It’s been a busy week that felt long which is always the worst. The highlight of the week though was having someone’s blood dripping from their mouth onto my counter. Shortly thereafter I sent a love letter to Otto Röhm.

I experienced gastrointestinal euphoria for lunch on Thursday which could have very well redeemed my week because good food tends to fix everything. There are bright sides to working in the Downtown East Side and that’s being so close to Gastown. For my visiting readers from cities aplenty please forget not to experience Gastown if you’re in the neighbourhood. Then find The Black Frog and call me, damn it.

I overhauled my living room last weekend (which is really two weekends ago now, this has taken me that long to write). This will be my fifth arrangement since October 2007. I’m not sure how normal that is but normal doesn’t usually apply to me anyway so I’m not going to worry. 

I did acquire a new piece of furniture as well and that is a big, IKEA Billy shelving unit with glass doors that Gg handed down to yours truly. Ghetto me could never afford such a thing brand new so hookups are nice. Now that I think about it, this may have all started when I sold my IKEA Benno shelves on Craigslist. For approx 5 nights 140 DVDs and probably an equal amount of CDs were actually taking up space on my living room floor. If you know me then you know how devastating this disorganization was to me. At the same time, those who know me will also know that it makes perfect sense that I sell the shelves on a whim without any sort of plan regarding where the DVDs and CDs will go when the shelves are actually sold. I lament the disorganization I bring upon myself. Go figure.

So to recover from this not-very-well-thought-out situation that was my living room, I reorganized, shuffled, and rearranged my furniture just to prove something to myself. As a side note, I never feel wholeheartedly lonely because I seem to be perpetually in a state of autonomous interaction with my conflicting personality idiosyncrasies. In this case it was the impractical visionary vs the disciplinary and the end result, fittingly, was a living room I love and one that so far Cathy and Gg are not so fond of. It only makes perfect sense.

What do you make of it:

Here’s why I like it:

1. Previously my computer was against the wall behind where it is now. I faced … the wall. Again, for those who know me, they know I can’t face walls – especially in restaurants – and while also sitting at my computer desk. It’s not claustrophobia, it’s neurosis. 

2. I like feeling cozy and workstations are sometimes hard to make cozy. But tell me you wouldn’t curl up into a ball right on top of my desk now and fall asleep there.

3) I spend most of my reading, scheming, escaping, daydreaming, and playing crossword puzzles on that there sofa. There’s something very tranquil about lying down on it and having those wide open windows in front of me. Previously they were behind me and what kind of purpose does that serve? None other than to make me wonder what’s going on in the world. Pointless; I need to know everything at all times.

4) Other than three glasses of red wine, Gravol, or Coronation Street, there is not much else that turns my mind off other than flames from a fire with a flavouring of José Feliciano from the vinyl.

Oh come on, you appreciate the effect and secretly wish you were sitting in my living room too.

5) The wall that now stands to support my books, DVDs, and CDs is the only wall long enough to keep them together as a family. 

And with that I will not justify my logic any longer. You will either enjoy it, dislike it, or not really give a shit either way so there really isn’t much more to discuss. 

I’ve now been composing this post for two weeks and four days. My new year’s resolution really should have been to finish my blog posts in a reasonable time frame…

Last weekend Mandy bunny and I made a fairly spontaneous plan to go to Whistler. The last time I was there they had the peak express lift closed because it was miserable and torrential. But this time, although it wasn’t a clear day, the snow conditions were probably the best I’ve skied in my 22 years of skiing. It was abundant and frigging fast and this is perfection to me.

In the words of whistlerblackcomb.com: “Whistler’s Peak Express offers some of the planet’s most rugged high alpine.” Now tell me that doesn’t send a shiver down your spine in all the right ways. We reached the peak and were submerged in heavy clouds. It was blustery and dark making the ground impossible to decipher from the atmosphere. I’d be lying if I said we weren’t scared shitless and that’s simply because when you’re on a sharp decline and you can’t see even ten feet ahead of you, you’re pulling guts from areas other than the pit of your stomach. In fact we were stealing guts from each other. We swore the whole way down to the first ridge and upon survival we masochistically wanted to do it all over again just for the thrill of it.

Isn’t Mandy the cutest thing?

On one of our lift rides we started talking about what the hills in Ottawa were like. Myself, I learned to ski at Edelweiss in Gatineau. We thought of all our favourite hills and how sadly they pale in comparison to what we are so lucky to have here. Just to put it into perspective, I did some quick calculations and came up with this very roughly scaled example of how Edelweiss might compare to Whistler. Technically speaking, Whistler has a top elevation of 2,182 metres compared to Edelweiss’s 350 metres. 

