4pm Haiku

My nose is all blocked
It's getting hard to breathe now
I've got no kleenex

There's no water here
Not even bottled water
The taps are lukewarm

I share a stapler
It's as annoying as hell
This ain't "Office Space"

I'm seeing a house
It costs way too much for us
But hey what the hell

My Sunday is free
That's strange because I
always double book

I'm meant to research
stuff on the internet but
I'm writing haiku

The Siblings...

As if juggling my own cracked life wasn't hard enough, I am cursed with caring way too much about the life of others. I just constantly give a damn. It's very tiring.

I have 4 siblings, of which I am the eldest. My brother B is now 24, my sister E is turning 18, brother C is turning 16 and sister T is turning 14. B now lives here in Toronto with his girlfriend, T is also here with my Dad and Stepmum, but E and C are back at home. From what I hear, they aren't doing so well.

E is terribly upset that we have basically all left the country (and in turn, her) and despite invitations to visit, plane tickets being delivered, phone calls, emails and general pleadings, her mood won't lift. She is so depressed that she now doesn't want to go to University and doesn't want to celebrate her 18th, saying "What's the point, no-one is here". I don't know what to do with her. I still care deeply about her wellbeing and worry constantly, but there is only so much I can do from so far away. What should I do for her 18th (save for dropping in...I don't get vacation time until almost October)?

I don't want to gloss it over with flowers, I want it to mean something, but what can I do from so far away? Also, she is unable to visit during that time, so even if I bought a ticket and paid for everything, she still wouldn't come.

Any suggestions? I have almost the same dilemma for my brother C, who turns 16 in 3 months...

Things I had forgotten that I liked / did

Complete flashback moments this afternoon:

• Toboganning
• Using my imagination to play games
• Waterskiing
• Barbie clothes
• Writing
• Star Wars figures
• Bath toys
• Receiving valentines from everyone in your class
• School spirit
• Talking on the phone all night
• Eating popcorn while watching a movie with my family
• Rice pudding
• Red Pandas
• Get Fuzzy comic strip
• Reeses Pieces
• Those cheap candy machines inside of the K-Mart
• K-Mart
• Easter
• Religious Studies
• Being invited to participate in my Mum's dinner party conversations because I was "old enough now" (I was 13)
• Unfinished basements
• Blanket and towel forts
• Crayons
• Hiding
• Plane flights
• Ghost stories
• Camping

There are so many...oh to turn back the clock sometimes...

Do weirdos dream of exploding cows?

I've always had apocalyptical dreams...about nuclear war, bombs falling, even electromagnetic waves from a sun storm knocking out every single electrical item on earth...but this really takes the biscuit.

Last night, I dreamt that we were pretty much in the end game. A virus had got into the feed supply for cows, and it was killing them in the most horrible way. Basically it was turning their insides into liquid. Then their skin would split and they would burst and die. Trust me, this wasn't a funny occurance. Anyone who came into contact with the airborne particles would immediately get some sort of flesh disease and they would break out in blisters and the skin of their faces would melt and deform. Pure horrible.

I was then interviewing one of the survivors, who was due to get an operation to try and remodel her face. Her chin had basically grown in to her neck and she looked just awful.

Why do I dream of the end of the world so much?

I'm no longer compared to the Irish *sigh*

I have absolutely no tolerance for alcohol anymore...

None.

Diddley.

In my heyday (between 16-21, that is) I used to drink like a fish. A stupid, provacatively dressed, underage fish. I was the guppy of the drinking world. Pints of beer, shots of tequila, vodka tonics, and endless bottles of white wine just disappeared into my gullet. None of which was followed by a hangover. I thought I had a hangover once, when I was 20. Turns out it was probably a light head cold, compared to the thunking "kill me now" headaches, the icky chills, churning nausea and the heart stopping paranoia of the "Oh God, did I really do that last night?" brain fuzzies of my late twenties.

I remember being asked if I was an alcoholic once (albeit by my far-right, Christian Evangelical, "all things equal sin", American dorm mate) because I was onto my third beer at a frat party. It was Busch Lite. I didn't think you could even get a buzz off a keg of the stuff. You can't get more watered down than that, but my friends were quite merry and rolling (by that, I mean chundering) in the aisles on this mock beer subsitute. Now I know how they feel.

