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Simple math confuses the late night drinker.
We began university in 1996, are you with me? This means that our second year started in the fall of 1997. You got her that fall. Therefore, she was born in the summer of 1997. It is 2002. That would make her…? No, not four. 1998, 1999, 2000, 2001, 2002…yes, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Your cat is five.
You should have just believed me from the start. I at least know how many drinks I have had. Six.
Five? Well, somewhere thereabouts.
It's not an exact science or anything.
These are the things on my desk:
my computer monitor
with two speakers
with mouse pad
three small pieces of paper
one says “Call Visa”
one says “mini carrot muffin”
one says “64 + 14 + 76 +5 + 81 + 32 = 113”
the mail it contained
a pair of child’s scissors
a blue Papermate pen
two pottery chickens made in New Zealand
a purple glass half full of orange juice
a plastic finish made to look like wood
done quite poorly
paint and dust
I am drinking orange pop. Not Minute Maid or C-Plus or anything posh like that. President’s Choice. President’s Choice all the way.
I haven’t had orange pop in a long time. It reminds me of my childhood. Of a time when it was okay to have an orange tongue. When comparing our grape juiced lips in public was not only permitted but encouraged. When cream soda was a good day.
I’m 24, and I’ll pass on the martini thanks. Do you have any cherry Popsicles?
You know, when I type Popsicle, Microsoft Word automatically capitalizes it. I find that reassuring.
She said, you know what would be really freaky? If suddenly out of that well rose the devil with like flames and all that. That would be scary.
Yes, I replied, that would be scary. But what if suddenly out of that well rose Regis Philbin and he bellowed “Who wants to be a millionaire?”. Now THAT would be scary.
I mean, if I said that I saw something rise from the ground, and I asked you to guess what, I bet eventually you’d get around to saying Satan. But Regis Philbin. Nobody expects Regis Philbin.
As a general rule.
I bought a puzzle book in Glasgow. It’s called “Puzzler Collection”. It is indeed an enjoyable collection of puzzles.
What I don’t get are the bizarre images on the cover.
There’s a bagpiper. Alright, not so weird. The book is from Scotland.
A picture of a smiling woman. I suppose this illustrates just how much fun you’ll have.
But then, there’s an ad for free hand cream. Do crosswords cause some people to chafe?
And finally, a waterfall. Okay, it’s pretty, but what the hell?
At the bottom of the cover it claims that the crosswords have “their own solutions”.
A patio without patio furniture is like a living room without living room furniture. It’s distressing. It’s depressing. It’s concrete making your ass fall asleep.
Walmart no longer has patio furniture. When we had no money, they had plenty. Now that we have money, Walmart patio furniture is no more.
The discovery of said tragedy was an overwhelmingly disappointing moment. Toys, fabric, shoes, where the h e calvin klien are the waterproof tables, chairs, and umbrellas in shades of manufactured nature? That’s all we wanted.
We left with Mars bars and mouthwash. Neither of which will hold my fruity drink.
There are some stories that should not be musicals. The Secret Garden, for one. It was a good show with some lovely performances. But if my parents died of cholera, I doubt I would be singing about it. Maybe it’s just me.
And yes, I understand that it is a lovely garden, and a secret one to boot. Thanks for the lyrical recap.
Other stories that, in my opinion, wouldn’t make good musicals include:
HTML for Dummies
Dawson’s Creek – Episode 420
Life Strategies by Dr. Phil
In the key of G: “You’ve got to naaaame it, to claaaaaaaim it!”
Today, I was visited by a neighborhood kitty cat.
I looked outside my window and saw her sitting on the front ledge. A very cute neighborhood kitty cat that I’d seen before but hadn’t officially met.
I went outside and she greeted me quite sweetly. I rubbed her belly and named her Cheeky, because she has big white cartoon-cat cheeks. You know, how you drew cats when you were little. With round cheeks and whisker dots.
I played with her for about ten minutes, out on the grass in my front yard on a quiet evening.
Today, I met Cheeky.
I like all the food groups – grains, dairy, fruits slash veggies, and meat. I think watermelon is wonderful. Tuna sandwiches? Serve ‘em up! I crave pasta carbonara, with chicken bacon because I don’t eat pork, or beef for that matter.
Not because I don’t like meat, but because I hate vegetables.
Yes I know that I didn’t make that quote up but it’s clever, you’ve got to admit.
But right now, all I want is some chicken curry from Darbar. With peas palao. And Nan bread. And one of those automatic food machines like on the Jetsons.
That was cool.
It amazes me how human beings are simultaneously strong and weak.
Monday was a bad day at camp. I thought two kids had gone missing. My stomach sank. But I kept calm and figured it all out and they were fine and the confusion wasn’t my fault.
As soon as I got in my car, I started crying.
The human balance of fragility and strength is fascinating. How we can hold on, and take control, even when our bodies want to curl up. How we can take care of others first.
If only we listened to this instinct more often.
I have a set of tarot cards.