I mean, check out this vista:

Whistler © Andrea C.

Oh, am I bragging? Sorryyy.

What else is new…

Oh yes, here’s the car that’s going to replace my Ford Fo’ once my lease is up. Thirteen more days to go, by the way, and my last car payment comes out. Then I will be car-payment free. Free! Fr.EE! F|r|e|E! f:r/EE!

Cute isn’t it? Rando found me this little gem and I couldn’t be happier. I introduce you to my 1991 Civic Si.

Okay I will leave you with some Sunday Jammin’ Music on… yes, Thursday. This one’s solid for jammin’. Thievery Corporation – Un Simple Histoire

Please also enjoy with me this incredibly sexy photo of Johnny Depp.

So next month is my FINAL car payment. For 35 months I have been sending $351 to Ford Credit of Canada every month. This, in addition to my insurance, makes my car cost me $512/month. This doesn’t include things like gas, oil changes, and deductibles because my car fell victim to a 360º keying.

That was fun.

You may have just done the math and may or may not be wondering why my auto insurance is $161/month for a 2007 Ford Focus… All enquiries can be directed to Kenny and that’s all I’ll say about that.

Nevertheless, I’ve been quite excited these last few months at the prospect of being up at the very least $500/month. That’s a lot for this single-income girl with a provincial government salary and two cat-children. I have to play my cards right though because in the world of Andrea, $500 more a month could mean better quality oil paint brushes and Costco-size lint rollers. In other words, I need to keep reminding myself that $500 more a month doesn’t make me any Liliane Bettencourt.

On the flip side, although I sincerely am looking forward to this extra amount a month, I can’t help but feel like I’m going to be missing having a car. Yes, I know this makes me much less of a tree hugger but do you know how hard it is to haul a 50lbs box of cat litter from Costco to my front door? What about skiing? Or taking road trips to San Francisco? These are things that make me feel human.

I’ve been contemplating the idea of getting myself into a little, rattling, shit-box. I’ve never had a shit-box and I feel as though the best stories of growing up come from adventures in shit-boxes – almost like a right of passage. When you have a new vehicle, there’s no character. Shit boxes scream character because they’re adorned with home-made things like clothes hangers and cardboard wedged into the stereo housing because the deck isn’t fitting snugly enough. It’s getting your hands dirty because nothing under the hood will be clean. It opens the door to logical thinking because you’ll feel comfortable doing your own repairs as there is no warranty to void. It’s being able to put a bumper sticker on it and not caring because there’s no paint left on the bumper anyway.

My plan is to set aside $500 for March, April, and May; just as if I were still making car payments. What’s three more months after 36 months of payments? This way, I’ll have $1,500 to spend on my very own shit-box! I’ll be payment free. I shouldn’t keep calling it a shit box because I will take my used car very seriously and I will most certainly ensure that my vehicle is safetied, stable, and with doors that really do lock. I will cherish my shit-box.

Here are just a few of the ones I have my eyeballs on (make here, not these exact ones)…

Frankly, I’m excited to get my bum into something all worn, and vinyl-smelling.

Keep you posted.

1993 Honda Civic Si - Photo: Edmunds.com

1991 Volvo 240 - Photo: Edmunds.com

1992 Volkswagen GTI - Photo: Edmunds.com

In which I go on.

And on.

Have you seen The Young Victoria? I saw it last week and fell in love with it. The era and the history of the Royal Monarchy is beautifully depicted but, for me, the love story between Victoria and her prince was equally so. *Deep sigh.*

Okay, I love war epics, I love movies that are so horrifying I think I’m going to throw up, I love foreign films, I love movies that upset me and anger me, I love movies that I can watch once a week for the rest of my life (Dirty Dancing) and be happy, and … I love stories of love. 

I don’t want to give too much away because it’s still in theatres, but, The Young Victoria is a beautiful and touching love story. What’s really nice is if you read about their actual life together, its portrayal is nailed in the film. Apparently Victoria kept a diary through much of her life and her early writings after meeting and spending time with Albert demonstrated a brimming affection for him. For example:

“[Albert] is extremely handsome; his hair is about the same colour as mine; his eyes are large and blue, and he has a beautiful nose and a very sweet mouth with fine teeth; but the charm of his countenance is his expression, which is most delightful.”

It was her maternal uncle, Prince Leopold I of Belgium, who introduced them; and her other maternal uncle, Ernest (also Albert’s father (yes, Albert was Victoria’s first cousin)) who approved the match. 