Maybe it was an English thing...after all, I grew up on pulled pints that you could stand a spoon in, and I believe I had an I.V. drip of Southern Comfort and coke inserted during my later high school years. All that drink! What a culture...by the time I was 13 I was in the pub...on my lunch break...in my school uniform, and I still got served.

But those days are oh-so far behind me now. I simply can't drink at all anymore. I had three glasses of red wine at a dinner party last night, and while I don't have a hangover today, the possibility was distinctly there. I feel like I am playing Russian Roulette...today, nothing - next week, the same amount could result in brain crushing pain.

And the paranoia! Oh my God! I'm out at a party, drink in hand, chatting nicely with people, laughing at their jokes, having a dance with the girls and I KNOW that I'm not making a fool of myself, I KNOW that I am fine and nice and polite and NOT AT ALL even tipsy. But the next day I convince myself that I was being foolish or acting out, even if MB insists that I was fine. And I KNOW I was fine, but somehow, along the way, I get all paranoid!

This is beginning to sound like an AA moment. I'd better stop!

Last four frigging pounds (aka: A Very Bridget Jones Entry)

January 1st 2005: Weight - 135lbs, Mood: Optimistic

Things I have tried in order to lose 9 pounds:

• Eating Less
• Moving Around More
• Visualization
• Weight Lifting
• Cardio, cardio, cardio
• Not buying anything junk-like
• Drinking more water
• Praying
• Eating pizza...didn't work :(
• Ordering "dressing on the side"
• No alcohol (almost)
• Can you say "portion control"?
• More cardio
• Healthy fats only
• More water
• Even more cardio

March 29th 2005: Weight - 130lbs, Mood: Weary

Things I will try in order to lose the last 4 pounds:

• Trimming my toenails
• Getting a haircut
• Wearing smaller gym clothes
• Buying ballet slippers for workouts
• Lopping off a forearm

Flashback to childhood...

No, not the fun of doing the annual easter egg hunt through the house, but rather the age-old tradition of missing 3 of the 87 I hid. Hmmm.

I'm sure they'll show up at Christmas.

(sidenote: I'm still finding pinata innards from MB's 30th in 2003)

Did I mention what a sweetie MB is?

I was met with a troop of women bearing flowers on Wednesday. Since there is no reception desk, the flowers came to the first person that the delivery guy came across...and upon hearing that the flowers were for me (whom nobody had yet met) there was the huge task of finding out where I sit. One by one, all of the women in the office (yes, all 80 of them) joined the search. So, I was basically accosted by 52% of the company while eating a ham sandwich and checking my email...who were they from, aren't they nice, is it your birthday?

Of course, they were congratulating me on my new position, something he promised me that he wouldn't do, as money is tight. But that meant the world, as you always hope to get those tokens, even if you request not to have them!

(sidenote: everytime I get flowers, I check the card, just in case they aren't from MB (which they were, of course). I've made a catastrophic error to that effect with an ex!)

Then, on being picked up on Thursday night, I was whisked off to dinner at the poshest restaurant, followed by martinis at my favourite jazz club JUST BECAUSE! I am really blessed.

Dispatches from Cuba: Issue 3 - A Small Rant

Just to clarify how the whole holiday thing came to happen...

When I took my last job, I did so with no break between the old and new. In hindsight, this was a very bad thing. I really needed to take a breather, to relax and ease into a new position with a clear head and focused thoughts. Instead, by jumping right in, I felt overwhelmed, teary and disappointed, leading to my almost immediate new-new job search. Thankfully, I got the position, and this time, I decided to take that break.

unfortunately, with MB's finances a little less fluid than mine, I would have to put up his side of the cashola. I didn't mind, even though it was a lot of money...I needed the break and I wasn't going to go without him. I figured that we are a partnership, and I'm sure next vacation will be on him!

