How to deal with me

Now there is a wonderful question...I pose it to myself and not to another. I am trying to step back, tack time to breathe, absorb adn chill and not freak out for silly things. Yet, I still have that little devil of an impulsive streak that strikes me and motivates me to do things which I don't take too seriously but others might.
TRICK NUMBER ONE: Ingest me with a grain of salt. Basically, do not take me seriously. Tell yourself I am who I am, which is deep down impulsive, emotional, spontaneous, and well, let's face it, like most people, moody. I have accepted this good/bad trait of mine, and am focusing on milking it for it's good aspect and refraining it's bad. Its does not always work.
TRICK NUMBER TWO: Remember that what makes me happy, thus the way to make me happy, is for you to be happy. Happy+happy= happy. If you are not happy, I will most likely feel as miserable as you and my vain attempts at making you happy will seem like selfish acts. Thus a spiral begins. A return to the 'happy equation' is therefore necessary. Am I ever happy, then, you ask? Oh, yes. Unfortuntely, the tiny details that disrupt my happiness tend to peeve me, thus why I need to breathe and ignore tiny details.
TRICK NUMBER THREE: Just be honest. Oh, I may fret, pout, and whine, but deep down, if you are honest, tell me where things stand, there is no way I can justify being disappointed is there?
TRICK NUMBER FOUR: There is no trick.

Grad

isa workin' in da ghetto

This morning, as I was approaching school, ready to face another dreadful day cooped up in a dingy sub-basement workshop, sniffing sawdust and varnish fumes while sipping on a jumbo latte, my only motivation, on the sprawling green grasses of the university, quite another scene was unfolding. As I entered the pearly gates (with the just-like-ivy-league-tuition they charge, I bet they are pearly!), anxious formal wearing crowds, bouquet stands, white tents and banquet tables were aplenty. Even my favorite statue (the dude to which I secretly wink every morn as he tips his hat), now grasped a dozen red baloons - damn I wish I had a cam, he looked so adorable. It was Grad.

I stood there, in my unshowered and rather 'ghetto' attire, mesmerized by the flow of students, decked in gown and cap, with but bare legs, heels, or slacks and polished shoes peeking from beneath. I watched the procession and got all emotional. A huge wave of pride took me over and I got all choked up. I was so proud of them, I even had to resist the urge to start clapping! (Them who? I don't even know a soul from the Faculty of Education - I had peeked at the program). I strolled away and sat in front of the Architecture building before entering, peering at the scene from afar. I just couldn't get over how beautiful this seemed. Sunny morning, proud parents, relieved students. Green grass, red baloons, white tents, black gowns. Soon, this would be me. I would finally have the orange sash. The grey dingy sub-basement was all the more tolerable. For the morning anyways...

How to deal with an exie

Of course, in any relationship, there will be exes. So, faced with an exie (the female version), how exactly should a good girlfriend act? Deep inside, we wish we had an exie-voodoo doll and would probably harpoon the fuck out of mini-Britney until all the mooshy stuffing burst out of her skanky halter top. But this is deep inside (and I digress...). On the outside, every good girlfriend should do the following (I realize now, after having played the 'no-I'm-not-jealous-but-who-the-fuck-is-she' game):
1) Get attitude: you are beautiful, sexy, and fun, and if he is not ecstatic with that, and needs to look elsewhere, tough tootsies, there's a chock-full of men who would be. Pfff!
2) Cool off: Be calm and collected. Remember, he's with you, so what does it matter anyways?
3) Heat it up: Have hot sex with mate (just for the fun of it)

You know you are getting older when...

...the buzz among all your friends and loved ones is grey hair. Why is it that this week there seems to be a hiatus of greying? Coincidence? I have (fortunately) maybe only one or two of the buggers, somewhere on the top right, so this scares me not, but I have nonetheless lent a reassuring and soothing shoulder to my greying pals. Just rememeber the following:
- Grey hair on men, SEXY. Greying temples, SEXY SQUARED. (Grrrr!)
- Grey hair on women, do what you must, if you must, I`d probably just go au naturel, as long as you don`t show up on my doorstep with prune-colored hair or a blue rinse, all is good. (Although, that would make for a really good laugh!)

Over-analyzing

Since it seems to be 'women: should we try to understand them?' week, I thought I would attempt an insight into the female (my) way of thinking. Now, read the following, and tell me if anything strikes you as odd:My first reaction was: OMG, Lil' Jinx's daddy is not sleeping in the same bed as Mrs. Jinx, their poor couple has issues! Upon further reflection, I realized that maybe showing Mr. Jinx lonesome in a twin bed was a more 'politically correct' image for young readers. Then I started wondering, have we ever really seen Mrs. Jinx? Does she even exist? What exactly is Mr. Jinx hiding from poor Lil' about his troubled married life? Is he a wife-beater? Is he gay? Or, when he says "Mother", is he in fact referring to his own mum and has he never moved out from his house? A simple comic conceals so much...

