What I am and what I can be

Pretending to be someone you are not. Isn't that just the rub? I do this everyday, but not in costume...I'm in work clothes, going-out clothes, grub clothes.

I want this blog to be funny, so I write the ha-ha's because that's what a blog should be, shouldn't it? I don't want to be too self-indulgent of myself, or write intense soul searching entries (like this one) because, let's face it, I wouldn't read it myself. I want to be so many different things, and care too much about how I appear to others.

So I try to be funny, because that's what I would want to read about. I wouldn't want to read about the doubtful times, the rough times. I want to be clever and witty and brilliant. But I'm not. I used to call myself a good writer, but I am actually just a glorified diary writer.

So I sit and try and find out the humour of what happened today. Like the fact that I won third place at work's costume contest. Not because of my fantastic Alice in Wonderland costume...no, no...but because the judge thought I was dressed as a "naughty nurse". Not just a "nurse" but a naughty one. A slutty one. Great, now I have something to label me in a work environment, negatively at that.

Sidenote: How anyone thought that a nurse carries a Cheshire Cat under one arm is beyond me.

But it wasn't funny. It wasn't funny at all. It made me want to curl up in a ball. It ruined my day and I am sad now. And deflated. Nothing I do is good.

Like when I decided to take some classes to improve myself and meet new people. I actually came out of that experiment with an ENEMY. I mean, who takes a marketing class and comes out with someone who hates your guts. Oh right. That would be me.

I once went to a psychic who told me that things are made purposefully difficult for me, because I am being tested. Things never come easy. And it is because of all of the pain I have to face that I will become unbreakable. But I'm not exactly loving the process. You know when you start to feel paranoid that the whole world is out to get you...well I'm not paranoid, it really is.

I've had so much good in my life and so much bad, and I feel that I am never quite with the group. I'm always running to catch up. I live and breathe on the fringes of friendships, always the "third girl" (ladies, you know what that means), always the last one asked for coffee, the first to be picked on, the last to be given anything freely and without consequence.

I want to be so many things, but most of all I want to be liked for who I am. God that sounds so pathetically sad. I want to go through a day knowing that I am liked, and feel warm inside with that thought. I want to know that there is no-one out there that wishes to see me embarrassed or hurt. I want to be the funny, carefree girl, but it isn't to be.

I hope I will one day see the meaning of all of it. A great "ah-ha" moment at the age of 80. I hope it is all worth it. I want to be worth it.

Down the rabbit hole

I sit here today at my desk, dressed as Alice in Wonderland. I feel like a dork. However, I know that at least I resemble Alice in Wonderland, from my little Mary Janes to my blue dress and "Alice" hairband. I even have a stuffed Cheshire Cat. Clearly, I rock.

I went to a nightclub on Saturday dressed as a hula girl (pics to follow) and encountered not one, but four other hula girls. I was brave enough to be wearing a grass skirt, bikini and a smile. All but one were as daring.

I also plan to wear this getup tonight while being honorary candy server at our house. Hopefully I will get a comment. Last year, while wearing my favourite "Hello Kitty" t-shirt (no, not a costume), I got a "That's a really cool t-shirt" from a 6 year old.

It was the best compliment I think I've ever received. Again, clearly I rock.

I'm even leaving early from work to get home in time to see the young ones, often the best dressed of the bunch. Last year we got a 3 month old dressed as a pumpkin at about 5.30pm. I wouldn't miss that for the world.

House is sold

We managed to sell the house last night. You know how you expect some things to end with a bang? Well, this was one of those times that you expect the bang and get the fizzle. I expected to break out a mini bottle of champagne that I'd been saving, but instead we just put on America's Next Top Model. What a celebration.

The whole "end-of-an-era" thing is becoming quite clear now. It's almost as if we are sorting out our affairs before we begin a whole new life (which essentially, we are).

Getting the house off our plates gives me more free time to worry about other things too, like our invitations. Hopefully, with MF gone most of the weekend, I'll be free to run errands and glue stuff like a mad woman. I am actually really looking forward to it!

Claustrophobia makes you famished!

