I have no will power. I am weak and out of control. I need to keep temptation out of my sight and out of my home; otherwise, I completely let myself go....Over the last month I've gained 5 pounds. It started with the opera fundraiser when I baked a batch of chocolate chip cookies and ate 6 of them before they could make it out the door. Next it was the strawberry Hagen Daz ice cream that was on sale for half price--how could I resist? I thought I'd keep it in my freezer as a sort of test to see exactly how long I could go without eating it. The results were dismal:
Night 1 - Slowly eat 2 tablespoons of ice cream. Savour it as it melts deliciously in my mouth. Resolutely put the remaining ice cream back in freezer. Feel smug about self control.
Night 2 - Take 2 more tablespoons of ice cream. So yummy! Put container back in freezer. Think about how a couple more spoonfuls wouldn't hurt. Get out ice cream. Look at calorie and fat listings on container. Put ice cream back. Think about it some more. Pull ice cream out of freezer. Eat 2 tablespoons. Eat 2 more. Suddenly a mindless madness overcomes me and I can't stop. Eat the whole tub of ice cream, and feel fat.
My food intake is way up, but otherwise my life remains the same. Except that I now have a new kettle. The switch on the old one broke a few months ago, but I rigged it to work by sticking a dull but pointy knife in the hole where the switch had been, twisting the blade, and holding it in position by wedging the handle against a heavy mug to keep the kettle "on." I got overly ambitious, though, and decided to clean out the broken switch pieces, with negative results. The kettle was irredeemably broken.
Two things: Why do all kettles have to have switches on them? And why does no one fix small appliances anymore, meaning you have to send perfectly good kettles to the garbage when a simple fix would make them functional again?
My Dad, who has no time for old junk and always knows where to find bargains, took me to buy a new kettle. I insisted we go to Canadian Tire, even though he pointed out that kettles would be cheaper at Wal-Mart. I said I'd rather support a Canadian company than an evil American imperialist mega-corporation. All the kettles at Canadian Tire were expensive, though. We then tried Zeller's next door--still no steel kettles that I liked (I'm avoiding further poisoning myself with plastic kettles), and finally walked into Wal-Mart and found what I wanted, at a reasonable price. Obviously I have no true convictions.
This Christmas weekend has been weird as well. On Saturday I was dusting the den for the first time in 2 months when I dropped my Balinese wooden monster head and broke its nose. I pulled out the glue bottle to fix the nose, and discovered that the nozzle of the bottle was impenetrable with hardened glue. Grabbing that same pointed knife, I tried to pierce the hardened glue, but the knife slipped and I stabbed my finger! Blood spurted, and I had to employ first aid skills to stop the bleeding. Question: Why are bottles of glue made to clog up?
On Saturday night the only TV station I could tune in was playing The Sound of Music, which was my favourite movie of all time when I was a kid. This was actually the first time I'd watched it as an adult, and I didn't like it at all! I found Julie Andrews really irritating, the music trite and fluffy, and the acting contrived and dorky. The musical numbers made me cringe. Wow, how I've changed....This was an interesting revelation about how different our adult selves can become from our child selves. I suspect that some people never really make the transition. Are they better off for that? I prefer sophisticated cynicism myself.....
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Everyday entropy
As the weather gets colder and more wintery, I have more problems with the relationship of my body to objects in the time/space continuum, especially if there's a full moon. A few days ago when the full moon was shooting beams down onto Earth, I had a particularly ridiculous day.
It started with dropping a glass saucer first thing in the morning. There I was pre-caffeine, faced with a rambunctious cat and shards of glass scattered all over the floor. I had no choice but to get out the vacuum cleaner and suck up the glass, followed by sweeping to make sure there were no shards left.
The vacuum cleaner is a story in itself. Its long handle broke off years ago. I tried duct-taping it back on, but this flimsy repair couldn't withstand the force of the vacuuming motions. So when I vacuum I have to either do it on my knees or stoop over. Now, with broken glass on the floor, I couldn't kneel, so I had to bend over and vacuum.
As I stood up, I whacked my head hard on the cupboard, then dropped the dustpan full of glass. This meant I had to start all over again with the vacuuming and sweeping--before my cup of tea, remember...
The day went surprisingly smoothly after that, except during another job interview when I noticed dried blood stains on one of my portfolio pieces--no mystery, though--I'm constantly cutting my fingers. As well, I hadn't noticed until leaving the interview that moths had eaten an apple-sized chunk out of my colourful pink scarf.