To her uncle, Prince Leopold, Victoria once wrote in thanks:

“… for the prospect of great happiness you have contributed to give me, in the person of dear Albert … He possesses every quality that could be desired to render me perfectly happy.”

I’m not sure if I’m just screaming lonely, single girl here, which is fine, but this doesn’t have anything to do with loneliness. I will never deny myself the fact that this is what a relationship looks like to me. I don’t know many passionate, soulful women who would think otherwise. Men too for the sake of argument. It has been documented that Victoria and Albert unified for love which was uncommon for royals at that time. Albert had a deep love and respect for his Queen and brought to bear that title in more than just the obvious. He technically was her liege, but her husband as well. 

This is that constitutional desire we all have to be understood, accepted, and respected by the Alberts who come into our lives. I walked out of the theatre looking for Albert but he was nowhere to be found.

Which is okay because I’m not sure I ever will find him.

Also okay.

Therein lies the conundrum for someone like me. I can cry over this movie and wonder if one day I too will have a relationship where I am cherished, devoted to, loved, accepted, stimulated, challenged, protected, etc… find it in a thesaurus. I laugh at myself though when I realise that the reason this is so difficult for me is because I know I can be very perplexing to some men who are used to a certain kind of woman.

A man (we’ll call him Albert) could be staring me right in the face. He could tell me all the wonderful things that brought tears to my eyes in the movie. But, so help me God, I can be such a particular, picky moppet that I just may end up single until I leave this earth. 

Make sense of that? 

I barely can.

See, having an Albert is well and good – but for me to be satiated and contained by this Albert I’d need him to be a challenging, broken, sensitive, kind, distant, open, advisor, learner, loving, comforting, clairvoyant, intellectual, hilarious, video-game loving, bookworm who is patient, smart, soulful, clever, devoted, deep, demanding, spontaneous yet regimented, logical yet illogical… did I mention patient? On top of all this I would require an absurd chemical attraction toward him that offers a fine mix of the following adjectives: cheap, lusty, lascivious, surly, gentle, sweet, considerate, slow and steady. I like to be where I can melt.

On the bright side I am clearly not expecting perfection.

Can you imagine? 

Then there’s the whole other issue of the person I am and if the type of person I’m attracted to can actually tolerate someone like me.

If I were in a relationship with me I would not know what to do with myself sometimes. Although I suppose that’s the way in all relationships. Some just have the potential to go completely sideways in a very dramatic way – it’s just whether or not you can pick the same battles. Like Vicky and Albert did. 

I resign myself to the fact that this is highly unlikely that I find my perfect match and have considered the advice of some people who tell me I need to trim the list a little bit or become either a lesbian or a nun, but I’m a terrible human being when I’m settling for something or someone. Settling is like giving me 50 years without parole. That would bring me to roughly 83 years old and by that time everything on my body will be at least four inches lower than where they started and then what?

Make no mistake, I re-evaluate my options regularly, look at the pros and cons and have come to understand what missing characteristics I can acquiesce to and which ones are compulsory. It’s like that  job interview – there are always requirements, but most of the time a relevant amount of experience is considered an asset but you never want to settle for an employee who’s not the right fit.

It doesn’t sound that awful – just look at the relationship you’re in right now. Are you happy? Can you see yourself gladly purchasing Depends for this person years from now? When life’s up are you going to look back at its entirety and not feel like the biggest mistake you made was to spend a life in a relationship where you were essentially alone anyway? Mistakes should be about things like selling shares at the wrong time, wearing stirrups in the 80s, buying a Geo Metro, or being fired for photocopying your breasts. All recoverable. A lifetime of unhappiness is not and we’re all grown-ups here; we only get a shot at life once. 

Back to Victoria and Albert…

When Albert died of typhoid at the age of 42, Victoria entered a state of withdrawal, then perpetual mourning, and wore black every day for the rest of her life. I don’t find this necessarily healthy and I’ll leave that up to the psychologists but if you look at this from a more bittersweet perspective, that’s love. The pain comes from when the person’s gone and not from the ass when you’re together.

For now, I’ll purchase the movie and treat myself to its charm as I see fit. It’ll sit right between Dirty Dancing and The Notebook on my shelf. 

I will leave you with one of mine and Gee’s favourite moments from the movie as well as the Sunday Jammin’ song on a Wednesday.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yW3B-MK19_w

The Shins – New Slang

So I went to this big gala with Gee last night. This was the first new year’s where I actually spent more than the cost of a six pack of beer or a bottle of wine. We bought tickets – they came to $91 each, it was a fundraiser for MS, it was at a beautiful restaurant on Kits Beach, there was going to be a red carpet entrance. I had a new dress. Our night had all the makings of something quite memorable to end 2009. 

