Deux printemps en automne

Ses yeux sont deux printemps
Qui me font sourire et ça me fait rire
Ses joues sont des torrents
Les miennes s'y baignent mais encore pire
Son coeur est une fête
Le mien ne veut plus en sortir
Elle est la plus belle saison de ma vie
La plus belle saison de ma vie

C'est un tourbillon, un grand vertige
Complètement doux
On dit qu'en haute voltige
On peut tomber et se rompre le cou
C'est pas mon premier vol
Arrêtez bande de jaloux
C'est la plus belle saison de ma vie
La plus belle saison de ma vie

Nos heures sont des rivières
Qui courent en une folle frénésie
L'amour est liquide clair
Et nos deux corps sont amphibies
La terre est un brasier
Mais pour un moment l'oublier
C'est la plus belle saison de ma vie
La plus belle saison de ma vie

Qu'elle ne plaise à personne
Ni du visage ni de l'esprit
Restez en votre automne
L'été tout l'an me fait plus envie
Persuadez-vous de mes deux yeux fermés
J'affirme en toute cécité
T'es la plus belle saison de ma vie
La plus belle saison de ma vie

Y a toujours des noirceurs
Pour assombrir quelques beautés
Des êtres qui ont peur
Qui veulent vous en contaminer
Me protéger des loups?
Moi qui n'en compte que des amis!
T'es la plus belle saison de ma vie
T'es la plus belle saison de ma vie

Nous serons vieux et frêles
Peut-être même séparés
Nos têtes pêle-mêle
Incapables et usées
Mais aujourd'hui je t'aime
Aujourd'hui pour l'éternité
T'es la plus belle saison de ma vie
La plus belle saison de ma vie
- Daniel Bélanger, Les deux printemps

I wish, how I wish...

I had a digi camera...my brain RAM just does not seem to suffice these days. I miss being able to capture the world through my own frame.

Regret

	Definition:		[n] sadness associated with some wrong done or some disappointment; "he drank to drown his sorrows"; "he wrote a note expressing his regret" [v] regret strongly [v] be sorry; "I regret to say..." [v] decline formally or politely; "I regret I can't come to the party" [v] feel remorse for; feel sorry for; be contrite about [v] feel sad about the loss or absence of

Regret is not a good thing. Sometimes, it takes us a long time to figure out what we really want, and sometimes that realization comes too late. But at least it comes. It makes you run against time despite the run being futile, it makes you do what you should have done when you first felt that gut feeling but did not or could not act upon it. And when you finally act upon it, it can no longer be classified as regret. It is rather the self-realization of what you are worth and what you deserve, not what you should have done sooner. Because you obviously could not do it sooner.

Realizations of the like have often come late for me, and sometimes my lateness was not a handicap. Sometimes, it was. I hope this time, I'm not too late...

That Yasmin bitch

Female issue alert *BEEP BEEP BEEP* beware male readers

Ok, following a very Twilight Zone internet moment whereupon I discovered that The Company Bitch and I are on the same pill (huh?), and we both suffer psychotic mood swings involving meatballs, or worse, I started looking into the matter, the scary side effects this drug brings about, and even worse, the side effects from quitting the yellow bugger. And let me tell you, I am totally stupid. And as ignorant as I can be, this is my summum.

The pros and cons of the pill are as such (as I have lived it)
PROS : no unexpected mini-me, regularity, clear and less oily skin, and a certain *ahem* freedom.
CONS: weight gain, PMS 3 times a month minimum, depression, severe nausea, having to remember to take the pill to begin with, not feeling myself, major decrease of sex drive, it costs money, various other nasty effects that may or may not be attributable to this intake.

So the choice seems obvious, we'll have to wrap the piggy in a blanket... or so I thought. Upon consultation of many forums/sites/etc. (blessed internet), I have compiled the most common risks of stopping the pill (which, by the way, is commonly referred to as "detox", aka "bumpy ride"):
Severe acne breakout (with red cysts, scaring, and other 'ewwwwwy' graphic stuff) which can be permanent, weight gain, pregnancy, anxiety attacks, continued depression. And the list goes on with various physical and mental ailments that make a hypochondriac like me feel ichy and achy all over. Oy.