I was a bit nervous going to opera rehearsal that night, as we were getting the choreography for a song and dance number I'm in, and I'm hopelessly inept at learning dance routines. It takes me 10 times longer than the average person to get them. I decided to make a hearty dinner of nachos before I went out to face my dance Gotterdamerung. Only thing is, I forgot to include cheese. This did not bode well.
Naturally, while getting direction on the dance number, I was unable to remember the lyrics and count kicks at the same time. My brain just short circuited. I'm surprised no one saw the smoke coming out of my ears...Also, I kept kicking on the wrong side, so I ended up kicking the other girls. I wouldn't blame them if they started wearing protective padding to rehearsals to prevent injury from my wayward kicks.
After that expenditure of energy, I sat in the audience watching my colleagues rehearse. I fiddled with my earring and heard it drop onto the filthy auditorium floor. It's big and gold, so you'd think it wouldn't be hard to spot. But I spent 20 minutes crawling around on the floor among the dustballs looking for it. I had given up when, during the break as I was talking to a guy who claimed not to have noticed me crawling around on the floor behind him and freaking out, I spotted the earring right by my foot! This saved the whole entropic day, and gave me hope that not all things in my life will be broken and permanently lost.
It started with dropping a glass saucer first thing in the morning. There I was pre-caffeine, faced with a rambunctious cat and shards of glass scattered all over the floor. I had no choice but to get out the vacuum cleaner and suck up the glass, followed by sweeping to make sure there were no shards left.
The vacuum cleaner is a story in itself. Its long handle broke off years ago. I tried duct-taping it back on, but this flimsy repair couldn't withstand the force of the vacuuming motions. So when I vacuum I have to either do it on my knees or stoop over. Now, with broken glass on the floor, I couldn't kneel, so I had to bend over and vacuum.
As I stood up, I whacked my head hard on the cupboard, then dropped the dustpan full of glass. This meant I had to start all over again with the vacuuming and sweeping--before my cup of tea, remember...
The day went surprisingly smoothly after that, except during another job interview when I noticed dried blood stains on one of my portfolio pieces--no mystery, though--I'm constantly cutting my fingers. As well, I hadn't noticed until leaving the interview that moths had eaten an apple-sized chunk out of my colourful pink scarf.
I was a bit nervous going to opera rehearsal that night, as we were getting the choreography for a song and dance number I'm in, and I'm hopelessly inept at learning dance routines. It takes me 10 times longer than the average person to get them. I decided to make a hearty dinner of nachos before I went out to face my dance Gotterdamerung. Only thing is, I forgot to include cheese. This did not bode well.
Naturally, while getting direction on the dance number, I was unable to remember the lyrics and count kicks at the same time. My brain just short circuited. I'm surprised no one saw the smoke coming out of my ears...Also, I kept kicking on the wrong side, so I ended up kicking the other girls. I wouldn't blame them if they started wearing protective padding to rehearsals to prevent injury from my wayward kicks.
After that expenditure of energy, I sat in the audience watching my colleagues rehearse. I fiddled with my earring and heard it drop onto the filthy auditorium floor. It's big and gold, so you'd think it wouldn't be hard to spot. But I spent 20 minutes crawling around on the floor among the dustballs looking for it. I had given up when, during the break as I was talking to a guy who claimed not to have noticed me crawling around on the floor behind him and freaking out, I spotted the earring right by my foot! This saved the whole entropic day, and gave me hope that not all things in my life will be broken and permanently lost.
Friday, November 11, 2011
What not to eat at a job interview
I'm not in a bargaining position when it comes to work. So I didn't feel able to say no to a job interview that started at 12:00 noon. I didn't bother haggling over scheduling and making it sound like eating is my biggest priority in life (it kind of is). I speculated as to whether the interviewers would provide sandwiches, but I didn't want to ask in case it sounded too greedy and grasping. Since the interview consisted of a 2-hour writing test followed by a 1-hour interview, I knew there was no way I'd make it to 3:00 without fainting. So I made myself a honey and butter sandwich and stashed it in my purse. Yes, a purse. I do own some, which I carry instead of my usual knapsack when I want to look less like someone coming fresh from the Occupy Toronto site.
