Sorry for the delay, I’ve been dealing with the Olympics. Yes, the Olympics. They’re over now. Two days over and this city I call home is shrinking back down. Calming down. Coming down. I have no excuse to be out until the wee hours of the morning anymore and frankly I’m glad. I can go back to being the hermit I am deep down inside.

I’ve been challenged by the Universe again recently which came at a time when my energy levels were still very much thriving in the spirit of the city. There really wasn’t much energy to deal with one of the heaviest things I’ve ever had to deal with to this date. Someone I know left this earth very recently in a quick surrender to a life shrouded by inner turmoil, torment, and a deep sadness. It has been very upsetting to me in a way that is surprising me. It’s probably because I am such an emotional, deep, and sensitive person that I’m looking deeper into the reality than just accepting it for what it is. I think also what feels really strange for me is that when I look back at people who I’ve shared my life with, in love or in friendship, my memory of them comes along with the awareness that they are still around, I may even be seeing them tomorrow. It’s something you kind of take advantage of in that way. Remembering time spent with someone who is now gone under those circumstances feels like an incomplete thought process. It’s a different kind of memory.

You know when you’re driving? Or you’re reading, cleaning… whatever… and you have music playing in the background but you’re focused on the moment and you might snap out of it and realise you can’t even place what the last three songs were? That’s kind of what this feels like right now. I’m existing very much in the moment, going about my life… work, friends, responsibilities… but there’s this continuation of thought that’s running in the distance.

No matter who it was, I find myself most upset by knowing that someone’s life was so unbearable they had to rid themselves of it. Death is so permanent. So then imagine for a moment what that heaviness must be like. Imagine just not being able to pull yourself out. We all deal with our feelings in different ways. Some of us can ignore them, maybe dismiss or diminish them, cover them up with other emotions. Some of us just so consumed by them. Some of us are only limited to three or four basic emotions, where others have multi-dimensional ones that vary and fluctuate according to the situation. Some people feel their pain. Some people pretend it’s not there. Some people have no pain.

We really are such complex and fragile beings aren’t we?

In the midst of all this I had Franklin with me while his human parents were in Maui. While they were being evacuated from their hotel for tsunami safety, I’m coming home to new surprises of destruction including the box of baby food I had. Pablum and dog saliva seems to result in a glue-like residue that can really only be scraped off laminate flooring with hot water and a putty knife (sorry Sylvia, aw jeez). The pièce de résistance happened last night when Franklin tried to party with a skunk. Unfortunately, skunks don’t run away like squirrels and cats do, unfortunately still, when an animal presents a dog with their ass they will go nose deep. Luckily skunks will demonstrate a variety of self defense warning moves before actually bringing out the big guns, unlucky for Franklin he didn’t give a shit. 

I learned a new thing last night. Actual skunk spray doesn’t smell like the skunk spray aroma we often smell when we can’t see the skunk. Actual skunk spray, to me, smells like a mixture of burning rubber, sulphur and rotting flesh floating in a soup of gasoline, sour milk, and vom. Needless to say I was quite upset at this predicament for several reasons: a) It was 11:00 at night. Groomers are sleeping. Grocery stores are closed b) My soap products consist of things that smell fruity and pretty. My soap products don’t include ingredients powerful enough to deodorize a skunky dog c) Poor Franklin basically made it home face down, ass up. He literally pushed his face along the pavement alternating sides the entire way home. In as much as I’m fairly certain I wanted to punt him into tomorrow this was very difficult for me to watch. 

He eventually handed over control to yours truly and for the next hour or so he sat in my bathtub while I stayed by his soaking side rubbing various experimental, soapy scents all over his face and chest. I wiped the poor guy’s swollen eyes with a warm face cloth over and over again. He just looked so forlorn and pensive; like he kept living it over and over again in his mind.

In hindsight though we had a lot of fun together, like we always do. We took a two hour road trip up to Manning to spend the day at Randy’s getaway. We cuddled, played fetch, wrestled… (Oh, this is with Franklin by the way, not Randy). Franklin was a good distraction in a week where I really needed it.

Oh ya, Sherene and I finally made it out this past Sunday. She’s been here for a year working for Bell on the Olympic contract and we finally got in some good, honest play time. Too bad she’s leaving tomorrow. This makes me incredibly sad. We’ve been friends for 20 years and Sherene is like home to me so this is going to be a tough transition to not have her around anymore. 

Okay so, I guess that’s about it for the majors. I’m hoping life slows down a bit now. I’m ready to spend some quality time in the arms of my sofa and some good movies for the next little while.

An apropos tune for Sunday Jammin’ on Tuesday:

The Kinks – Better Things

Everything’s going to be okay. 

Check out that happy little guy in the back

Weeeee!

Eastgate Diner

That’s Dave in the back.

“Can we please trade benches soon? It’s cold being in the shade all the time.”