Something about being on an airplane, a glorified winged tin can, after a hideous takeoff combined with turbulence, appropriate baby screeching, and two-year-old kicking the back of your seat (natch) to bring on a case of the hungries.

There is NOTHING like the wafting smell of beef in goop drifting from the galley to make you realize you have never been quite as hungry as you are right now. This is not a joke. Something about airplanes makes me seriously ravenous, and those mysterious food platters (which, you know, are about 3 hours away from actually being served) and their teasing lingering scent go on their way to make me absolutely insane with hunger.

And now, sitting in my cubby while waves of luscious Lean Cuisine smells waft from the kitchen, I realize I have never, ever been this hungry in my life.

Damn you, plastic tray food that I cannot eat!!

Time to explain...what's going on in my life?

Well, the reason I have been so ticked at MF recently is because he has been sick for almost 2 weeks, during which time we bought a house and put ours on the market. There is a lot of stress going around. Also, our close date is 8 days before our wedding, which makes things a little crazy.

I'm beginning to seriously doubt my ability to vow to love MF "in sickness and in health". Of course, I WILL, but it takes so much out of me that I just hope I can stay strong if he does get seriously ill.

This is all just coming to a head. After he injured his neck at a volleyball game, and we spent hours in emerg waiting for a doctor that never came, he just hasn't been well. That was three weeks ago. After he hurt himself, we was pretty stiff and sore for the entire following week (and all of the complaining that involves). But instead of taking it easy, he went and played volleyball the following week too, and guess what? Another week of complaining and soreness. Does he stop playing volleyball? No. In fact, he then proceeds to help a buddy finish his basement, help my Dad pound fence posts into the ground, and next week is set to chop up trees at his Dad's place. Basically, he is overextending himself and I get the brunt of it.

This weekend, we had friends over to discuss the wedding, as he is the MC. I tidied the house by myself, cooked the dinner, cleaned up afterwards, sorted laundry, loaded dishwashers, cooked every meal. Not one finger lifted, because he is "sick".

You know what? Enough. If you are that sick, don't play volleyball, k? Don't chop down trees, k? Don't complain that you are too sick to help me cook dinner and then finish someone's basement, k?

The house has to be spotless every morning for showings, I'm stressed that the place hasn't generated much interest, and I am planning a wedding. I spent a day this weekend hand cutting and gluing the invitations that HE insisted we do, while he took a nap. I am one...bloody...complaint away from murder right now!!!

But the house we bought is lovely, and much closer to work, so less commute. It really has been a bittersweet couple of weeks.

Sick Boy

The world remains in order. With a stressful situation now hovering over us like a hungry mosquito, MF has fallen ill. Again.

Again.

There isn't much to say except, "again".

Our moment of need = sick
The point at which we need to work hard together = sick
A stressful time for both of us = sick

I know everyone has their reactions to stress, but this is ridiculous. And to make matters worse, this time it's some mystery ailment. Sure, I feel sorry for the bloke, but I'd feel a heck of a lot more sorry for him if he doesn't do this every...bloody...time...I need him to be "on" and working hard.

I'll expand on this later...it really is exciting news, and I am rising to the challenge. The irony is, I feel that these times are the ones I really get to shine, as I embrace stress and rise up to exceed expectations. But it would be a heck more enjoyable if "we" were rising to that challenge together, as equals.

Ho-hum.

A mystery of the universe is solved

I have worked out why there are always lineups at women's washrooms. As guys are strolling in an out with an almost frightening speed, we do the peepee dance in line for 10 minutes.

Why?

Because (some) women are stupid. They get into a public washroom and the internal dialogue goes something like this: "Ewww. Like, so totally gross. I have to put my butt and some junk on an icky dirty toilet seat. No way! I'm going to line it with paper so I don't have to touch anything!".

Just wondering, but when was the last time you heard of anyone catching a highly contagious ass disease? Anyone? Anyone?? No, there must be an epidemic of ass diseases going around, because women are carefully tearing off sheet by sheet to line the seat and prevent this deadly infection from spreading. Clearly, doctor's offices are full of women with scabby circles on their rears and upper thighs. Physicians everywhere must be distraught that people STILL sit on toilet seats without a 1-ply protective barrier, due to the severity of the butt bubonic plague going around.