Gee came over around 8:30 PM so we could have enough time to give ourselves the thrice-over, make sure our hair was nice, we smelled pretty, and generally give ourselves time to get excited. We cabbed it ($15 each) to the location and met Mandy and a couple of her friends at the red carpet. 

We head up the stairs to an otherwise vacant dining area. It was still early, there was plenty of time for the anticipated 300+ crowd to file in. We stood about; wandering from corner to corner. Eventually the room was busy with patrons excited to be ringing in a new year.

The hors d’œuvres came out. 

Gee and I were starving having forgotten to eat a proper dinner. What I found particularly interesting is the moment the sushi, ham-wrapped asparagus, and crab cakes hit the table it was instantly surrounded by women. I suppose there’s this kind of stereotype we almost give ourselves when eating in a public place that there’s this level of self-consciousness that sets in first. Men don’t care, if there’s food, and they’re hungry, they eat. Here we all were, dressed in our party-wear for this big, fussy gala, and the women were swarming the food like seagulls at a landfill.

It didn’t take long to notice the first fatal flaw of the evening. There was not a single garbage bin in sight. Toothpicks, discarded half-eaten sushi, skewer sticks, and napkins started piling up on any available surface. This bothered me. I didn’t want to be paying for a $91 ticket only to be sitting among sticky napkins. I approached one of the bar staff to let him know and he was about as surprised as we were. He did some speaking to various coworkers and eventually a bus boy was placing a green garbage bag into a bin. And, that was it for the garbage bin. One garbage bin for 300+ people. Garbage, FAIL.

I distinctly remember watching a short Quicktime video on the event’s website highlighting last year’s party where I know a saxophonist was there. 

Or was he?

There was no saxophonist at this year’s event. 

Maybe it was a highlight from another event and they were trying to look cool by showing him in this cleverly spliced video to draw more attention? False advertising, FAIL.

Gee and I eventually made it to the bar for our second glass of red. We were told during the first round that they had two house reds available – Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot. We both opted for the CS first time around. $17 total. But, when Gee decided this time she was going to get the Merlot we arranged that I’d get this round, she could get the next. “Nineteen twenty, please.” The bartender had my $20 bill before it registered that the total was now over two dollars more than it was the first time around. So I asked her. And she printed the bill. And the house Merlot was more than the Cabernet Sauvignon. Inconsistent house wine pricing at a big event, FAIL.

I remember at around 11:00 PM we could overhear groups talking about it almost being midnight, us included. We mingled in wait and lost track of time for that hour as we got lost in people-watching, eating, and drinking. If it weren’t for my cell phone vibrating in my purse at 11:58 I would have never realised it was two minutes away from the end of a decade. The anticipation built and before we knew it it was 12:02 AM and a new year had begun. The music didn’t stop, there was no announcement, the song didn’t even skip a beat. We looked at each other and then at the people around us. Clusters of people initiated their own countdown and eventually the crowd rang in the new year completely confused. I’ve had a more climactic entrance to a new year in my grandparents’ parlor watching Dick Clark’s countdown.

We were all feeling very strange. It was the first New Year’s Eve were there was no acknowledgement of the midnight hour. My body suddenly became very vacant feeling as I began to add up my expenses of the evening. I had spent well over $100 to hang out at a restaurant decorated like Christmas and eat hors d’œuvres. It was really like had there been a countdown, something to distinguish this particular night from every other night, it would have been okay. The lack of garbage bins, the inconsistent wine pricing, all of those things would have been okay if we had actually felt like we were there for a big New Year’s party. But, we were feeling completely ripped off. There wasn’t even an ounce of free champagne in those cheap, stout champagne glasses available. A $91 ticket to eat hors d’œuvres while standing?

At about 12:30 AM the room was getting noticeably more empty. All who remained on the dance floor were the ones who had spent big bucks on the inconsistently priced house wine. They were in their bare feet and most likely well past the point of even remembering if we had counted down or not. Well past the point of even caring. 

Then someone turned on the lights in the room and they didn’t go off until about 15 minutes later. The room was lit up, bright as day, highlighting the faces of all the patrons who were still trying to find consolation in the anticlimactic launch of a new year.

The lights finally went off and come 1:00 AM the room was about 3/4 empty. We left about 5 minutes later. 

New Year’s Eve 2010 FAIL.

We took some fun photos though…

But first… Sunday Jammin’ Music on Friday this time. Two of my favourites right here.