I put on just a touch of makeup--lipstick and mascara. Problem is, because of cash-flow issues, I can't afford to replace my monthly contact lenses. I'm therefore wearing leftover and mismatched contacts from my old prescription, which don't allow me to see close up very well. I guessed that the mascara looked OK, jamming my face against the bathroom mirror to have a look, but all I could see was a blurred, deranged-looking face.
At the interview venue, I made myself at home in the boardroom, sitting down at a fancy-looking, big rosewood board table.
At one point I started to cough due to either dust or cleaning chemicals in the room. This devolved quickly into full-blown hacking. I coughed so hard my eyes watered. I worried about people hearing me coughing, because it sounded like I had TB or pneumonia and needed oxygen. With a cough candy in my mouth, I checked my makeup mirror to see if the mascara had run. Again, all I could see was a blurry blob.
By 1:00 I was starting to feel hungry and stupid....I took out my honey sandwich. Crumbs and honey kept dropping onto the rosewood table. A couple of people went by and looked through the window just as I was licking honey off my fingers. I tried to sweep up the crumbs, and they fell onto the carpet. They were quite visible, so I kicked them under the table. I wet my paper towel and wiped the honey off the boardroom table. Then I chewed gum and reapplied lipstick. At 2:00 the interview team came in and grilled me--thankfully, I did not embarrass myself.
Walking home, I looked down and saw that my recently polished boots were marked up with ugly salt stains....And then at home I took out my contacts and verified that the mascara was in fact smeared all over my eyes, making me look like a raccoon or someone with a drinking problem. For today's job interview I am not wearing mascara, and not bringing anything with honey in it. This way I hope to look more professional and less vagabond and demented,,,,
I put on just a touch of makeup--lipstick and mascara. Problem is, because of cash-flow issues, I can't afford to replace my monthly contact lenses. I'm therefore wearing leftover and mismatched contacts from my old prescription, which don't allow me to see close up very well. I guessed that the mascara looked OK, jamming my face against the bathroom mirror to have a look, but all I could see was a blurred, deranged-looking face.
At the interview venue, I made myself at home in the boardroom, sitting down at a fancy-looking, big rosewood board table.
At one point I started to cough due to either dust or cleaning chemicals in the room. This devolved quickly into full-blown hacking. I coughed so hard my eyes watered. I worried about people hearing me coughing, because it sounded like I had TB or pneumonia and needed oxygen. With a cough candy in my mouth, I checked my makeup mirror to see if the mascara had run. Again, all I could see was a blurry blob.
By 1:00 I was starting to feel hungry and stupid....I took out my honey sandwich. Crumbs and honey kept dropping onto the rosewood table. A couple of people went by and looked through the window just as I was licking honey off my fingers. I tried to sweep up the crumbs, and they fell onto the carpet. They were quite visible, so I kicked them under the table. I wet my paper towel and wiped the honey off the boardroom table. Then I chewed gum and reapplied lipstick. At 2:00 the interview team came in and grilled me--thankfully, I did not embarrass myself.
Walking home, I looked down and saw that my recently polished boots were marked up with ugly salt stains....And then at home I took out my contacts and verified that the mascara was in fact smeared all over my eyes, making me look like a raccoon or someone with a drinking problem. For today's job interview I am not wearing mascara, and not bringing anything with honey in it. This way I hope to look more professional and less vagabond and demented,,,,
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Tips for carefree IKEA construction
1. Don't tell any friends in the Green party you are buying IKEA products. They'll say IKEA is the "McDonald's of furniture" and that as well as contributing particleboard to landfill, it takes jobs away from local carpenters. You'll then have to contend with feelings of enviro-guilt on top of your construction frustrations. (Note to F. -- I have never put any IKEA furniture in the garbage!)
2. Even if numbers aren't your thing because you're totally artsy, measure the space you want to put the new item into. Chances are, the piece that looked small in the photo of the trendy Stockholm loft will be giant in your highrise apartment.
3. Don't try to make sense out of the extra holes and grooves on the pieces of wood you're using to build your item. It's like junk DNA--not there for any particular reason, just kind of left over from other projects or evolutionary stages.
4. Don't expect the diagrams to be all that obvious. IKEA saves money on translation, copywriting (thanks, eh?) and paper by not putting any copy in the instruction manual. The diagrams are supposed to be multilingual and easy to understand. Many details are missing, however--like the part that should identify the front vs. back of your chest of drawers so you don't nail the back board to the front and end up with ugly nail holes all over the front. (Grrr.)
