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.