Do I sit on a public washroom seat without paper? You bet your bee-hind I do.

Open Letter to Death Cab for Cutie...

Depeche Mode called. They want their music back.

Welcome to Slutsville: Population - Me

Sooo, I'm walking around the building here, as one is wont to do, and I see a girl wearing the same sweater that I had recently purchased from Jacob.

Didn't really irk me until later that she had been wearing a white shirt under said sweater.

Sure, the sweater by itself is easily described as low cut and tight. It even has a slight tendency to fall on the outer shoulder blades. But is it really necessary to wear a shirt underneath to preserve modesty? I thought not.

Therefore, I am obviously a raging slut.

Even with the recently layering trend (which I don't understand BTW), I thought I was perfectly decent letting the puppies out for a bit of air. Not a lot of air. Screen door air.

If you will excuse me, I am going home to reconsider my work-casual options now.

Everything is Awesome

Let me explain. MF thinks I'm one of the most positive people he's every met. This is either because he is mistaking me for someone else (likely), or comparing me to his ex-wife (even more likely). I am not personally known for optimism amongst my (non-existent) group of friends. I think I am more likely to be known as "the loud one", "the drunk one", and very infrequently as "the mushy one". Optimism though...not so much.

When we were driving home one day, about two years ago, I looked out the window and saw a house covered in cheap spider web stuff and decorated with little pumpkin lights. Neato!! I smiled and said to MF (then MB) "Ah, I love it when people decorate for Halloween...it's so cool". He smiled, and thought that was the cutest thing to say, that so many people are down on little things like that.

But I've always liked the little things. Lights at Christmas. Walking in leaves. Baking. Feeding ducks. Running. Holding hands. Kids on skis. Bunnies.

Before I get all "puppies and kittens" and crap, I would like to say this...everything is awesome. I guess I'm having one of those stupid love bursts, where everything is great and the world is pink and happy. I'm not sure if that's it or not. I think what I'm trying to say is that the world is a pretty kick ass place full of amazing people who are doing nothing but doing what they do best (whatever that is). Whether it is decorating their house to bring a smile to a kids face (or an adults for that matter), to people who grow Christmas trees, to people who teach other people, to people who learn, to people who share and just try and make their space and their home better for themselves and for others.

Totally awesome, and completely kick ass.

Tonight I'm going home, getting to pet my cats, snuggle MF, and glue together wedding invitations. What could be better? I honestly can't think of anything I'd rather be doing.

4 months is just a nice way of saying "2976 hours"

In four months, 1 day and 30 minutes, I'll be walking down the aisle. It's scary as hell. It's really hard to reconcile what should be a really happy and joyous event with my shyness, my nervousness and my over-active imagination. Will I trip? Will I catch fire? Will I cry?

Although catching fire is unlikely (though not impossible), I must start focusing more on what this means rather than what it is...what it all means is that I will become a wife, a lifelong companion, taking the first steps towards being something different in mindset and shape to what I am now. What it is is a party, a celebration, an event.

I fear I am in danger of being consumed by the wedding machine...focused on the placecards instead of on joining hands with my husband. I will endevour to do better (as soon as the invitations are out, that is).

Thanksgiving

Tomorrow begins a monumental weekend of turkey eating. Whee. Sometimes I wish the Canadian Thanksgiving was more like the American one...or is that just a TV construct? I have this idea that an American Thanksgiving involves 12 happy people sitting around a huge and gorgeous spread (complete with tiny pinecone turkey placecards), chattering politely in their knitted pullovers before retiring for a spot of touch football where no-one gets mucky.

Here, there isn't a lot of symbolism to the event. It's a nice day, but in the end, it's just a long weekend. Not that it is even that for me...I don't get the Monday off as my company works as per the American calendar.

I cook my first Turkey tomorrow for the in-laws. I hope everything turns out for the best. Being me, I would like to take this moment to completely outshine all previous efforts of everyone who came before me. More than likely, I will end up with a turkey more like my Dad's...burnt on the outside, slimy raw on the in. Mmmm, cajun style.