Right now, I feel like when I was ten and wanted to be cool and hid myself in the bathroom to cut myself bangs in my waist-length hair (my mom would not hear of it, the ribbon-braid thing seemed a nice, sensible look for me, insofar as her opinion went). I cut the bangs (20 wisps, really), and stared at myself all proudly in the mirror.
C O O L . Then I heard her come.

I panicked, grabbed the scissors, and chopped off the 'evidence', naïve enough not to realize that I had just given myself a triangular mini-mohawk right smack in the middle of my forehead. Nice, isa, reeeaaal nice. I wore a sideways ponytail for about 5 months in an attempt to camouflage the 1/4'' hair stub (6th grade school pic to prove it). Like Julia would say: "Big mistake, HUGE!".

All I have to say is, pray for my skin!

Doublemint twins

Two reasons for this post:
1) my endless battle with wife-beater tank-top Sesame Street characters
2) it's Friday the 13th, and well, I wanted the post to say ' Friday the 13th' but now realize the word 'October' will be squeezed in there, and that just ain't fun anymore.
The fact that I achieved purpose no.1 is satisfactory enough, for me and all.

Their 56 words to my 150...

"Reconciling Poetics and Ethics in Architecture

The review committee would like to thank you for submitting an
abstract. Unfortunately, due to a large number of exceptional
submission we are unable to accept your proposal. We still hope,
however, that you will attend the conference next September. Thank you
again for your interest.

Sincerely, The Review Committee"

There goes 3 weeks of work. I'm not surprised, yet still deflated upon 'opening' this virtual enveloppe this morn. This sucks. Especially since RC is composed of peers and past teachers. Maybe I am just a tour guide after all, hand me a yellow umbrella now, anyone...

Mon four éclaté

UNLIKE my dear j e n n , I do not make every meal a visual extravaganza. My man:
a) never had anything perishable in his fridge due to his work [think about what this means for a moment and imagine trying to cook something decent with non-perishables, ie frozen foods (but no microwave), salsa, tzatziki, and Kraft singles]
b) does not have a stove [ok, he has a toaster oven, a wee grill, and two electric burners, 'un four éclaté' if you ask me...men!]
c) is wooed by his stomach (as am I), and not his eyes [I admit, the eyes often convey to the stomach that they have some MMM Mmm good stuff heading their way, but still.]

So, as you can imagine, food with me is plain but good, 'slimy yet satisfying' (quote... anyone? Bueller?), hearty and, well, 'making do' with a wee flourish.

This comes to mind first of all after months of seeing j e n n 's scrumptuous virtual meals unravel before my eyes on Flickr, and because, despite having been to two groceries this eve, and probably having passed a slew of fruit/fish/bakery/ethnic stores on the way home, AND having hours of wait (potential feast making hours) before my dinner guest shows, I'm making plain old pasta, and my idea of being fancy is doing it Alla Matriciana (ouf, OB1, its been a while!). And I have a spinach salad with bacon and a (bought as in bottled) garlic dressing. And ice cream, in a bowl. A dinky Shell (as in gas station), collected dish-set bowl (as in 'for-10-cents-mom-gets-a-plate-when-she-fills-up-with-gas'... 'each-have-a-traditional-quebecer-scene'... 'all-this-when-I-am-10-years-old'...
'and-finally-builds-a-set-of-24-dishes'... 'that-she-gives-me-and-my-bro-when-we-are-in-our-thirties'). Basically, I suck.

ADDENDA: OMG, someone actually sells replacement for this set on the internet, wait until I tell my bro!