Makin’ Whoopee – Dr. John and Rickie Lee Jones

So someone brought in Pilsbury pre-cut cookie dough to bake in the toaster oven in my office. I was really hoping this week to reestablish my good eating habits however first day back at work yesterday and Jodie and I hit the greasiest of Chinese food restaurants in the Downtown East Side that we could find.

My spring rolls, although delicious, were stuffed with ingredients completely unrecognisable by sight and actually coated my palate, inner cheeks, uvula (that’s u-v-u-l-a), and esophagus with something that can best be described as having the consistency of engine oil. They were also about the size of a small child’s forearm.

I should note that I did also complement this bastardization of the common spring roll with a heaping, steaming plate of bok choy. Luckily I steered clear of the side of oyster sauce because one quick taste of it off my fingertip nearly burned a hole into the tip of my tongue due to the salt content alone. If there was ever any sign of oyster in there it was eradicated years ago when that bottle was first stored away in the depths of the cupboards in the back.

I had a good, small, and healthy dinner last night that consisted of pure pumpkin puree (yes, the kind you normally use for baking), heated on the stove and mixed with some olive oil, salt, and pepper accompanied with one lonely, cold chicken drumstick as all that remained of the chicken carcass I picked up at Costco a few days earlier. Oh, I dipped it in some homemade garlic mayo for flavour.

Don’t you all wish I’d invite you over for dinner some time?

I woke up this morning proud of myself for eating healthily during dinner the night before and decided today would be another new day. Another attempt at trying to get my digestive system back to our regular way of eating.

But then the cookies started cooking in the toaster oven. I might as well have had them all in my mouth the moment my olfactory system picked up the scent because they were as real to me as John Mayer waking up beside me tomorrow morning.

Just one! I screamed to myself from the inside. Two later I was entering the kitchen for the third time. Just one more and that’s IT!  I screamed to myself again from the inside. There was only one co-worker in the kitchen when I went in. I suddenly felt the need to justify my third visit to the kitchen by saying out loud this time These are just too good, I can’t stop.

Me neither, she responded, that’s why I’m sitting so far away from them.

I’ll just take one more I think, I said without much conviction. And, with that I grabbed the smallest one just to prove it to myself that I had some measure of willpower and sure enough it was stuck to two others and the paper towel they were all sitting on. I then had three clasped between my fingertips while I tried desperately to remove the paper towel that was moving around so much the other cookies were sliding off the plate and by the time it was all over, I walked out of the kitchen, head hung low with three more cookies in my hand.

What an embarrassment I was to myself.

I was nice and not to mention diligent enough to stop at Joan’s desk on the way to mine and dropped off two saying, Here, I brought these for you.

It’s two-and-a-half days away from a new decade. I’ve been sitting here contemplating if I have any new year’s resolutions that I will actually stick to. To date I don’t believe there is a single resolution that I’ve actually executed. Some, maybe half-ass but never a full-ass attempt. I enter them all with the right intentions. Sometimes half the excitement comes from coming up with the resolution on its own. This would then lead to a trail of thought based on how much more bright and clear my life would be after said resolution is accomplished. Sadly however, the excitement dissipates about as fast as it took to build up and before I know it I’m sitting somewhere blank-faced trying to remember what the hell my resolution was in the first place.

I usually aim low; something achievable. I do that on purpose specifically so that it is a) easier to stick to and b) harder to forget what it was. Unfortunately these low expectations become like that one important object you don’t ever want to lose so you place it in an obvious and easy-to-remember spot only to never see it again.

My resolutions are like that.

So perhaps today I will start easy. It will be like my old year resolution to prepare myself for the new year ones. I’ll build up to the pièce de résistance - what it will be though, I am not entirely certain of. I intend on devising it at 11:59:00PM December 31st. This will give me an entire minute to iron it all out and enter 2010 with a full plan of attack. I just really hope no one tries to French kiss me while this process is underway because I don’t think starting a new decade off with an assault charge is necessarily a good thing.

Okay, my warm up resolution will be:

Only easy Sudoku puzzles before bed.

Date the wealthy? More like poster-girl for third-world famine and dumpster diving.

Sorry.

Once again I have become completely consumed by nothing at all and have been periodically beginning a post only to run out of steam and leave it hanging amongst the continuously growing list of draft posts I’ve accumulated over these last two weeks.

It is not for lack of trying. You should see some of the things I’ve started out with. They had all the makings of some kind of revelation (something that happens to me at least once a week) and there I go, fingertips to keys, I type. Type. TYPE. Clickety, tickety type … Here we go… yes, yes, yes! … It’s working, the thoughts are coming … ooh these are good. But then my mind begins to wander, my fingers slow down and ADD (Andrea’s Design Deficit) takes hold.