Multiple personalities

I have taken the time to copy down my most important internet passwords and usernames, as per re-boyfriend's suggestion (You see? I listen to you sometimes). I am sure I forgot some and will curse when I load the page and stare blankly at the cursor blinking in 'username'. I have thus transcribed 16 'everyday' internet identities; now double that number if we count bank PIN's, school ID's, social insurance, etc... To think that the other day, the departmental accountant at school was frazzled that I did not know my student ID number off the top of my head. Is it any wonder??? For some reason, though, I can remember my school ID from over 10 years ago (#2981823), not that the accountant was even remotely impressed.

Ask a stupid question....

I am royally learning to bite my tongue when faced with stupid questions. Another supressed classic:

Re-boyfriend via email : - "...sorry I didn't call back, I woke up at 12:15. Feels kinda weird now but what can I do...."
Depending on how snarky I was feeling, my reply via email would have simply contained the following link or, the more conveniently sized option (notice the flashing light):

inflatable pillow alarmclock (originally posted by Peter Rojas)

I'm just a girl

Despite recently being tagged as a woman (see friday entry, I feel her pain) and thus an unexplainable/illogical phenomenon to myself and others, tonight, television has made me quite comfortable with my girliness. Why? Two words: Fatal Attraction. Glenn Close, now there is one psychotic bitch if I ever saw one! Fiouf!

I believe you...

I have recently been (nicely) accused of spewing pheromones. Now, of course, when one is accused (even if nicely) of emanating something that sounds to be at once gooey lime green and stinky, one looks into the situation. I dare say, I do think I am capable of enticing a male without calling Chemlawn. Pfff...

OB1 wears her name well...

Advice from the wise one:
1. Breathe.
2. Prioritize what needs to be done. One thing at a time.
3. Don’t get bogged down with little details: Always look a the big picture.
4. You’re not alone – you’ve got great support from family and friends.
5. Stay positive: negativity’s your enemy! If you give in to negativity, that bitch, she’ll drag you under!

The 'Glad' game

[as per my idol, Stewie]
- my talent (how hard I have worked and where I am today)
- now being a grown-up (where I have been and where I am going)
- my laugh (at once a trademark and total liberation)
- my naïveté (the capacity of seeing beauty everywhere)
- my friends and family (and the many laughs and freedoms they have offered me)
- my memories
- my cooking skills (more precisely the meal I have brewing in the kitchen)
- my apartement (and the solace it brings)
- music and dancing (and the solace it brings)
- my clothes (and the way they fit my moods)
- my blog
- email (and the way it crosses continents)
- my espresso machine and Lavazza coffee on sale
- adult beverages (and the bottle of red wine that was left in my room)
- free access to a digital camera
- summer (sun, plants, pools, bbq)
- May and lilacs
- hugs and kisses, toasters and chocolates
- the hot shower I was able to take this morn
- my health
- my love (and possible fairy tales)

What did I ever do to you???!!!

The past 36 hours have not been ideal for encounters with the opposite sex (or females with strong male personalities - I think of my boss here). In general, all exchanges with male friends I have had during this period have been either confusing, misunderstood, explosive, negative, curt, or just plain 'blah'. All I have to say is: ?

Blind as a bat

I've changed the blind in my room (ooooo, yes, my life is but one death-defying challenge after another) but let me tell you, nothing is the same since. Complete black-out makes it that no matter how much the sun is shining out, I just keep on sleeping, convinced it is still night and I can afford such luxuries. Today is another example: alarm set at 8:30am, ETA (estimated time awake) 11:15 am. I even convinced myself in my dream that hitting my alarm (what, 18 times?) was a blessed priviledge (something to do with a winged-figure, it was quite a soothing thing). Since the previous blind broke Saturday, I've either got the choice to continue overpsleeping under this 'veil of death' and majorly catch up on some beauty or sleeping without blinds at all, thus actually living a mortal existence away from my bed. Toss of a coin, really...

We are very jiggly-giggly folk

The Mother's Day Theorem: sis+videocam=bad news[I actually don't remember most of this, eeek!]

Gifted

I just received a gift (but am far from a mom), and the wrapping enthralled me more than did the contents (not to say that I did not enjoy the gift). A plethora of ribbons, Gold and pink, combining magically to somehow duplicate the exact shade of the paint in my bedroom, where I opened this offering, mesmerized me. It was not the store-bought matching curly tendrils nor the tight hallmark bow that impressed me, but rather the looped and intricately knotted ribbon that perfectly represented the giver. Reminiscent of a celtic bundle, these loops wrapped the package so tight that it was impossible to slip the box free of its noose without cutting through the multiple bands with a sharp pair of cissors. Inside, pretty butterflies leaped out of the box and flew around my room. Alot of care went into this package. I appreciated every bit.