Here's where the rant kicks in...MB was sick the entire week. If you read my earlier post "Whiney McWhiney Pants" from February, so may see that this is the second time he's been really sick in under a month. I could barely deal with it then, but having a sick and very whiney person on holiday was really tough. He didn't want to do anything, couldn't even sit by the pool for more than a couple of hours, wouldn't eat, couldn't drink, couldn't go on excursions or snorkel (which I love to do). I felt really torn between staying with him in a darkened room and making soothing noises, and going out and just doing the things I wanted to do. It was hard...part of the reason for going on holiday was for us to bond and do couple things again. We've had a really, really rough year, and I wanted to just "be" together. But everything felt so apart...we read, side by side, but hardly talked. We couldn't do anything romantic because he was coughing and sneezing (not to mention snoring like trucks downshifting on the highway). I felt that it was such a waste! I also couldn't snorkel because I get afraid when I go out on my own (I've seen Open Water a few too many times). I know I shouldn't feel resentful. It was, after all, not his fault he got sick. But it was on my dime (and my time) and compromised what I needed at that time. *sigh* I don't know.

It's hard when you feel mad, and shouldn't be, but feel it anyway.

Dispatches from Cuba: Issue 2 - Nuthin' Doin'

I don't think I have ever been in an environment with so much going on, and I absolutely no desire to do any of it. No volleyball, no Latin Dancing lessons, nuthin'. My entire day consists of sitting under the sun, slathered in Factor -2 and feeling the burn. Everything always looks better when you are tanned, don't you know? Back at work, all I have to do is look at my golden brown (and prematurely aging) hands and feel good about things. Thighs look better in gold. Cellulite looks MUCH better in gold. Believe me, I was glad when my fellow touristas started turning colour...much easier on the eye. All in all, the schedule was pretty jammed packed with sheer nothingness:

6am - Scamper down to the pool to reserve pool loungers with shade for MB (trust me, this was the only exertion of the holiday)
9am - Breakfast: Eggs to order, toast and pain au chocolat. Fresh squeezed orange juice and Cuban coffee.
9.30am - Bake @ 30 degrees
11.30am - Pool break and rum spiked beverage
12 noon - Read a bit. Another rum.
1pm - Lunch: Grilled fish, calamari and salad
2pm - Bake
4pm - Swim in ocean, following a Cuba Libre (you guessed it, it's rum)
6pm - Dinner
8pm - Cocktails at the piano bar
9pm - The Show (another post on this later)
10pm - Cocktails
12pm - Bed

All in all, a terribly stressful holiday. I hated every minute :)

Help needed! Comments don't work?

Anyone know why comments just stop working? I've had a few people email me and say they've tried to post comments but couldn't, although I have everything set up right. And also, does anyone have a solution to getting around my companies "Naughty Policy"? At first, I thought that all Blogspot blogs were restricted, but now it seems it is just a few. I can access certain other blogs with similar content, just not mine! Any ideas?

Email barletstarlet@yahoo.com

Dispatches from Cuba: Issue 1 - Stereotypes of the rich and famous

I'm rich. Loaded. Overflowing with sickening wealth and power. I feel huge, bloated and grotesque. When I returned from my vacation in Cuba, I almost wanted to claw at my reflection in the mirror and yell, "Look at you, you huge, superficial cow!". No, it wasn't the buffet that caused this (although it was both nutritious AND delicious) but rather the bus journey from the resort to our airplane that has caused such personal revultion.

It was almost fortunate that we arrived in Cuba at night. That way, there was little to see out of the bus window on our 90 minute journey from the airport but moonlight reflecting off the water, and the suggestion of towns and fields. I did spend a lovely week at the resort, and while it was always tempered by the idea of poverty (the staff were enlightening) I never really encountered it in its hideous glory.

But there, on that bus ride, I saw it. And it was staggering. The crumbling pink and pastel blue tower blocks. Glass-less windows crossed with bars. Empty rooms that housed multiple families. A tower block compound surrounded a quadrangle of burnt grass, on which the residents goats grazed. I had to face it, I wasn't in Toronto any more.

