This was a long, long day, and it's about to stretch itself out for another 72 hours. Awoke at 5 am in a post-migraine haze, watched an assortment of informercials to knock my alpha waves back down to 4 per minute. Slept in, then rushed through my wardrobe on the off chance I'd be caught by the Canada AM cameras sweeping through the office today. Guest voice was Rod Black, who was uber professional, humble, and surprisingly tall for a media type. Generally media types, especially men, are large midgets with short-guy syndrome; it's as if the fairground height requirements have been reversed -- if you are taller than this, please consider a different career.
The long day was made that much worse by lack of nourishment and tightness of heels. I even started the day out wearing nylons. Nylons?!?! What was I thinking? Knowing myself as well as I do, I packed knee socks, which quickly replaced the nylons (fishnet, natch) within minutes of stumbling in to voice record, late, with my left big toe already aching from bearing the weight of the rest of me. Then, at 5:15, ScriptThing crashed. Rather than get frustrated, I took it as a sign to begin the long weekend. A quick beer with equally tired animators, then out to Nicky's to retrieve the obscure Canadian book, then to the megagrocery store to purchase the weekend's worth of pre-packed meals (and a bag of carrots so I would have at least one item that was seemingly healthy, even though these carrots are probably so genetically altered that they're one molecular shift away from plasticine).
So now I'm 2 1/2 hours away from midnight. The water is on the boil for a large bodum of coffee, the freezer is stocked with prefab salmon wellington, and my dog is already hating me for the walks he will not take.
Went to Les Miserables last night with my mom. (The role of her usual date was played by me).Of course, the best part of going to big extravaganza live theatre production in Vancouver is the audience itself. It's always a complete mishmash of slick Kerrisdale couture poised next to what could only be likened to Scott Thompson clones in drag.
The musical was dead boring -- sorry mom, at least the tickets were free -- and didn't give me shivers or move me to sneeze once, though I couldn't get this damn Seinfeld episode out of my head -- you know, the one where George starts humming "Master of the House" but can't remember the words. The set, however, was fascinating. Part sewer grate, part rummage sale, part Transformer™, it twisted and contorted to form a heap of rubble, circa 1826, then again to form a barricade of garbage, circa 1835.
After all that, the audience gave a standing ovation. Is this city so starved for "culture" that we'll stand and clap for mediocrity, or has the standing ovation become a standard ritual now, like tipping a lazy waiter? Drat be to that, my ass remained firmly planted in my seat, and not just because trying to stand on a sloping floor in heels is a risk to my personal health and wellbeing.
For those of you looking for online insight of the astrological sort, I highly recommend Cainer. First, you must get past the fact that he bears an uncanny resemblance to Captain Stubing, complete with ascot. Rest assured, your horoscope will never say "Uranus is circling the poop deck". Not only are his daily horoscopes bang on, but he's based in England, which means the West Coast can pick up tomorrow's forecast in the late afternoon of today. A planetary heads-up, which is something we can all get chuffed about.
Things that give me hope: to the right of this, you'll notice two links. Should you wish to click on these, you'll be introduced to a fantastic love story. And it's about to come to full fruition in the next 24 hours. This has even naysaying me grinning from somewhere deep inside.
Brief moment of panic this afternoon when I found out the public library is closed until after the long weekend. I was desperately seeking an obscure Canadian book, something which I'm sure I must read again before undertaking the arduous task of the three-day novel. Instead of free access to the books of the city, I got a shoulder shrug from the security guard. That great strike fever has spread. I suggest calendula cream to stop the itch. However, never fear, though few of my friends actually read books, the ones who do have fine collections of literature. Hurrah to Nicky, who not only has the book, but can pronounce the word "Roccamatios".
So, that's it. The cheque is in the mail. While other folks will be driving about the countryside next weekend, enjoying the full sun and fresh air, or jaunting off to France, I will be doing this. Casseroles, coffee and words of encouragement will be greatly appreciated.
Last weekend, in the interval between hanging up the phone and the honk of the car horn at my back gate, I caught a few moments of Woody Allen's "Take the Money and Run". A comedic masterpiece, what with the parents in Groucho glasses and Allen fumbling along the pavement as a cellist in a marching band. Yesterday, however, I cringed through the matinee of "The Curse of the Jade Scorpion". The only redeemable factors in this film were the stylish tailoring of the women's dresses and clashing wallpaper, the likes of which I have not seen since Catherine Deneuve sang of budding love in her mother's umbrella shop. The casting was wrong, all wrong. How can you put Wallace Shawn in a film and only offer him bit-part lines? How can you put Helen Hunt in a film, period? Like a bad Martin Lawrence movie (are there any other kind?), the funniest lines are in the trailer. Let it be said, the world does not need to see Woody Allen and Helen Hunt in passionate embrace. I apologize for having put that image in your head.
Lately, the symbolism in my dreams has been so blatant that I disappoint myself. Two nights ago, there were literally wolves at the door -- see, I only have a month left at my current job, and the money worries have begun. The wolves came in and sniffed at me, then left, so perhaps I shouldn't be as worried as I am. Last night's dream...I was making out with someone, in a closet. I'm pretty sure it was a guy, and I'm pretty sure I'm straight, so I'm not clear as to how the closet factors in. In any event, I don't recommend it; there isn't a whole lotta room for moving about in a closet.
This morning: the proposition of a crack purchase. I work in a dodgy neighbourhood, and used to live blocks away from said dodgy neighbourhood, and yet today marks the very first offer of crack. Sure, the whole pharmacy has been spread out before me in the past: ativan, dope, up, down, crank, speed...you get the picture. Singular words spoken in hushed tones. This particular stretch of Hastings Street is renown for the ease with which one might obtain a 5 lb. brick of cheddar, a stolen TV, or a dimebag of whatever your vice may be.
At first, I thought he was pushing the bike tire resting on his shoulder like a comical epaulette. But then he repeated himself. "Wanna buy some crack?" I must give the guy some credit -- he was pounding the pavement early, getting the egg & bacon crowd. Yet, he'd somehow completely missed the mark with me: the naive chick biking through Chinatown with my dog in a pink milk crate on the back.
Now, if he was in a trench coat and dealing "the letter R", we may have had a transaction.
There will be more, but here's a place to start. The discovery of the day was that a blood stain will come out with milk. Simple milk. This had to do with my gimpy dog, his bleeding foot, and the cream coloured couch of a co-worker. It looked as though it had been ransacked by a kindergarten class wielding burnt umber Crayolas. A little full-dairy container from the coffee collection pulled the stain up miraculously, milk restoring the cream. There is, of course, the need for something else to draw out the milk lest the couch curdle.