5. You'll need tools as well, like a toolbox with screwdrivers and a hammer. You'll really be doing these macho tasks such as hammering, screwing in screws, and of course, taking out all the nails and screws you put into the wrong places because you didn't get enough information from the diagrams.
6. If you want to break up with your spouse, building IKEA furniture together is a perfect precipitating event. Men like to ignore the manual and just go with the flow. Women prefer to study those diagrams. Arguments erupt. Relationships end. Do it alone unless there's an agreement to role assignment of boss and minion.
7, Women, don't allow yourself to get too worked up over the fact that the diagrams often only have men in them (unless they're really frumpy-looking women?). At least the IKEA catalogues show men standing over stoves in those stylish kitchens.
8. As for the instructions to attach the piece of furniture to the wall to ensure it won't topple over in the middle of the night, save your energy and ignore them.... It's more fun to live on the edge.
2. Even if numbers aren't your thing because you're totally artsy, measure the space you want to put the new item into. Chances are, the piece that looked small in the photo of the trendy Stockholm loft will be giant in your highrise apartment.
3. Don't try to make sense out of the extra holes and grooves on the pieces of wood you're using to build your item. It's like junk DNA--not there for any particular reason, just kind of left over from other projects or evolutionary stages.
4. Don't expect the diagrams to be all that obvious. IKEA saves money on translation, copywriting (thanks, eh?) and paper by not putting any copy in the instruction manual. The diagrams are supposed to be multilingual and easy to understand. Many details are missing, however--like the part that should identify the front vs. back of your chest of drawers so you don't nail the back board to the front and end up with ugly nail holes all over the front. (Grrr.)
5. You'll need tools as well, like a toolbox with screwdrivers and a hammer. You'll really be doing these macho tasks such as hammering, screwing in screws, and of course, taking out all the nails and screws you put into the wrong places because you didn't get enough information from the diagrams.
6. If you want to break up with your spouse, building IKEA furniture together is a perfect precipitating event. Men like to ignore the manual and just go with the flow. Women prefer to study those diagrams. Arguments erupt. Relationships end. Do it alone unless there's an agreement to role assignment of boss and minion.
7, Women, don't allow yourself to get too worked up over the fact that the diagrams often only have men in them (unless they're really frumpy-looking women?). At least the IKEA catalogues show men standing over stoves in those stylish kitchens.
8. As for the instructions to attach the piece of furniture to the wall to ensure it won't topple over in the middle of the night, save your energy and ignore them.... It's more fun to live on the edge.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
A day of dysfunctions
The day began ignominiously at 4 a.m. when my cat woke me up by running around in circles on top of the bed and leaping over my head. Although I kept yelling at her to stop, she kept on circling. This was despite my clear memory of putting food in her dish before going to bed to stifle the kitty-alarm-clock. During a lull in her campaign to get me up, I started to fall sleep, only to be jolted awake by a sudden, loud "MEOW!" right in my ear, and the sight of an irate furry face one inch from my eyes. I jumped out of bed and found the cat's food dish empty!
It took me forever to get back to sleep. Around 7 a.m. I was jolted awake again, by a crash from the living room. I rushed out to see that the tower of videotapes with my TV black-switching-box on top had collapsed, leaving the box dangling by its wires--and my ability to catch the digital signal compromised.
I was fuzzy-headed all day, and consequently even more clumsy than usual. At one point as I was dusting a bookcase, I knocked over a pile of books, which fell on a glass of water, knocking it over and flooding the digital box remote control.
Then, with fall here and the heat turned on, I needed to hook up my humidifier to give my place its wintertime rainforest atmosphere. I decided to take the humidifier apart to clean it, and was shocked to see inside a huge amount of what looked like fine, grey sand. I dumped this into the garbage, and then noticed that the sand had corroded all the inner mechanisms--rendering the humidifier useless.
Since I'm determined to find work these days, I apply for many different positions. Some companies have online application forms that "extract" information from your resume and randomly dump it into various fields. This always screws up the information. I've wasted a lot of time reformatting the details of my resume, when really, isn't it easier for HR people to simply print off a resume and read it? This seems like a case of bad use of technology. Just because you can create an online application for jobs doesn't mean you should; it's far less efficient than receiving resumes by email. Time is precious, and I resent redundant user experiences that crunch my time.