But what was most heartbreaking were the children, running alongside the buses, waving and cheering in genuine joy at seeing us. If it had been me, I think I would have thrown something at the sunburned faces and yelled "How dare you come and steal our sun? Stay locked up in your compounds and refuse to see us?", because it is all true, I couldn't look at them...I felt too sorry, guilty, terrible, fortunate, and so glad, so damn selfishly glad, that I wasn't them.

I don't want to complain about the commute. I don't want to complain about the water cooler never being refilled on time. I don't want to complain about how hard it is to find non-dry clean dress pants.

But I know I will...in time. And that's sad.

Ugh...

Nope, no dice.

I can post, but I can't view...therefore please forgive spelling errors etc.

***?

You may have (but probably have not) noticed that I have replaced all rude words with asterisked versions of the same, to try and get around the "naughty filter" at work. I hope it works. Although I love to swear, I'm sure you are clever enough to extrapolate meaning!

B*gger!

Dispatches from Cuba: Issue 1

Actually, this isn't a real dispatch. I've just started a new job and have found to my distress that my blog is listed as a "Personal and Dating Site" and therefore is blocked by the corporation! Hmm...I don't have internet at home, so this could be very tricky. I'll try and find a way around this one, so hand tight...regular broadcast shall resume shortly!

My last post for a week!

Next time I write, I'll be back from Cuba, in a new job, tanned and (hopefully) relaxed for the first time in 9 months.

Gosh, isn't it nice to get a sneak peak of the future like that?

Countdown to Cuba: 5 hours and 27 minutes

I woke up to my clock radio with the announcer saying, "It's a disaster at the airports this morning. I hope you aren't trying to fly anywhere today...". Luckily, it was followed by "...if you are a JetsGo customer". Since I'm flying Air Transat, I got back into bed after springing halfway across the room. From comotose to 170 bpm in 3 seconds.

I feel sorry for those poor sods. Saving up what little vacation we get in this country, scrimping their money to take the kids to DisneyWorld, and *poof* it's gone because no-one was warned. Not one inkling of problems until it's too late. Those JERKS at JetsGo decided to keep taking their bookings until 11.59pm yesterday. They announced they weren't flying as of Midnight. JERKS! It's the first day of Spring Break! Everyone is AT THE AIRPORT! JERKS!

Seriously, I am mad and I'm not even flying with them. How dare they!? Take their money (literally) one minute, and announce they are closed the next. People who booked with travel agents may (MAY) get a portion of their ticket refunded, but anyone who booked online won't get their money back. JERKS!!

I am hopping angry mad. And I was hoping that someone would be a hero. Yes, I heard that Air Canada and WestJet are putting more planes on, but no, they won't be honouring the JetsGo tickets. Come on! BE A HERO to these people. Hey, how about this...instead of paying Celine Dion $1.5 million (or whatever it was) to croon your way back from bankrupcy, how about flying those kids to DisneyWorld? Think about the PR!!

Mad mad mad.

Countdown to Cuba: 24 hours and 39 minutes

Can't bloody wait...even being on a cramped plane will be better than this limbo-hell purgatory I'm currently in.

P.O.W. continues as normal, blissfully ignorant of my imminent departure (except for those who need to know). I am not telling anyone I'm leaving due to the high panic level of everyone at the moment. It's like the Post Office at Monday lunchtime, I tell you. My projects will have to be assigned to other Marketers who have too much on their plate already. I could get hurt.

My facade of "caring" is crumbling fast. I feel like surfing some p*rn sites or what have you, right out in the open. What are they going to do, fire me? I'm arriving late and leaving early. This is not the way you treat a company that you have, essentially, shafted already and they've been SO nice in return, but I just can't muster the will to care.

And I've just been assigned another projects. Man, they are going to lynch me...

Oh right, boneheads and books (and bars)

I also worked for a nightclub for about, oooh, three months. Technically, I was a bartender, serving alcohol, mixing cocktails, pulling pints. Cr*ppiest job ever. I was paid under the table, fifteen pounds a night. I arrived at 9pm, got splattered with drink, puke, and sometimes blood until 3am, then had to sweep up. The best part of this all was that this was the UK, and therefore, no tips. I used to be told "keep the change" on a 2.40p drink from 2.50. Seriously, they considered this generous. Even worse, this was a student hangout, which meant no frilly and fun cocktails, no no no, just endless ENDLESS pints of Caffrey's (which, you may know, take 3 minutes to pour a piece) and lots and lots of agro to accompany the order.