Imported vegetables

And, testing my theory, it is even difficult now for me to veg elsewhere than at my place.
Point in case: bf's yesterday, me out of my element. I did:
- 6 loads of my laundry
- 3 of his to boot (I washed his 3 work sweater-jackets. Shhhh, don't tell, he does not think Polar fleece should/can be washed, and likes them in their natural (grungy) state. Ouf, wait until he smells their Sprintime freshness, I'm in TROUBLE, and make that a DOUBLE! [the person who can tell me what tv show that comes from has my eternal respect])
- Dishes
- Mending & sewing
- AND made myself a healthy lunch (at 4pm...)

I DIIIIID however watch a chick flick, eat cereal in front of comp while in robe, not leave the house, and only showered at 6:30pm, so that HAS to count for something.

BTW, this whole conundrum comes from my amazement at the male capacity to do bupkuss for 24hrs other than nap, play on comp, nap again, and watch TV. I strive for such laziness...

Falling in the city [and trying to get Bert+Ernie to leave town]

Morn: Chilly grey, warm and fuzzy early morning ride. I later stepped out of my own door, and a glance followed me. I felt good (look good/feel comfortable/are special), and the glance wanted a piece of that...no wonder. Work greated me with a backward glance at Baile Park, brightly manicured green, coiffed with red trees under a bright bright blue. Seemed perfect with purple mitts on.
Lunch: Purple scarf n' sweater with a sandwich in tow weather and all that was missing was a sunny cuddle from my sweetie on the grassy carpet under the red canopy.
Home James: Walking home under what has now become a golden light peeking out of hazy pale blue, and a blur of green and pale yellow crunchy footsteps.

And then you wonder why I spent all of yesterday cooped up, and it took me the lure of pie and ice cream to get me out-of-doors. I was waiting for Fall.

Issues with vegetables

I have realized I have difficulty vegging. Not at all when in the company of bf, or sis, or friends. But when alone, I cannot veg. And today, my supposed veg-day for the soul (since today is my saturday, me working weekends and all), I realize I did the following:
9:30 am: Fended off evil cell-phone provider, called to solve erroneous and astronomical bill sent, wasting valuable veg-time on hold or pushing Émilie's numbers for automated service, even if I did press ) to skip this b.s. , all the while repeating key arguments for self-defense over and over in my head, and raising anger level in preparation for potential bitchfest. I won my case.
9:30 am and onwards: Keeping in touch via long-distance MSN chat with OB1. Read my chinese horoscope (ox). Text message bf with reminder to pay car insurance and announcing triumph over evil Bell beavers.
11:30 am: decide to prepare breakfast of champions. Call car insurance company instead for info on insuring 2nd drivers, all the while searching on rates of bus passes on the internet, and info on up-an-coming grad. Text message bf all excited with insurance findings.
11:40 am: Call mother for chat; no answer. Realize milk is missing for the champion's (me) coffee, head to depanneur in concealed pjs for key ingredient, then commence egg&toast meal.
noon: Call mother for chat. Munch breakfast of champions whilst chatting with mom on phone.
1:30 pm: Hang up with mom after exhausting topics ranging from the tomatoes in the fridge to how nice Victoria is, all the while reading up on up-an-coming graduation procedure on comp, and trying to change my name as it will appear on diploma. Name will unfortunately remain as such.
1:35 pm: Collect and sort huge quantity of laundry to be done at bf's tomorrow. Re-make bed. Pick up room.
2:00 pm: Major overhaul. Begin the 'changing of seasons', whereupon all summer clothes from my wardrobe is sifted, re-folded, and switched with winter clothes (sifted, re-folded, and tried-on. Votes on 'too-tight-but-I-might-fit-in-to-them-later' jeans held by closed jury) stored in non-functional closet (ie: inaccessible, tiny, dark, shallow, and having no pole but rather a few oddly-shaped shelves, varying from a 3'' to 9'' depth (since it is not deep enough for a pole, it is basically a linen closet in disguise).
3:00 pm: Switch of summer/winter shoes between closet (remember, shallow and dark shelves) to more accessible shoe rack in room. Some shoes tried-on; heels remain hidden at back. Change of current slippers for more comfy red 'Papa Smurf' ones that I had forgotten about. Move of tights and thick socks from bottom fo closet (in bins) to bottom shelf of newly clean wardrobe. Essentially, entire closet, shoe rack, AND wardrobe are cleaned. Begin soak of woolen shawl with Woolite in bathroom sink.
4:00 pm: Rinse no.1 to shawl. Yuck. Continuation of 'changing of seasons', implying move of summer dresses on hook in back of door (only place to hang stuff in room) to closet (another jewel) in office and switch of said-dresses for blouses and jackets found in various places. Co-ordinating hangers chosen. Re-discovery of cool beige velvet jacket, placed on top as not to forget new find. Cleanup and sort of coats/jackets/scarves on entry coat rack. Rinse no. 2 to shawl.
4:20 pm: Break. Reheat piece o' meat, eat in front of comp while browsing and blogging. Confirm lunch date with boss via email. Final rinse and squeeze to shawl. Leave to drain in sink.
5:00 pm: Nausea and fatigue, lay in bed and wonder so tired. Realize have not a) turned on tv b) sat on couch c) napped or d) vegged in any legume way, shape or form.
5:20 pm: Decide to go blog about inability to veg.
5:45 pm: Summit of the minds. Discuss rent/apartment status and impending court date with building owner with bro.
6:51 pm: Finish blog rant on non-vegging and rush to shower and brush teeth for first time today after call from bf. Remind self to squeeze and hang shawl to dry and scold self for not packing night bag sooner.
6:54 pm: Correct typos in blog...