And you say I never take you anywhere

I have the gift of bringing .exe (Can I still call him that? I find some humour in the fact that I have my very own re-boyfriend now, just like my idol, the Company Bitch) to restaurants with the weirdest serving staff in the universe. Usually, these are places I have read or heard about and have been longing to visit. Like Casa Azul near my place, which was more like Mexican dinner theater than a nice peaceful meal (it was like being in a fussy stranger's basement, tv, kids and all), and Aux Derniers Humains (the place I tried to take my sis for breakfast eons ago!) this evening, another typical isa-jewel with a 'lean-in-way-too-close-into-your-personal-space' french granola waitress that was just wayyyy too much (I honestly thought .exe was going to hurl when she leaned in and yelled 'santé' to him in her totally unsexy raspy voice while serving him his adult beverage). Considering .exe is more of the Tim Horton's and Subway variety, I am treading on dangerous turf and do believe I have one more strike and I am out, thus probably being forced to eat the soup and donut combo for every romantic meal to come.

Roadside assistance in the US

There's more to school than grades, but still :)

Male lib

Now, this is a well-known fact: men sleep naked. We assume they do it since puberty, probably one of them tried it, told his friend how fun and liberating it was, and faster than a 'I told my friend and she told her friend' Miss Clairol commercial, teenage boys united in this odd nude sleeping ritual, burning their Spider Man and Battle Star Gallactica pyjamas in huge bonfires. As liberating as 'letting it all hang out' may be for you lads, after a brief survey, it has come to my attention that, unlike you, most gals sleep in pj's (unless hosting a *ahem* sleepover). Why is this?
Maybe pyjamas, as cute and sexy as they can be, are also the rare liberation from the prettiness of womanhood and a dive into the world of extreme comfort that we cannot be afforded during the day (and public viewing hours)?
Now, I do not consider myself high-maintenance (but might be, as suspected by Harry, the worst kind, high-maintenance who thinks she is low-maintenance), but I will admit that pyjamas for me pose no questions of style, fit, colour, flair, etc, like normal clothes do. I have a 15 year-old pair of home-sewn, over-sized and outer-stretched leaf-green jogging pants to corroborate my story. Easy comfort is what it is all about. So, in a way, pyjamas for women may well be the only way we have of being guys, not worrying too much about appearance, just pulling on whatever good old t-shirt and boxers we have, never, ever colour co-ordinating, and prancing around in these oversized garments shamlessly.
But let us go back to the lads. Since they have access to the 'comfort train' 24/7, liberation to them must go beyond the mere pyjama and attain the primal: they have no choice but to go commado twix the sheets. Live Free or Die, right? Well, I have but one mini argument, in defence of brave pyjama-makers for men worlwide, that I will share with you boys:

- You sleep naked, now technically, this means you and your 'parts' are free in your sheets, and these are hugged around you (follow me so far? Yeah, yeah, you like it, eh? Good stuff...)
- You sleep on average 6 hours a night in said bedsheets (smile and nod)
- We could therefore liken your bed sheets to clothes, since they hug the *ahem* contours of your body while you sleep (some men might see where I am going with this and have just backed up from their screen)
- Nowwww let's say you wash your bedsheets once a week (aw, let's say, even though you and I both know that is not so, I'm trying to help you boys out)
- This would imply that for an entire week, you 'wear' your sheets every single day, for at least 6 hours.
- You basically have no qualms about wearing the same clothes (sheets) non-stop for a week (or more); the hygiene issues of this in no way bother you. (You think for a moment, but no, not really. You might even use the 'but I shower at night' bit as a weak defence platform - I shower in the morning before I dress too, so nice try, but no, I still don't wear the same clothes all week)
- Pyjamas, providing a thin and extremely comfortable shell that covers certain sweat-producing body parts, protect the sheets (the sheets become more like an accessory rather than primary clothes at this point, like a nice scarf, for example, or a trendy jacket) and make for an overall comfortable and hygienic sleeping environment.