One night, in February, someone figured out that I was female and thusly, had to stand outside handing out flyers. Sighing, I went to fetch my coat. "No, no" I was told, "No coat". So there I was freezing my *ss off and willing the blood to return to my extremities. The things we do when we don't know any better, right? However, the club had a record turnout that night...erect n*pples should just become the world's currency, don't you think?

I also worked for a bookstore (hence the "Books" of the title) and I worked in the television and film production arena (the "Boneheads"). More on that later!

Burgers, Boneheads and Books...

I have held several jobs over the years, the most memorable being a spell at McDonald's as Chief Patty Sauté Engineer. Actually, that's a bit of an exaggeration for my resumé...I wasn't allowed anywhere near the grill, that's men's work. I was relegated to the ill-defined position of "Dressing". That meant I was allowed (yes, allowed) to squirt ketchup, mustard and a substance called "Chicken Sauce" on the incoming patties. I was also permitted to lay two pickles on each burger and massage the buns lovingly into little wrappers. Every single one of them was to be treated as I would my own child. If I had one slivered onion out of place, I was back to the serving counter where all women (in their opinion) belonged. My position in Dressing was much envied and covetted by all of the girls, and if I arrived late I would have to wrestle the sauce guns away from them, just to be spared the agony and humiliation of having to actually serve customers.

There were worse positions to be had. I spent a good few shifts hovering over the frying tanks (that's in an area that you usually can't see from the counter...for good reason) where we would deep fry the McChickens, Nuggets, the grammatically challenged Filet 'o' Fish, and finally, for kicks, the Apple Pies. The buzzers went off every 42 seconds for no aparant reason. At that point, I was meant to either flip and/or remove and/or replace the item and/or reset the buzzer. This station had a Mensa membership as a pre-requisite. Every 89 seconds, a McChicken would explode in a ball of molten hot greasy rage, followed at 91 seconds by me requesting a break, again, to remove batter from my eyelashes.

Here's a tip if you go to McD's in England. At any point during the day, be it lunch time, dinner time, or whenever, if you order an Apple Pie, the reply will always be "They just went in, it will take 20 minutes". I hate apple pies. I loathed making those little hot f*ckers. McDonald's requires its employees to fish these tiny pastries from hell from the deep fat frying trays with their fingers and stuff them into those ridiculous cartons, while trying to stop apple lava from burning third degree holes in your digits. Why anyone wants them anyway, I don't know. Oh, and there is always one of these too:

Me: They just came out of the fryer, they are very hot.
Plebian: Nah, s'ok
Me: Seriously, they are really hot. The box has a warning and everything
Plebian: Can't be that hot, I'll have a bite...WAAAAAAAHHHH!

Then there is mention of suing and all sorts. They just can't help themselves though, like when you are told not to touch the plate in a restaurant, that it's very hot. Well, you have to touch it now, right?

I have so many McD's stories...I'll get to them later.

Notice Me...NOTICE ME!!!

Most of the time, I am glad to be an equalist. For those who may not understand what that is or what that stands for, the explanation is fairly simple: I believe in equal treatment for every race, gender, class, income level, s*xual persuasion and creed. I detest feminism because it's non-equalist; it presents women as more important or smarter than men. Being a woman dominating men, just because men dominated women at one point, is the ideological equivilent of punching little Jimmy in the face because he punched you first. And we all know what our Mums said about hitting, right?

I believe in having the door held open for me, and I believe in holding the door for others. I believe in courtesy towards all, including me. Nothing excuses rudeness, not even being disabled, riding the crimson wave, and especially not feminism. The rudest people I have met are feminists, who snap at me that I shouldn't be enjoying my modest lifestyle in the suburbs. Aparantly, I have "rejected the cause by adopting the shackles of man". Call me kooky, but I like to cook, I have my little crafty hobbies, I love MB and I love my house and my pets. To them though, this is all wrong...I should be making placards and growing out my armpit hair, or at the very least, b*tching about people holding doors open for me. I still love my feminist sistas, but would prefer it if they would just shut up every now and then. It's really hard to call yourself pro-choice when the only choice you are allowed to have is theirs.