So, here is what I have to give thanks for. Note that "Having the day off" is no longer applicable. I am thankful for:

• MF
• My job
• A roof over my head
• Money in the bank
• My furkids
• My general good fortune in recent days
• Bunnies
• Low sodium club soda
• Ryan Reynolds
• Laughter
• Snuggling
• Saturday mornings
• My family (I guess)
• Canadians
• Registries
• My peeps and homies
• Cheese
• Brad Pitt in "Troy"
• Convoluted conversations
• Blogging
• Backrubs
• Marcy, my colourist (yes, she really IS that good)
• Television
• Advice columns
• Procrastination
• The colour pink

I think that covers it. Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

Things I do that I can't figure out why I do them

Computer Related
1) Check MF's email

Ok, this has some qualifications. I still check it now and again because of "the incident". Occasionally I find things, little things. Like some random e-vite to a party held by a name I recognize from his old contact list, before he deleted it. Could she be a blind date from 6 years ago that still has him on file? Or could it be a girl he was corresponding with during "the incident"? I don't know.

2) Google names from MF's email

See above. I google email addresses that I am wary of. Nothing comes of it except my churning stomach.

3) Google ex-boyfriends

I now know where my most recent ex works. Actually, I think it just gives me peace of mind to know where he is from 9-5 so I can avoid the area.

4) Read certain blogs

Ah, the guilty pleasure of reading blogs that incite or upset me. Yay.

"Opening" related
1) I open boxes in stores

Gift boxes, jewellry boxes, wooden boxes...what do I think is in there?

2) I open my paycheck

Why? I know what's in there. It's the same every week. What am I going to find, an uncashed bonus cheque?

3) I open MF's unopened mail

Because I'm a snoop. If he doesn't open it, why not? And besides, I hate filing envelopes.

Personal quirk related
1) I flap my hands in front of my eyes when I'm about to cry

Why??? Dear God tell me WHY??

2) I bite my nails

I'm not as bad as I used to be (biting them off) but I do nibble at my cuticles like some rabid chipmunk. I know it's going to hurt later, but that doesn't seem to stop me.

3) I allow my mother to get to me

Ok, but who doesn't??

4) I pull my eyelashes as a compulsive habit

Weird huh?

The essence of cake

Today is MF's birthday, once that fully esconces him into early-to-late early 30's. I presented him with a slightly non-traditional cake this morning...a tray of Costco Cream Cheese Frosted Sticky Buns. He was pleased.

I didn't receive a cake on my birthday. Not on purpose. It was merely an oversight. But the fundamental importance of cake (to me) dawned on me that day. To me, cake has always been the marking of my years, my passage. It's not real until the candles are blown out and wishes are made, bringing closure to the old and hopes for the new. A symbolic exercise if ever there was one.

Recently, while experiencing scrapbooking creative block, I sorted my photographs until I had found all of the pictures of us children blowing out the candles on our cake...cheeks ballooned, eyes wide with effort and excitement. While some years were skipped or missing, there was enough to cover a whole spread of my scrapbook with 1x1" pictures. That's a lot of cake.

While the cakes got less elaborate and fancy with age, deteriorating from sponge cake castles and chocolate button decorated dragons, to bowls of trifle and store bought standards, there was always something special about that cake, whatever shape it took.

The last picture of me with a cake was on my 18th. I was "dressed-up" in a black dress with my hair in an attempt at a sophisticated twist. My friends are around me in their best black tie and we are all laughing as I cut the Champagne Bottle shaped cake. A snap shot in time.

I look forward to taking my own pictures of my children on their birthdays. The typical shot of the 1-year old, covered head to toe in icing. The 10 year old beaming at his arrival into the double digits. The surprised look on that five year old face as they get that barbie cake I'd been denying them for SO long.

But who will take pictures of me? Who witnesses my aging? Who would spend hours to bake me a cake, and sit enthralled as I blow out those candles? We mark the time in years, but the importance lessens. Therefore, MF will be getting an even better cake next year, perhaps made from scratch this time. I just hope he sees that everything I do for him is a little bit of a silent encouragement to do the same for me. I hope.

Bang a Gong...or a Birch

Last post I wrote reminds me of someone telling me, years ago, that T-Rex's last hit was a tree.

Poor Marc Bolan. But too funny.