I will now simply mention that if you are sharing your bedsheets in said 'commando-mode', the same one-week clothes-wearing applies, but this time, to make matters worse, you are inviting your bedmate, the woman you are wooing (and the crux of this wooing is done in said bed), to swim in your grungy clothes with you. Does this not phase you? Having displayed this argument, I know for a fact that it does not... *sigh*

Mr. Coutu does not have a clue

Contrary to popular belief, it does not take much to make me happy. Chocolate, sunshine, a nice stroll... I also loooove going to the pharmacy and can literally spend hours there (just ask my sister, she cringes everytime I mention the word). My jaunts to my neighbourhood Jean Coutu are usually an escape into the wonderful realm that is Beauty Products and General Useless Female Doo-Dads, which I simply could not live without and is often the perfect cheerer-upper (like today!).
Of course, I go in with a short list, usually at least one, two, or three items (I let the list build up) that make the trip worthwhile. But once I'm in there, no matter the list, I just lose myself, and time. I look at birthday cards, compare prices on cream I don't need, read up on ulcers. Like today: somewhere between my curiosity browsing of Fisherman's friends and diuretic teas, I decided that today was the day I should solve my contact lense solution situation. I called the pharmacist over from under his 'renseignements' sign towards the pertinent aisle and had a nice friendly chat with him about neutralizers, provincial backorders, the contact lense market, the manager's take, and special pellets. We had a grand old time that finished with a joke about how crappy multi-purpose solutions were. Ha ha ha! I turned around, happy at my new eye care resolution (and friend!).
I will add here that I am a respectful browser, unlike the trashy woman, my nemesis, in the same aisle as me today, who proceeded in spraying every flavour of body mist into the alley and then sniffing loudly, trying to suck in a bit of the cheap magnolia odour she had inundated the section with - I do not spray or test; I might open the odd bottle and smell, but I am the type to pick the most full bottle of any product and be peeved when people proceed to spray half of it onto the store floor.
Now, of course, my prolonged browsing does arouse some curiosity (who wouldn't, spending over 1 hour in a tiny pharmacy?), usually that of the store detective. For some reason, these lame 'beauty cops' always seem intent on singling me out and following me around, seriously questioning the yeast infection creams whilst I look over the astringent possibilities the world has to offer. But, see, I'm not a thief; I'm just a girl who loves useless overpriced pharmaceuticals. Mr. Coutu, get with the program. First of all, if you are going to hire a store detective, make it a girl. Any guy in a pharmacy more than 2 mins, that is not holding shaving cream, a box of Magnum condoms, or tampons (with an embrassed look) is just fishy. Second of all, DON'T make the guy dress as a punk civilian (peering at you out of the corner of his eye while you wonder if the baby pink tweezers or the flashy turquoise ones will be cuter in your makeup bag). Third of all, give him a few pointers: don't follow the suspected 'prey' in every aisle; don't have him just hold a pack of gum while he shops; have him avoid MULTIPLE glances and direct eye contact that just screams 'I am watching you, step away from the cotton balls'; don't have him come right next to you and peer onto your personal care shopping list, trying to decipher what 'Jolen' means; and, for God's sake, don't let him be as lame as to follow you to the cash and then yell something into his sleeve once you have obviously paid for all your goods and are leaving the store.
Mr. Coutu, as much as I love you, you don't have a clue.

Three

Flashes of incredible friends and an incredible journey make me even happier today...

i'm a doll

Find your own pose!

According to the site, "Paper Dolls don't do well when separated; they need regular physical contact to keep in sync. If forced to remain apart for a stretch any longer than eight to ten hours, they can sometimes feel untethered, or even dizzy. But once reunited, all it takes is the simple brush of fingers, or a surreptitious foot-on-foot press under the table, and all is right with the Paper Dolls once again."

Super-sick-chic!

Must be a Jell-O induced high, but I have decided say 'arrivederci' to my self-pity bit and to become the prettiest little sick chick in town. Considering my little or no brain power (visions of high-maintenance skanks dance in my head) and abundance of time, catching up on my beauty regime seems like the perfect strategy. Easy yet satisfying.
This will probably last all of 1 hour, after which I predict I will make myself a big soft breakfast, crash in front of a movie, and fall asleep with drool coming out of the side of my mouth.

Misery (just call me Kathy Bates)

The worst part about being sick is being alone. Here you are, basically miserable, looking like crap, your body weak, your mind a blur, every move and breath a mini-struggle, and all you can do is lie in a star on your bed/sofa/floor/tub/toilet until it passes. Your life is on hold, so somewhere in the distance, responsibilities that you cannot attend to at the moment are piling up. Time seems endless, as does this comatose state. Even Jell-O, your main course for the past 2 days, does not seem to make you happy. You try to switch from Orange to Strawberry, but to no avail. You add applesauce to your hot oatmeal, and it makes you smile (because its good and maybe you invented something neat), but only for a little while; until you realize you are still alone, sick, greasy-haired, tired, achy, standing in your kitchen eating applesauce and oatmeal before going crash in front of yet another movie, in an untidy apartment where all your plants are dying, and that what you will probably do is eat oatmeal and watch movies all day.

sick and on hiatus

[Kudos to Bammino for the image]