Is it so wrong that the bomb was that he has teenage children, and that I'm wondering if the 17 year-old son is hot? On the outside, I'm a girl, but I swear my thought processes are 95% guy. The remaining 5% is reserved for skirt length, Bumble & Bumble, the letter "C", absolving misery with my good friend Sara Lee, and ponytails.
There’s something to be said about that perfect moment: content in the passenger seat, winter sunlight warm on your face as the car presses forward to nowhere in particular, Jasper, Tofino, wherever. Blankets stacked in the back and a bag of ripe fruit just in case. Your feet up against the dashboard, as though bracing yourself against the unknown that lies ahead. And on the stereo, some decidedly guilty pleasure – Peter Gabriel or Leonard Cohen. The clincher is the winter sunlight; all of this is nothing without the winter sunlight streaming through.
So here’s the thing: the bomb. In my experience, this usually gets dropped on the second date. Previous bombs run the gamut from "I’m addicted to ketamine" to "I deal ketamine" to "I’m digging me some Hall & Oates" to "I’m dying from lung cancer" (which isn’t really lung cancer but more along the lines of a bleeding ulcer). Thankfully, thankfully, the bomb has never been "I’m married", though I have had "You know the blonde I live with and who I refer to as my ‘roommate’...she’s actually my girlfriend. Can I still come over?"
I don’t have anything like that to drop on a guy. Honey, maybe, but not nefarious information. Except for the purple faux Birkenstocks from my summer in Prague hidden in the back of my closet. BUT, that was ten years ago, and I had been living in Victoria, den of all things hippie-ish, before I went overseas so cut some slack. From the ankles up, I was otherwise un-hemp. Yet, time and time again, these tidbits of intelligence get dropped on me. Not that I mind, best to get to the fork in the road as soon as possible. Unfortunately, more often than not, I end up bowing out. I mean, at least share the ketamine, right? Anyway, all of this is to say I’m preparing myself for another second date and the inevitable bomb. I’ll keep you posted.
Non-sequitur: why don’t any American Idol folk have the sense to sing Stay Gold?!? Actually, I don’t want to hear anyone kill that song. Also, if you want to know what ever happened to Hall & Oates, they play Vegas.
Non-sequitur #2: What ever happened to spies and assassins? Why can’t Bush just deploy five or six well-trained spies to infiltrate the system and take out Saddam Hussein instead of ramping up the war machine? Have I been working in the entertainment media for so long that I’m stupidly convinced that this is still an option? Why haven’t the American broadcasters created a reality show that allows 14 every-day working stiffs to head over to Iraq in an effort to take down the regime? Am I on to something here?
I haven’t been drinking coffee for about four months now. Okay, I had a murky cup during voice record last week but that hardly counts. The hiatus was sparked by an overly-aggressive interaction with a coffeeless waitress one Saturday morning...about four months ago. She did not have fresh coffee, and this unleashed a subterranean side of myself that I’d never seen before. The reign of coffee was abruptly brought to an end. Yet, come Saturday morning, I was procrastinating heavily on the second draft of the farty show script when it dawned on me: a little concoction of espresso and condensed milk would perk me up. By mid-afternoon, my entire apartment was clean, the laundry was done, the cds were alphabetized, the knitting was underway. Basically, everything that didn’t really require any concentration was happening. The script, sorely, was not.
I was unseasonably drunk.
So when the call came at 4 o’clock in the afternoon about whether I wanted to go to the bar for the Saturday rockabilly jam, I DID! I could barely put on mascara, I was that jittery. Ok, I can barely put it on at the best of times. I thought maybe a pint or two would balance me out. Heh. Yeah, I got unseasonably drunk. We left there about 7:30ish, then went for sushi and sake, then I stumbled home, thinking I’d sleep it off and wake at midnight and resume procrastination on the script. Only, that didn’t happen. No sooner was I in the door than I was out the door, literally scurrying to the Drive to continue my nefarious activities with a silly grin plastered on my face. Apparently, my tongue made numerous appearances. My tongue. And I flashed around the collected phone number of the Vincent D’Onofrio-esque fellow I’d met at the rockabilly jam. My knees are thankfully intact, as are my teeth. My recollection, however, is foggy. But there was a devilish glee to the entire day – blowing off work in favour of socialization, and I haven’t swapped priorities like that for far, far too long.
3503. Victoria T
I am very upset. Us asians should not still be having to deal with these racist issues in 2003. I am now against shopping at Abercrombie and Fitch because they think it's funny to have shirts saying "two wongs can't make a right?!?" well let me tell you something, two wongs CAN make a white.
First draft of farty show script -- done.
Triple-creme brie -- consumed long ago.
Bad gown count at Golden Globes -- shit, I forgot that was on.