They’re in a box on my little blue bookshelf and although I’ve had them for six years or so, I don’t know how to use them. And it occurs to me, I could be sitting here day after day at my computer, worried about my life and stressed and saddened, with the answers sitting right next to me.
In a little box.
On a little blue bookshelf.
Every day for the past six or so years I may have been walking right past my future.
My future. In a box. At arm’s length.
A child was absent from day camp for two days this week because she “felt like visiting her grandmother”.
Her family paid a lot of money for her registration, but were supportive of her absence.
All well and good, but there is a waiting list for the camp. Somebody else could have been in her place.
Maybe somebody receiving financial assistance.
Maybe someone on that waiting list who would have been there, and participated, and learned fantastic things.
Someone like me who would have benefited from camp in unimaginable ways.
Unimaginable, at least, to those who don’t need to imagine.
Being an adult is over-rated. For one thing, being an adult means you don’t get fun lunches. There’s no Fruit Roll Up swapping over the cubicle wall. There are no juice box breaks.
And why not? I mean, it’s juice. In a box. For your convenience.
I remember when lunch time was peanut butter and pudding and a McCain 250 mL. And if you’d been good, a Jos Louis. And sometimes a note from Mom telling you that, despite what the other children think, you are cool.
That’s it. No more tuna on brown for me. I want some Dunkaroos.
You know you’re old when you get excited by…
a light fixture
the installation of said light fixture
a mortgage refund
a really nicely done business card
any opportunity to sit down
an unexpected bag of milk in the fridge
the Swiffer sweeper
improved bank hours
a promptly refilled pepper mill
the purchase of a new dish scrub brush
a good cup of tea
gas prices down a cent
sensible shoes with a comfortable arch
reruns of Golden Girls
socks for Christmas
cling wrap that actually clings
laundry folded by someone else
these kinds of lists.
My hair is light brown.
And kind of reddish.
Light reddish brown.
It’s long and needs a trim.
My ears are pierced, twice in each, but one set has closed up.
I don’t wear earrings very often.
My eyes are brown.
They’re shaped like my grandfather’s.
I’m slightly nearsighted.
The one that means that I can’t see far away.
I have a beauty mark on my cheek.
Yes, a beauty mark.
My daddy said so.
There’s a scar on my nose from a bee sting
(It was one hell of a bee)
And summertime freckles all over my face.
I searched high and low this morning for my Tea is for Tuesday underwear.
I looked in my drawer. Nope, Thursday and Sunday, you can wait.
Looked in the clean laundry pile in the spare room. One glance through. Friday, Wednesday, Monday. Second glance through. Oh! There’s Saturday.
But where was Tuesday? Where oh where were my Tuesday underpants?
Nowhere exciting, no, they were in the pile with the rest, clean and ready for use. I found them. All was good.
But then I realized, I have day of the week underwear.
And then I thought, I’m 24 years old.
Wipe my bum with a CD; chicken in a mini-van.
Eating corned-beef with a daisy; that turtle has a nice suntan.
Sniffing your hair with my nostrils; lesbian socks on the floor.
Little footprints in the butter; two percent milk is a whore.
This is a brand new stanza; time for a new rhyme scheme.
Nipples don’t look good on a weed whacker; just like testes on a pie.
Is that a tree in your undies or a meer cat? There is no ‘I’ in Team.
Writing this shit is for morons; why don’t you just fuck off and die.
Writing 100 original words is a difficult task sometimes. That was definitely so for yesterday’s entry. I was just not in the mood. And so, my husband David contributed a poem for your enjoyment. Mucho thanks to David, truly an untapped poetic talent. Two percent milk really is a whore.
This evening a canvasser came to our door. He asked if my parents were in. I said no. He said okay and left. I could have told him that I own the house and my parents live three hours away, but then I would have had to talk to him.
It’s quiet. Dark houses have taken over empty streets. The sun is warm and sleepy. A lazy breeze carries the sounds of flags and wrens and distant backyard conversations, passing the broken weather vane, perpetually southeast. The fire is lit and our dinner cooks slow and steady. A cold drink in a blue glass makes rings on the table. The water is almost still and hot. Parched grass crinkles. The bird bath is dry and desired. Dependent on the high back cushion, a weak neck and heavy eyes draw close to dreams. All is calm and quiet. All is good.
Woke up at 8:30.
Had two bowls of red rose tea,
And a bagel with cream cheese.
Read on the couch.
Bought annuals and new gardening gloves.
Replaced weeds with flowers and water.
Put stuff in boxes.
Created a little garden tool area in the garage.
Ate pizza for lunch and sat outside.
Got a slushy from the seven eleven.
Bought 30 pounds of meat.
And heavenly hash.
And strawberry icecream.
Tried to buy shoes.
Succeeded in buying eye liner and jane magazine.
Lounged outside with raspberry iced tea.
Time passes. And there’s nothing you can do to stop it.
It’s a logical idea, a basic philosophy, but I’ve only recently come to understand what it means.