Anyhoo, the real reason about this post is that I had a very non-feminist experience yesterday...a Brazilian. This was certainly not my first time, but it did give me a bit of an epihany. I realized for the first time quite how much stock I put in my appearance. Here I was, biting down on one of those little wooden spatulas, all for the sake of inner (believe me, it was inner) beauty. No-one except for MB was going to see this, but I would know, and it made me feel powerful and pathetic at the same time. All that pain, all those contortions, for what outcome? To make me feel good? To make MB feel good? One minute I was feeling "S*x in the City" the next I was feeling very Guantanamo Bay.

Later on, while gingerly shifting my weight from foot to foot and looking at flip-flops, I also realized that I was very concerned about being in a bikini. I am part way through a gym program that I affectionately dubbed the "Get-off-your-lardy-*ss-and-do-some-sit-ups-for-Christsakes" plan. Now, I'm not overweight, I just need a "lift". Wow, I could almost those chants of "Conformer!!".

Am I becoming some sort of vain, self-involved, beauty junkie? Or am I just getting real with myself? Why do I suffer for my art :)

Then I realized that I would expect the very same from MB. I want to look good for him AND me, and I would want him to feel the same about his appearance. After three years, I still make an effort, which is more than can be said for others who fall into the trackpants and hairy legged phase after about 6 months of cohabitation. MB has been gyming it for the last little while too, and while I won't go into his personal grooming techniques, he's not too shabby in that department either.

Ah, I remain an equalist.

And another thing

Why is it that, when someone asks you what book you are reading, you look at the front cover before you answer them?

Don't you have any idea what you've been reading for the past 12 chapters?

This is what I think about when I commute

Why is it, that when an announcement comes over the speakers on the subway, that everyone looks up?

Is that so we can see the sound better?

Brazilian vs. Mothra

To reward myself for getting this new job, and for not crying too much during the arduous process, I'm treating myself and MB to a much needed vacation. We are off to the sunnier climes of Cuba, hopefully for some relaxation, some good food and some n*ked frollicking. This is very much a last minute deal, as I am still working off my notice here for the week, then jetting out on Friday afternoon. It is unbelievable bad timing though, in the sense that it is fast approaching March break, and therefore all of those great deals you are supposed to get on last-minutes are out the window. We are practically paying full price, which I can ill-afford since I am not getting paid for the week that I am off. However, I just got to that point where you don't care what it costs or how long it will take to pay off...I just NEED it, regardless of petty things like financial status. Also, my new job has a probation period of 6 months, in which I am not allowed to go on vacation. That takes me to late September, by which time I will be a snarling, shaky mess. All things told, we have to go NOW.

So instead of worrying my pretty brain with matters of money, notice, and who is going to cat-sit, I've decided to make a list of gorgeous things I need / want for my holiday. I've also included a list of how long I will have to work (at my new job) to pay them off:

1) Flip-flops = One hour
2) Pink Pashmina = Two and a half hours
3) Cropped jeans = Three hours
4) Brazilian Bikini Wax = Two and a half god-forsaken and uncomfortable hours
5) Parking at the airport for the week = Five hours (ouch)
6) Various sparkly things to adorn myself with = Two hours
7) Short shorts = Two hours
8) Pretty party dress = Anywhere from two to eight hours (scale from Gap to Bebe)
9) Suntan lotion, fake tan, poofy sparkly skin stuff = Two hours
10) Venus Refills = Half an hour

So, this sojourn is going to have me working for 16.5 days to pay off, plus an additional 3 days for the ecoutrements.

LOVE IT.