Complaints -- just one. Why can't I get sick on weekdays. Like Tuesday. If I have to get the flu yet again, why, oh why must it always hit on Saturday mornings?
the four of us tried to go to the rail for a beer, where, incidentally, i ran into and chatted with [last guy I dated] and some girl, who were there to see a $12 show. not wanting to pay that kind of cover for a pint, we ended up at malone's for a couple of pitchers. i didn't get to bed till 1. yes, i'm a little tired today.
To: Nick
From : ThingsFallApart
Girl!? What girl? Not jealous, just curious. Ah, yes, Peter Case of ex-Plimsouls fame played last night. (Think back to the 80s, and the song "A Million Miles Away" from one of those 80s movies -- I think it was Valley Girl. Let me just look it up...YES! Valley Girl! Damn, I so could have used that brain cell for more useful trivia). Ack, it could never have been. Besides the fact that things were very "girl next doorish", he snores. Rephrase: he snores badly. Alas, it could never have been. I need a boy who draws out my latent filthiness and who sleeps like a baby. So, basically, I'm looking for a six-year-old in a sandbox. Maybe Pete Townshend can hook me up.
As part of the continuing education series offered by the College of Self-Supportism and Fine Arts in Hermiting, I will be attending "Basic Knitting" this evening. You know, cast-on, cast-off; it's sort of like Karate Kid but with wool instead of wax. My aunt can knit a sweater in an afternoon and did so many times during the summers I spent with her, reading the same stack of Richie Rich comics instead of learning how to knit. She's also taking a course tonight. "Basic Computer Skills". I know, I know. However, I have successfully entered into a skillset trade-off with my dog: in exchange for his ability to draw complete strangers into conversation, I've ponied up my long-standing talent with the cross-bow. Now I set 'em up and he takes 'em out. Perfect.
1. About ten years ago, I lived in a little hovel in Kits endearingly known as "the black hole of Calcutta". I shared this dodgy basement suite with a laid-back carpenter and his black Lab, Marty the Magnet. Long before I moved in, he'd befriended a clatch of West Coast academics/tree-planters who lived down the alley. They had a fantastic house with an ivy shaded back porch and a rent price-fixed somewhere back in 1978. This week, one of the lads tracked me down. We just got off the phone and it was like no time had passed at all.
2. I watched Goldmember on Friday night after I couldn't write any longer.
Though these two events may seem unrelated, they've both reminded me of something I've neglected for far, far too long: Girlfriend.
For the longest time I was poor. A perpetual student, living off about $8000 a year culled from teaching positions, bursaries and loans. When you get used to the belly of the whale, it's hard to see yourself outside of the stink and in the fresh air. That is to say, I didn't feel poor because I had no idea what it was like to be other that what I was. Thrift store clothes, not because it was the cool thing, but because there really was no other choice. A vegetarian diet, not because of any moral stance, but because of the cost of meat; and once eliminated from the diet, random meals of beef became harder and harder to stomach. Literally. Still, there was always money for beer.
The punch in the gut of being poor always came back to food. I would treat myself not with trinkets or music but with perogies from the Polish deli on St. Viateur or a packet of bangers & mash from Marks & Spencer (really, these were heavenly). When papers met deadlines or assignments came back with acceptable grades, I would venture to the Cinq Saisons in Outremont where they were so wealthy they had not four but five seasons!!, and where I could sample unpasteurized cheeses. These were protected by ongoing petitions which demanded the Regie that oversaw consumer health overlook the minor suicides we attempted by eating something of such small risk. There was a certain unpasteurized goats cheese that, along with a fresh baguette, became the standard academic reward in our flat. Nights spent with pints on St. Laurent were topped with hot bagels at 4 a.m. I remember being too poor to afford baba ganoush, unless of course I was on the home stretch of another deadline. It was $3.50 a container.
There's a scene in Adaptation. in which Charlie Kaufman persuades himself to write in exchange for a prize of food. Here's a writer after my own stomach -- I still do this push-for-pellet hamster writing. This weekend, I'm back on the script for the farty series, though I've upped the stakes. In my fridge, directly from the European food importers, is a wedge of triple-creme brie. I say I'll get through the teaser before the tease is gone.
Feeling down? Get yourself a little of this. Sure, the whole 17 vs. 21 argument shouldn't help lift the mood if you're 33, but the whole day takes a brighter turn when Ladytron is around. I thought I'd be sick of this song by now, but every time I put it on, it just makes me that much happier.
a few of the many things I learned over the holiday season:
* that the "santa claus" mommy is kissing in the famous christmas carrol is really her husband dressed up like santa claus. hm. i guess being raised in a single-parent family has messed with my mind a little.
* there are two types of whiskey. scotch and rye. never assume the person who sends you to the liquor store means scotch when they ask for a bottle of whiskey.