The weather that night was horrendous, and I wimped out of walking up to Bloor. This meant enduring the Bathurst streetcar. I got a seat, but then had some guy and his big belly right in my face. Why is it that certain men stand really close to seated women on streetcars so that their crotches are right in our faces? To make things worse, the guy was reading a paperback, which was positioned about two inches from my forehead. It took every ounce of control for me to not activate some of the skills I learned last weekend at my women's self-defense course!
It took me forever to get back to sleep. Around 7 a.m. I was jolted awake again, by a crash from the living room. I rushed out to see that the tower of videotapes with my TV black-switching-box on top had collapsed, leaving the box dangling by its wires--and my ability to catch the digital signal compromised.
I was fuzzy-headed all day, and consequently even more clumsy than usual. At one point as I was dusting a bookcase, I knocked over a pile of books, which fell on a glass of water, knocking it over and flooding the digital box remote control.
Then, with fall here and the heat turned on, I needed to hook up my humidifier to give my place its wintertime rainforest atmosphere. I decided to take the humidifier apart to clean it, and was shocked to see inside a huge amount of what looked like fine, grey sand. I dumped this into the garbage, and then noticed that the sand had corroded all the inner mechanisms--rendering the humidifier useless.
Since I'm determined to find work these days, I apply for many different positions. Some companies have online application forms that "extract" information from your resume and randomly dump it into various fields. This always screws up the information. I've wasted a lot of time reformatting the details of my resume, when really, isn't it easier for HR people to simply print off a resume and read it? This seems like a case of bad use of technology. Just because you can create an online application for jobs doesn't mean you should; it's far less efficient than receiving resumes by email. Time is precious, and I resent redundant user experiences that crunch my time.
The weather that night was horrendous, and I wimped out of walking up to Bloor. This meant enduring the Bathurst streetcar. I got a seat, but then had some guy and his big belly right in my face. Why is it that certain men stand really close to seated women on streetcars so that their crotches are right in our faces? To make things worse, the guy was reading a paperback, which was positioned about two inches from my forehead. It took every ounce of control for me to not activate some of the skills I learned last weekend at my women's self-defense course!
Thursday, October 13, 2011
The brutality of sewing
My grandmother was a self-styled elegant lady who made clothes for family members and their Barbie dolls, raided yards for dandelions to turn into wine, and designed tricky additions to the house--to be executed by her handyman son-in-law, my father. She always kept her temper except when these projects became super-aggravating: once during a particularly annoying wall papering exercise--the paper kept getting gummed up and ripping--and once when she was sewing. "Damn," she said in paroxysms of frustration. I was shocked, and knew there must be something terrible about sewing to drive her to say this forbidden word.
In spite of this early lesson in what activities to avoid, I somehow seem to have taken up sewing as well. It must be a genetic predilection for masochism. Plus. I'm a cheapskate, so why should I pay someone else to do my sewing?
This morning I decided to fix the wasitband on a skirt that's been the victim of my procrastination, sitting in the closet for something like three years.
First I had to pin the waistband onto the skirt, suffering numerous puncture wounds. Then the sewing machine needed to be threaded. But I couldn't remember how, and had to launch a major search for the manual. Naturally, it was not in the file marked "instruction manuals" and not actually with the sewing machine.
Having located this obscure piece of literature in a bag of miscellaneous weird stuff, I then had to follow the instructions, which were written for people with IQs way higher than mine, and illustrated with complicated diagrams that I was told to follow.
The instruction "Increase the tension" seemed apt, as that's exactly what was happening. I was getting more stressed out every second. The bobbin thread got all tangled up. The bobbin itself went flying off the machine, freaking out the cat, who began hissing at the empty sewing machine cover. I couldn't see the hole in the needle to put the thread through, even with all the lights in the place blazing brillantly.
At last the machine was ready, and I carefully sewed on the waistband, narrowing avoiding sewing my fingers. I vowed to never again attempt such a brutal feat. But now I'm thinking it wasn't really so bad....maybe I could even design a line of funky hats and bags and sell them online.....
In spite of this early lesson in what activities to avoid, I somehow seem to have taken up sewing as well. It must be a genetic predilection for masochism. Plus. I'm a cheapskate, so why should I pay someone else to do my sewing?
This morning I decided to fix the wasitband on a skirt that's been the victim of my procrastination, sitting in the closet for something like three years.
