2 (cloth tablecloths)

I could fill the alphabet with my bitching but I won't. Lucky.

Needless to say the 30 pounds of Halloween candy slathering about the house is no help. Who am I to say no to an adorable, 'fun size' Twix? Nobody, that's who. I know who I am and where I come from. I'll just have to compensate somehow. Like, by cutting out lunch & dinner and possibly breakfast. I'm sure it will all work out.

Anyhoo, it's 11:30 PM and I finally get to have a shower. Sexy, right? Have you ever wanted me more?

What's cookin?

Holy smokes, it's nearly April 2010. Can you guys EVEN believe it?
The trees are blooming here and at least a couple days of the week are all about the sun.
This is nice. I'm not what you'd call a hot weather girl, but I am looking ffwd to softer days.
I am dead tired of covering up with a toque for fear of the rain activating the fro.

I've been busy painting & planning and cruising alleys in search of free stuff for the nursery.
What nursery? The nursery for the baby, sillies.
You know, the baby... The one coming in 14 weeks? Yes, that baby.
See? It's not like I've been doing nothing the last few months. I've been rather busy, you see.
Creating life and so on. Quite tiring & exciting and terrifying. I will be a geriatric mother.
Seriously. The medical community declares women over 34 geriatric. Neat.
Well this golden girl is taking one last kick at the can - one last hurrah, as it were.
You know, before my inside lady bits become mummified.

In other news... how about Jesse James and those tattooed chicks? Or Tiger Woods and his filthy golden showers? So glad I'm expecting a boy. Here's hoping he'll be born without the male pig gene.

Yawn

Wowee, so bored. I mean really really bored. Seems to be catching. Everyone at the office today was complaining about feeling unenthused and tired.

Dreamed last night I was walking around the Lake District with a tall man with a long black beard. He offered me a piece of bread and then he fell over a cliff. Even my dreams are boring and pointless. Well, I don't suppose falling over a cliff is boring exactly. More exciting in a fatal way. But I don't remember being overly interested in my dream...

I'd very much like to get on an airplane and go somewhere. Anywhere. Maybe even the Lake District. I remember it being quite lovely in real life and quite bready in dream life.

CBC News - Consumer Life - Vancouver has world's least affordable housing: report

CBC News - Consumer Life - Vancouver has world's least affordable housing: report

Ok, seriously now... World's least affordable housing?? What I am doing here?? I am poor. More accurately, I'm pore. Yes, yes there are others worse off... I am typing this on a Mac laptop, I dye my hair and I even buy coffee sometimes -- but clearly I'm not Vancouver material.

Despite 8 years experience as a writer for television, web & print I still have zero job security. I have to rely on wishes and prayers that the CBC will not let me go from month to month. I'm a contract worker at best and at worst I'm backfill. Backfill - ugly word, that.

Don't get me wrong... the mountains are pretty. I do enjoy crocuses and snowdrops in January and the sushi is decent. But COME ON.

Thing is, I can't even afford to leave. Funny!

Of all the gin joints...

..."he isnt hearing what you say, but watching the movement of your lips in sexual rumination."

Barf. Funny how some things fade from life so easily while others stick and stick and stick. Why couldn't it have been my first crush from highschool, Geoff Cook, boarding my bus Friday morning instead of the black-haired girl who turns my insides to ice? Why is it this person whom I've never met - yet with whom I share intimate knowledge and experience - is so entangled in my day-to-day existence? I want to see my childhood best friend or my old creative writing instructor walking down my street -- not her. Leaving the city might help, but then again nasty old fate might just welcome the challenge and throw us together regardless of where I set up stakes. I'm starting to think this may be one of those unresolved issue things. What a drag.