Butterflies

Nothing quite like the feeling of resigning from two jobs in under 6 weeks. Today I hand in my notice at P.O.W. after 4 weeks of employment. I'd like to say something regretful and rueful when I hand over that letter, but I don't have it in me. The work just isn't interesting to me...I wish it could have been worse in a way because it would make it all much more easy to say goodbye. It's not their fault, nor mine. Somehow I feel that this will all go badly. Regardless, I have three hours left until I "do it" and I am having trouble concentrating. Especially when everyone asks "So, it's been a month! Are you fitting in well? How's it going?" and I have to smile and say, "Very well thank you". Even my poor boss this morning said "Now you're getting the hang of it!" and I wanted to apologize to her for the deception when I smiled back and said "Yes, I think I am". It's not that I don't get it...I could do this job until the end of days but it doesn't excite me, interest me, or compell me. I would do this position a disservice by keeping it, because I couldn't possibly give it my all.

Moving on is equally scary. I received the 18 page contract on Sunday. If my email inbox could make a "thud" sound when it arrived, it would have. Reading the contract always raises goosebumps on me, and the thoughts of "What the hell am I getting myself into?!" rush around my addled brain. Reading the "you can be fired if"s and the "you will / will not do this"s always strikes the fear of God in me and makes me wonder what type of sadistic, unfeeling, faceless corporate entity I am getting myself in to.

This is how it always is though, isn't it? Those rules are for the slackers, the fire-ables, the deadbeat hires. I am not one of those. But nothing makes me want to tow the line faster than a "your *ss is ours" clause. I am now "owned".

I passed on the contract to Mummy Moo for review (ok, not so much for review, more strength in numbers) and she sighed: "If they are going to pay you that much, they will expect their pound of flesh"

Which translates as "I can now (finally) afford to go to Hawaii, but they may not let me leave".

The irony.

Teeny donuts cause so much trouble

Being a genuinely nice person, and in a celebratory mood after receiving confirmation about my job offer, I decided to buy Timbits (translation: donut-holes) for the folks at P.O.W. I was cooking up my resignation letter in my mind while handing over the $4.46 for a box of their finest assortment, and thought that this may express my thanks for their help over the past 30 days I have been employed there.

Cut to office elevator: I enter, clutching Timbits (and a steeped tea. Full entry on this to follow at some point) and bump into my (soon to be ex) boss.

Her: "Haha, you've got Timbits!"
Me (confused): "Err, yes."
Her: "Timbits have a significance around here!"
Me (confused): "Okaaay"
Her: "Ask someone what it means when you bring in Timbits!"
Me (confused): "Will do."

So, I ask my fellow desk-mate why the fuss about the Timbits.

Him: "Haha, you've got Timbits!"
Me: "Yes, and it's very contagious"
Him (confused): "What? Oh, that's funny"
Me: "I've been told to ask you about the significance of Timbits"
Him: "Oh yeah?"

and then he says

"People bring in Timbits when they are leaving"

*blush*

My dream from last night

Anyone who knows me understands that I have the most vivid and bizarrely strange dreams on a nightly basis. Last nights' was a doozey. I started out on a flying carpet with MB (or was it my brother? Dreams are just too damn Freudian) and we were trying to pack our suitcases, when suddenly I suggested just sitting on the wicker hamper instead and he says "Great!". (BTW, if this doesn't seem to make sense, then you ain't seen nothing yet...) So there we are flying along when we crash into a mountain of clothes that are all folded and waiting to go to Goodwill. People are all over the mountain, folding and unfolding garments and they look upset that we are there. So I begin trying to dig us out so we can get going, but the carpet won't fly anymore. It's then that I realize I'm in England with an ex from Uni. He is really pleased to see me and gives me a huge hug and takes my bags. I realize that I'm here to visit him, but hold on, I've brought MB! That's when I realize that I had forgotten to break up with the ex! So I tell him that I've been seeing someone else and he says, "Well, that's ok. Long distance relationships are difficult" and he tries to get me to come with him. And inside I'm thinking "But what am I going to tell MB? Does this mean I've been cheating on MB with you??!!" and I'm so confused. Then my ex-boss shows up and tells me that I am an idiot for staying at my old P.O.W. without getting a raise because she was making $117,000 just because she asked for it. Then I wake up.

Wait until I tell you about the one with the toilets...

I am making this sound right now...

Nah her her har har har....NARF!

Of course, this doesn't do justice to the actually sound bite, as per "Pinky and the Brain", but this is how I feel right now.