I get hungry, or decide I want to exfoliate my face, do a mask, soak my hair in avocado oil, paint, paint my nails, brush the cats, clip their nails, tickle their tummies, dust, listen to records, do my dishes, clean my cupboards, play Nintendo, take a nap, scrub the walls of the litter box (that’s when I’m feeling particularly energetic), tidy up my MSN contact lists, purge some Facebook friends, think, daydream, fantasize, read, learn, think again, over-think, map out my life, pick my next travel destinations, self-actualise, -reflect, -analyse, -deprecate, love myself, hate myself, resign myself to my self, take a shower, make a list. (Reprise) Then, before I know it, it’s 10:PM and my half-finished blog post is still lingering on my monitor leaving me feeling unfulfilled, disappointed, and mad at myself that I did it again. I may attempt one or two sentences for good measure, hate where they’re going, and as a last ditch effort I’ll try to channel the exuberance I experienced earlier. However, it usually concludes with me opening up Bouncing Balls in Facebook, and then I go to bed.

Anyway, in a life’s nutshell, since my last successful post, I received my transfer request to start working in one of the downtown east side offices. For those of my readers who are unfamiliar with the DTES, I encourage you to visit the above link. This area of Vancouver is aka “Canada’s poorest postal code.” It’s the truth, bang on. And, it fascinates me in the most sincere, genuine, empathetic, compassionate, and heartfelt way I could ever express.

This area struggles in so many ways and does seem like there is no relief. In many ways there really isn’t. The struggle is consuming. So I’m here now experiencing at least a duplication of destitution from what I experienced at my old office. Some people, when I tell them I actually requested this transfer, will say I don’t know how you do it. My parents will say, Oh, just be careful, Andrea. I mean, in many ways they’re valid concerns. This place isn’t for everyone. But, for me, it’s full of damage, and for those who know me well, they know I love people’s damage.

I wonder about why it appeals to me so much and I believe a lot of it has to do with the fact that in the DTES, as an example, you will come across real people. Their afflictions are there for the world to see. Denying them to save face it is no longer a concern. They can be inappropriate, yes. Addicted, mentally ill, lost souls, and are in perpetual survival mode – survival is all they live for. It can be vulgar down there, yes. But it’s still real, there is no facade. Real as a state of being is very comfortable for me to be around. It’s the philosophy I live my life by, only with equanimity. There’s also something about helping someone find a roof over their head, give them some food, give them some hope, some warmth, just an ounce of understanding, respect, and comfort. The DTES is so rich with community resources too, I mean there is support for every possible social circumstance you can find yourself in. Starvation, addiction, fear, violence. You name it.

The DTES community resources are almost as saturated with support as the area is saturated with devastation so there is a good balance. Remember the industrious Doozers who lived under Fraggle Rock? They were constantly working but never really seemed to focus on what the heck they were constructing and why they were even doing it. They just did it because it seemed to need to be done. That’s almost what the DTES is like.

Pull up a chair, Andrea goes into the deep end…

I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that I identify my own damage on a regular basis. I don’t hide from it. I might wish some of it away, or may resent experiencing some things, but, at the same time, I’ve found that there’s nothing more cleansing than understanding what your damage is and meeting it at face value rather than convincing yourself it’s not a part of who you truly are. In doing this, I find it gives me better perspective into someone else’s life. When you know what hurts you, and you acknowledge it, you have a good idea of what’s going to hurt someone else. Then you make many friends that last a lifetime. You become the person who just “gets it” and I don’t care who you are, we all want that in the people we meet along the way.

Yea..

So things are going well at the new office overall. I was caught last week picking up the sticky insect traps around the office to see what goodies were inside. This may or may not have included going under some unoccupied desks. See, bed bugs are an issue in the DTES and I’ve never actually seen one so the sole purpose of my investigation was to find one stuck in there that I could see for real. Don’t you pick up sticky bug traps in your office to see what’s inside? What? That’s not normal behaviour for a thirty-two year old?

What else did I get up to…?

Oh yes, I finally finished painting my living room. It took me three weeks to complete and even still I’m not entirely finished painting the frame around my front door but on the whole the walls, trim, all six window casements and baseboards are finished. 1/3 of the door frame is complete. Perhaps I’ll finish the rest tonight.

Doubt it though.