Party Time Begins

We did some posing that we thought was fit for a Sears catalogue

Granville’s still bumping at 1:00AM

Pwetty girl

Oh mmmm

Now’s the time for cool down. You know, you’re going to look at these photos and think we’re both plastered. I can’t speak for Sherene (ahem) but I wanted to make mention of this… The damn cover at that bar was $32! The coat check was $5! $37 dollars spent before I even set foot in the bar. So this is me drunk on club soda and lime. Yes, the least they could do is give me free club soda. Gotta love Vancouver… and the Olympics in Vancouver.

Now you’re all: Okay wait, she’s not behaving this way because she’s drunk? She’s really weird.

Snuggles

Oops, careful

 “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate, our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, “Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?” Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world.

There is nothing enlightening about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We were born to manifest the glory that is within us. As we let our light shine, we unconsciously give other people the permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

Written by Marianne Williamson
Read by Nelson Mandela in his 1994 Inaugural Speech

You know today was the first time I felt actual fear from another human being. Fearful for my safety. I don’t fear the dark or dark pathways at night. I don’t fear walking home alone. I can take a lot of verbal abuse and will sooner become frustrated and irritated long before I become upset. For the most part I just don’t care. This is second to the fact that there haven’t been many times in my life where I’ve actually been subjected to the darkest place of anger coming from another person. Maybe I’ve been lucky.

But today I was actually scared.

It went down like this:

There is an industrial alleyway, if you will, that I take during the first leg of my trip home from work every day. It bypasses much of the traffic on East Hastings as it’s not really a road, but not really an alley either. It’s just the stretch where the delivery trucks would enter the rear of the businesses. Myself and a few other people know of this route so it’s often well travelled.

As I emerge from every block I meet a one-way stop sign that requires me to check for oncoming traffic. I do the same thing every time I head home. Drive. Stop. Go again. On this particular day I approached one of the stop signs and looked left, then right, then left again and proceeded. I don’t need to tell you I’m a good driver. I’m an alert and incredibly perceptive driver. I am an eyes-in-the-back-of-my-head driver so I know… I know that when that old, CR-V came up fast on my left, the driver must have accelerated quickly around the corner. 

I carried on into the next industrial alley.

And so did he…

He was about one foot from my rear bumper, swerving to the left then to the right. He would drive up right onto my bumper, back off, then ride up again; swerving side-to-side. At this point I didn’t know if I should call 9-1-1. I was watching him in my rearview mirror. He swerved quickly to the left and drove up along side me. He must have been within inches from my side mirror on his right and the same on his left where a brick wall ran. He did it anyway. He didn’t seem to care if he scraped my car or the wall. I slowed down and he passed me, quickly jerking his car in front of mine and slamming on his brakes. I did the same to avoid hitting him and my purse went lunging forward. 

I saw his reverse lights flicker as he put his car in park and his driver’s side door opened then was slammed shut. He marched over to my car and screamed the following expletives that floored and petrified me. And, believe me when I say it takes a lot:

(Earmuffs kids, I ain’t censoring anything)

“You fucking cow cunt, are you fucking crazy? What the fuck is wrong with you cunt? Eh? Do you realise I nearly tee-boned you back there? You crazy cunt, you crazy bitch cow driver.”

To which I responded, while trying to swallow my rapidly beating heart back down into my chest:

“Don’t you think what you did back there was a little more crazy?”

He screamed again:

“You’re the crazy driver bitch, you bitch! I obviously can’t talk to you because you’re such a crazy driver bitch.”

I was scared. It wasn’t only how enraged he was it was the evil in his eyes. Let’s just say I had carelessly driven from the stop sign, no one was hurt, he didn’t need to slam on his breaks, mistakes happen. But to follow me down that alleyway and to tailgate me in that way… Terrorizing me like that – that takes a certain level of rage. There I was, completely trapped and the only way I could get out was to reverse. I remember a DHL delivery car with two men inside on my right up ahead a bit watching this all go down. They sat, mouths hanging open, I kept looking over at them… they seemed ready to jump out of their car if needed but never did. He took another step closer to my window and I put my trusty Fo’ in reverse and inched back just enough to be able to quickly maneuver around his vehicle. At that point I didn’t think I had enough clearance but I was so scared I just wanted to get out of there as fast as I could even if I lost a mirror in the process. 

The DHL delivery guys came right behind me and the crazy man followed behind them. He turned down one of the side streets and was gone. 

It was at that point that my adrenaline slowed down a bit and I started thinking: What if those delivery guys hadn’t been there? 

I alternated between my own fury and the urge to cry in the aftermath. I let myself feel both. Driving for a bit my eyes started to well and it was hard to see, so I pulled down a side street and sat at the side of the road and sobbed. That situation was something I have never experienced in my life. I wasn’t used to that measure of distress and my body had literally been in a state of panic. 

I began to think how fucking dare he? How dare that man follow me into an alley. We’re all equal in this world but damn him I’m a woman. Damn him for instilling such a fear in me like that. What a coward.

I don’t fucking care how mad you are… it is not your right to subject me to that kind of fear.

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.