Whether I like it or not, it will be 6:34 p.m. in one hour. I have no say in the matter. So I can either enjoy my time or be miserable. Or if I can’t avoid being miserable, at least I know that the time will pass and it will soon be over.
It’s so simple.
A simple saviour ticking away on walls and wrists.
A simple reminder to live every moment.
Today David and I celebrate our wedding anniversary. We’ve been married for four years, wed on a day much like this. Sunny. Hot. In love.
David gave me a card today that says “People ask me all the time why our marriage works so well, and I always tell them the same thing…separate TVs.” Truer words were never written.
And not just TVs. We have our own computers. And our own offices. And it sounds silly, but having our own space and lives has made all the difference.
I’ve got my Friends. He’s got his soccer. All is very good.
(Before I Die)
The Spanish Islands
And everywhere else
Drive across Canada
Bum around Europe
Check out L.A.
White water raft
Compete in a triathlon
Learn how to salsa dance
Work a potter’s wheel
And make my own clothes
Sing in a rock band
Perform a one-woman show
Write a book
And a screenplay
Help build a Habitat for Humanity House
Go on Trading Spaces
Take an interior design course
Read the library
Or most of it
Plant a successful garden
Save a life
Raise awesome children
I feel tired and sick. I don't feel like doing laundry even though the red shirt that I have to wear tomorrow is dirty. I washed some dishes, but cut my finger on a can of brown beans so I had to stop. There’s a Rugrats bandaid on it. I put shoes on the rack, piled the magazines, and watered the plants. Even Friends reruns are funny. Leftover dinner, tea, ice cream cuz it’s good and there. I want to sleep. I need to memorize a script and wash that damn red shirt. I want my tummy to feel better.
Grocery shopping kicks ass.
There is very little more fun than perusing and purchasing a vast selection of food and assorted household items. I love to travel the aisles with my silver cart, surveying the variety of delicious items that have traveled from around the world to my local No Frills.
Just thinking about how far those peaches have traveled, how many people have been involved in their arrival at my fingertips, is enough to make me joyous. But then, they’re only 77 cents a pound, and they’re so firm and juicy and glorious.
I need to get out more.
This is going to sound weird to those who’ve never experienced it. That could be most of you or all of you, and if it is you’ll think “She’s a fruit loop” and I won’t be able to disagree. But I’m going to risk it and just hope that I’m not the only one.
Have you ever thought about how you’re you? About how you’re you and you look a certain way and you know what you’re thinking and you’re a person? And then you look in a mirror and freak yourself out?
Just me hunh? I thought so.
Whoever thought of pink lemonade deserves a prize.
I mean, it’s lemonade that’s pink.
Pink lemonade IS summertime. Regular lemonade does an okay job, but does it put a smile on your face like the pink stuff? No sir. Pink rocks. It is the colour of fun and happiness.
And then, AND THEN, you think that it couldn’t get any better, but you pour the pink lemonade into a translucent purple plastic glass and insert a neon green bendy straw, and it’s like smiling rainbows of joy spring up from the lawn.
Oh, and there’s vodka in it.
And by that, I don’t just mean I’m gorgeous, although I am (wink), but I also mean that I am physically warm what with the air around me being as hot as hell.
Or just about.
It’s like 30 something Celsius here right now which, with humidity, has got to be right up there with Hades.
Or down there.
It’s hot, is my point. And I’m all sweaty and this house is nowhere near air conditioned and it just makes me miserable.
And I thought I would complain because hey, I can.
They’re my 100 words.
Here’s a fun game to play when you’re bored out of your tree. A co-worker told me about it when we were bored out of our trees working at a crappy gift store.
It works like this:
Pick a word. Let’s start with something mild, like “cat”.
Now, think of movie titles and replace one word with your selected word.
For example, Gone with the Cat, or even better, Cat with the Wind.
Now you try it.
I recommend the word “ass” (for all situations, not just this game).
There’s Something about Ass.
Silence of the Ass.
And so forth.
The word is boob.
Boob is the word
What about Boob?
The Blair Boob Project
A Beautiful Boob
The Perfect Boob
Bram Stoker’s Boob
How Stella got her Boob back
Fried Green Boobs
Dude, Where’s my Boob?
The Lost Boobs
My Best Friend’s Boob
Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Boobs
You’ve Got Boob
The Boob of Brian
The Emperor’s New Boob
Big Boob in Little China
The Boob that Rocks the Cradle
How to Make an American Boob
Willy Wonka and the Boob Factory
Harry Potter and the Sorceror’s Boob
Meet the Boobs
I wonder where nectarines grow.
I have two red spots on my arm that look like a snake bite.
I know nothing about world politics.
I need to buy more shorts.
I don’t think there’s anything wrong with having an HIV positive muppet.
I’m glad I took that keyboarding class in school.
I wish that I could have short hair one day and long hair the next.
I should write to Tracy.
I can’t wait to get back to reading my book.
I thought it would be easier to come up with 100 words every day.
I like random thoughts.
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