On Friday night I vowed to my body and soul that we would do nothing together. The hour struck 9:00 and I turned off all the lights, put on my Beatles’ Love Songs album set, put on the fireplace and mentally escaped while staring at the ceiling from my sofa. If you’ve never done such a thing, I highly recommend it.

At any rate Let it be came on with a little crackle and as one of my favourite Beatles songs played I started to really concentrate on what that song meant to me and actually came up with a new tattoo idea. Of the three, but technically four, that I have, this would really be the only one that would actually be something I truly believe in. I have one, but technically two, on my left foot that translate into “Happiness” and “Truth” from Chinese (to the best of my knowledge) and I got those when I turned seventeen because my first real boyfriend made out with some other girl on a beach one night. That was how I dealt with the heartache. – Might as well tattoo my passive-aggressiveness on my own foot.

Now, when people ask, I just tell them it means Merry Christmas.

My mom will find out I’m getting a new tattoo from reading my blog. Hi muzzy. Reminds me of the really bizarre time I was actually coming back from my technically first tattoo on my foot and my mom was surprisingly driving right behind the OC Transpo bus. She spotted me, my face pressed against the back window of the bus and mouthed the words Did you get it? With the kind of look on her face that screamed I fucking hope not! I gave her a thumbs up with a really innocent look on my face that said Please don’t hurt me. All was well.

Okay so… blogging … new office … painting … tattoos. There’s got to be something else…

I might just very well be lapsing into that state again so I best get this published before it gets thrown into the pile of drafts that I will never get back to and eventually delete in a moment of housekeeping my blog.

Nicole, that one was for you okay? It’s my wedding gift to you.

Haven’t jammed in a while? Me either… let’s jam.

Neil Young – Unknown Legend.

I think this is such a beautiful song. I want someone to play it for me some day.

Someone… anyone?

The Enthusiast, by David Uhl

It’s cooled down a lot in Vancouver over the last week. The rain’s held off for the last 48 hours and the air is noticeably drier and chilly. It makes me think snow is on its way, which is fine by me. I don’t want any more rain. I’m probably so Vitamin D depleted I may just rent out a tanning bed for the night to replenish.

Colder weather makes me think that I’ll be skiing soon. Something I’m holding out for more than I am for stuffing my face at various holiday-themed commitments. I love food. But I love skiing more. 

Skiing makes me think of snow which makes me think of how blanketed Ottawa will be. It makes me wonder if the snow will be 15ft high again this year, and it makes me think of how exciting it was to brave an Ottawa winter and emerge alive once the black ice begins to thaw on the highways in…

early-April.

Well, you know what I mean.

Ottawa makes me think of being home and how of all 365 days of the year I spend living as a resident of Vancouver, British Columbia that for two of those days I wish I was at home. For two out of 365 days I feel homesick. I usually spend Christmas night alone at my apartment with Marshall and Otis watching Christmas movies eating leftover Christmas dinner from Cathy and Kyle’s the night before that I can’t be bothered to warm conventionally and throw it in the microwave even though I am against cooking/warming anything in a microwave it’s Christmas night and I’m by myself with two cats.

It is allowed.

Just this once.

I’ll throw on the fireplace too. Maybe light some candles. Bring my pillows from my bed and surround myself with them on my two-seater sofa built for one. This is in the event that I fall asleep on the sofa I shall remain comfortable for the duration of the time that I will most likely be folded up into a little ball with Marshall strategically placed along the curve of my body and Otis most likely in the fold of my knees. 

I’ll leave my little 3′ Christmas tree on that night because the twinkling lights will feel comforting as they dazzle my blanketed body in light drops of indigo and white. My tree will seem like it’s four feet tall though because I’ll prop it up with a milk crate that I will hang Otis’, Marshall’s, and my Christmas stockings from that will be empty that night and empty come morning. I may put a catnip pouch in them but they won’t last the night. They don’t wait for Santa.

I’ll probably fall asleep with the television on mute imagining how my family is doing back home.

My mom will be with her sisters and my nana, perhaps my cousin and her boyfriend as well. If they’re in Montreal, cousin Johnny will have come down from his upstairs apartment and they’ll be gathered in the “parlour” watching the old holiday classics. My nana will have fallen asleep in the plush rocker that’s been re-upholstered more times than I can count. It’s purple now and not plush anymore. The rocker will be pulled up to a rickety TV dinner table that’s been around for at least thirty-two and a half years. And come to think of it I don’t even know if I can tell you what the surface photograph is actually of. haha. Isn’t that funny? Thirty-two years and I can’t even tell you. I’m seeing an old wooden fence, a pasture … maybe? Perhaps a horse galloping? Sitting on that table will be her New York Times crossword puzzle, a pencil with a well-used eraser nib, and the newest edition of the New Comprehensive A-Z Crossword Dictionary that I bought her for Christmas during the last Christmas I had with my family before moving to Vancouver. This specific paperback, and all the editions that come before it are non-negotiable. It’s A-Z Crossword Dictionary or you’re putting your name on the wait list for the next shipment. It’s the best one.