I got the job!

Time to blow this popsicle stand (god, I've always wanted to say that...)

...And exhale

While no news is good news, I did hear from my headhunter today. He said "Call him tomorrow".

I think this is good.

Prayer from my youth...

Dear God,

It's me. Sorry I haven't talked to you for like, ever. I just wanted to ask you for one thing. Seriously, just one teensy tiny thing, and if you let me have my wish, then I promise to be good for ever and ever. I promise not to ask for anything ever again. If you give me my wish, I'll never eat chocolate / l*st after boys / always do my homework on time / never talk back to my Mum. I'll do whatever you want me to do except become a nun.

Thank you, Amen, in your name and all that.

Barlet

(Note: This prayer was used multiple times during the ages of 13 and 15, most predominantly during the "Braces and Glasses" phase. It eventually was superseced by the "Anguish in Diary" era, which developed into the "Bad Poetry in Journal" stage. This has now evolved into the "Self-flagellating blogging" phase. Thank you)

I'm getting an ulcer...

RING, GODD*MN IT, RIIINNNNNGGGG!!!!

Somebody needs a hug...

In terrible need of reassurance today. Haven't heard from my (potential) new job. They are still checking references, and all of my referencees have contacted me to say I'm a shoe-in. However, I just have that nagging doubt, the darkness before dawn. I just want it to be done and over (in a positive conclusion, obviously, but hey any news would be good right about now. Nope I lied, I want good news). I'm dialing in to my phone number every 22 minutes to check messages "just in case" and am willing the cell to go off with a cheery "RING, GODD*MN IT, RING!". To make matters worse, conditions at P.O.W. have taken a dive and I am not only desperate to get out, but I can't seem to get my head around to caring about the horrible work I have to do right now. The deadlines go on, but the lights are out.

"RINGGGGG!!!!!"

A lighter tone...

Realizing that my last posts (ok, except the one about being beaned by an imposter purse) have been a little down, I've decided to quantify what an idiot I am. Seriously:

• I own sheep slippers. Shaun from Wallace and Grommit in fact.
• Everytime I see a chicken (living or artistically represented) I say "CHICKEN!" really loud, and in an annoying tone.
• I hum the Mission Impossible theme song every time I see a squirrel.
• I call one of my cats "Monkey". The other is "Big Boy". Real names have been withheld to protect the innocent.
• I watch America's Next Top Model.
• I do a great impression of Cartman from South Park.
• I karaoke Britney Spears songs.
• I cry while watching Saturn commericals.
• I hate S*x and the City (I know, I know, I know...)
• I keep a squeezy cow on my desk. His name is "Squeezy Cow".
• I read advice columns every day.
• I fantasize that I'm going to get "spotted" while out and about. For what, I don't know.
• I want a Survivor Buff.

I will add more. Much more.

The real reason I am changing jobs...

is that the commute by subway is disgusting. The Toronto Transit Commission tries so very hard, where it can, to provide a suitably smelly and crowded ride in: a mandate in which it consistantly excels. Today I was smacked in the face by some ladies purse. Smacked, I say. And the darling woman looks down on me (business attire, reading Atwood) and looks dismayed that my dirty face had purposely hit her (imitation...I got a really good look) Prada bag.

I still have seam marks on my forehead.

When you wish upon a blog...

So, this must be the magical mystery blog where all things wished come true. Those of you who have read my posts know that I recently wanted to know the whereabouts of a certain ex. That happened the other day, quickly followed by an email from another long-lost ex. There must be something in the water. Previous to that post, I also made mention of the symphony increasing my IQ and thereby earning me a job making $70,000 a year. Weeeelll, I'm not sure about the IQ, but I got the job! I don't want to jinx anything, but I think once my references are checked and the formalities are out of the way, I'm moving on up!

Of course, with every up, there is the karmic wonderment that is down. I found MB's profile on another dating site. Of course, there is another excuse, another apology, another dumbfounded look, another "Where did that come from? I thought I deleted it all".

I thought we were past that too. I thought he got rid of it all when I found out. Perhaps he just missed one.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.