Then again...

maybe not. AAAARGH!

Bert and Ernie must die!

It is totally annoying that my blog prompts the Family Guy/Bert and Ernie clip everytime its loaded. If I hear 'Hoopers' one more time, I will explode! Being a non-geek, I have no clue how to fix this. I figure if I write a couple of new entries, it might die off in my archives...

The 'what next' blues

Yesterday, it hit me: the 'what next' blues are here. You know, when you've been doing someting for a while (let's say, ummm, for exaaaample, being in school for the past three years) and that has been your life, your status, your goal. And then, you finish that task, reach your brass ring, get your diploma (or at least, find out your diploma ceremony is up-and-coming), but it still takes a while to come down from that high, rest from the fatigue, before you finally realize said-ring is now yours. And then you have to step back, all the while patting yourself on the back for a job well done, and ask yourself (or, most likely, be asked): what next?

As my mom so aptly pointed out this morning, I am not just any blonde fluffcake (I know she was dying to use a more colourful term) but am an educated woman, a woman with a Masters, (she was not trying to motivate me in my new career path, but rather trying to not-so-discreetly make the point that I am quite the catch). Inevitably slid into the conversation was the 'what next', in the form of a point-blank:"why can't you find a more paying job?". Good question. A question that I ask even myself, although knowing from experience that a big salary comes with a hefty price tag, and that I'm too broke to pay that sum right now. Ironically, The Company Bitch recently pondered the topic of low-end jobs and wasting ones higher learning, and she concluded that "sitting through the movie just because you paid for the ticket is ridiculous". I agree.

What next is a tricky thing. And starting a new project can be scary. And the scariest part is worrying that we are wasting all that has been accomplished so far. In that sense, I've been saving up like a squirrel, and now I just have to find the right place to put all my nuts. AND, it has to be a place showing a good movie...

Gynoman

Previous blog and real-time mood can probably be explained by pill side-effect. No joke, I've noted a drastic behavioural change coinciding with pill usage. Maybe this wee tablet does fend off possible isa-hybrid offspring, but its hormones-in-a-crumb nonetheless, and my body seems to interpret this as some sort of order to induce PMS 3 times a month. And this despite my gynoman's sorry excuse for reassurance, when he replied to my query with a blank smile and nod, saying that this pill would in fact decrease female temporary insanity. Men just don't they get that hormones are powerful shit, gyno or not. Surprising that gynomen don't find dead canaries on their pillow at night, or bird-threats of the like, from fed-up and peeved bfs.