Oh, the palm of her hand will carry her sleepy head as she drifts in and out of slumber in the re-upholstered-more-times-than-I-can-count, rocker.

My mom and her sisters will be engaged in intermittent conversation about things like what a beauty Donna Reed used to be and some interesting fact about Miracle on 34th Street. Most of the time it will almost be like they’re talking to themselves because they don’t look at each other. Just at the television and will seemingly talk to it as well, even though the talk is really directed at each other. It will come out in mumbles, or short burst statements. A commercial will come on and someone will get up and head to the kitchen to snag a clementine or sneak a thin slice of the Panetone from the pantry. 

I’d usually be on the floor with a couple of pillows under my body keeping me comfortable. I wouldn’t really have much to contribute with regard to the classic-movie commentary outside of acknowledging the beauty or handsomeness of a time-honoured actor. My agreement would probably come out in a mumble from a mouth that’s squished between my two palms and again, it would most likely be directed at the tv as well and no one would respond much less hear me. 

We would all be tuned out. In our on little worlds – lazing in the flush of digestion. A cohesive or coherent conversation wouldn’t have to be in place for us to all be aware of each other. When you’re family you don’t have to address each other’s presence, you can appreciate your kin in silence. 

My dad and his wife might have my brother and his wife over. There’d be a nice dinner with Christmas music playing in the background. It would most likely be Diana Krall’s Holiday Classics. Dinner would be ham. Dessert would most definitely be Ukrainian cookies with some rum balls that were made with an “eyed” amount of rum. Tea would come with treats and conversation would commence about politics, people, health, humanity, history, hockey, science and fair trade. Then we’d probably play a made-up game that had become a family tradition so many years ago that you almost forget that it was actually invented by you. Cards and gifts next accompanied by laughter and moments of checking out new cooking books, music CDs, novels, motorcycle-related things, gardening supplies, kitchen gadgets. Then kisses and hugs at the end of the night, followed by “Merry Christmas” and “Thanks for dinner and the presents!” My dad would say “O-key, drive safely you guys,” and would watch us from the snowy porch in his old slippers until our tail lights disappeared around the corner.

It sounds awfully lonely, the way I spend Christmas now since moving here. But really, it’s not. I’m still adopted by Cathy & Kyle for Christmas Eve … sleep over, open presents Christmas morning … then it’s Christmas afternoon … into evening that I spend snug as a bug alone in my apartment. It’s a time of reflection in many ways and I kind of allow myself to feel homesick but it’s in doing that that I have a chance to think about how special my Christmas memories are with my family and it truly does put a smile on my face.

Mmmmmmm.

Hmmmmmm.

Lovage | Strangers on a Train

You’re in a dusty coffee shop that you just walked into for the first time. It’s late at night and you came in from the rain. No one inside makes any sense. It smells like day-old banana bread and you don’t care. It’s a coffee you have. Black. And that day-old banana bread, you’ll take that too, might as well, ‘Thanks‘. A table in the corner is where you sit. The flickering candle is taking its last breaths from the film of melted wax on the inside of the holder. The wax stinks and you slide it over to the side but don’t blow it out because it makes you feel warm and it casts curious shadows on the table etched with initials. Thunder rolls and a lone woman laughs before sipping from a steaming mug. You watch her mumble and wonder what. What is she saying? 

Someone pushes the door open and comes in shuddering. His hood is on and you never see his face. The barista snaps her bubble gum and says two dollars. He leaves.

This song plays and the coffee shop swells and your toe taps. The man to your left turns the magazine page and smoothes the seam every time then takes a sip of his coffee. Turns the page, smoothes the seam, sips the coffee. Turns the page. Smoothes the seam. Sips the coffee.

A young woman sits four tables ahead. She’s staring out the window and clutching with two hands a mug she hasn’t taken a sip from…yet. Wait. She lifts it up. And puts it back down. The timing isn’t right. 

The song ends and the last bite of banana bread goes down. The candle burns out. The lonely woman has closed her eyes. The barista is sitting on the countertop swinging her legs. The woman by the window has moved the cup to her lips now but sits frozen and still hasn’t taken a sip.

It’s time to go.

Home, you guess.