First I had to pin the waistband onto the skirt, suffering numerous puncture wounds. Then the sewing machine needed to be threaded. But I couldn't remember how, and had to launch a major search for the manual. Naturally, it was not in the file marked "instruction manuals" and not actually with the sewing machine.
Having located this obscure piece of literature in a bag of miscellaneous weird stuff, I then had to follow the instructions, which were written for people with IQs way higher than mine, and illustrated with complicated diagrams that I was told to follow.
The instruction "Increase the tension" seemed apt, as that's exactly what was happening. I was getting more stressed out every second. The bobbin thread got all tangled up. The bobbin itself went flying off the machine, freaking out the cat, who began hissing at the empty sewing machine cover. I couldn't see the hole in the needle to put the thread through, even with all the lights in the place blazing brillantly.
At last the machine was ready, and I carefully sewed on the waistband, narrowing avoiding sewing my fingers. I vowed to never again attempt such a brutal feat. But now I'm thinking it wasn't really so bad....maybe I could even design a line of funky hats and bags and sell them online.....
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Technology ticks me off
I used to be an early adopter of technology (I bought one of the very first iMacs!) but lately I've begun to feel completely out of fashion. My only consolation is that if I hang onto my old technology long enough, it will become retro-chic and make me feel trendy again. Sort of like the people you see on the street wearing out-of-date clothing and hairstyles--you can't tell if they're leading-edge and ironic or just so out of it they don't realize the fashion train has left the station.
Built-in obsolescence really bugs me. I have a completely functioning iMac--with a turquoise monitor and hockey-puck mouse--that's now incompatible with all updated software and Internet browsers. Plus, it rejects my new iPod. Almost everything launched after 2003 makes my computer crash. I can't even download video from my video camera to my iMac. But that's another story, with a lesson for anyone considering making a major technology purchase after going out for drinks: don't do it!
As for my TV, until a month ago I had three sets of bunny-ear antennae set up to tune in about six TV channels. Then all the TV stations went digital, forcing me to spend $67 on a special box to convert digital signals to analog for my old TV. Sometimes the box works, and sometimes it doesn't. When the signal isn't strong enough, the broken mosaic images on my screen make everyone look like monsters in a horror movie, with disintegrating flesh and unidentifiable things crawling on them.
Not owning a mobile phone has become one of my personality quirks that I'm proud of. However, as a freelancer, I now realize I need to be accessible to clients. So last month I went to Wind Mobile for their special smartphone deal, and was ignored by the sales people. I walked out. Down the street at Public Mobile, no one was even in the store. Should I just give up?
A friend of mine may have the right idea. He's simply dropped out of the computer age. This week I got a typewritten note from him in the mail! I'm not sure where he's going to find replacement ribbons for his typewriter, but there must be some somewhere mouldering in someone's basement.
Built-in obsolescence really bugs me. I have a completely functioning iMac--with a turquoise monitor and hockey-puck mouse--that's now incompatible with all updated software and Internet browsers. Plus, it rejects my new iPod. Almost everything launched after 2003 makes my computer crash. I can't even download video from my video camera to my iMac. But that's another story, with a lesson for anyone considering making a major technology purchase after going out for drinks: don't do it!
As for my TV, until a month ago I had three sets of bunny-ear antennae set up to tune in about six TV channels. Then all the TV stations went digital, forcing me to spend $67 on a special box to convert digital signals to analog for my old TV. Sometimes the box works, and sometimes it doesn't. When the signal isn't strong enough, the broken mosaic images on my screen make everyone look like monsters in a horror movie, with disintegrating flesh and unidentifiable things crawling on them.
Not owning a mobile phone has become one of my personality quirks that I'm proud of. However, as a freelancer, I now realize I need to be accessible to clients. So last month I went to Wind Mobile for their special smartphone deal, and was ignored by the sales people. I walked out. Down the street at Public Mobile, no one was even in the store. Should I just give up?
A friend of mine may have the right idea. He's simply dropped out of the computer age. This week I got a typewritten note from him in the mail! I'm not sure where he's going to find replacement ribbons for his typewriter, but there must be some somewhere mouldering in someone's basement.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
What's a girl with too much time on her hands supposed to do?
I read one of those bogus "studies" once that said people who complain and vent regularly are actually psychologically healthier than those who go around purposely thinking happy thoughts all the time. To keep myself sane, I will share my daily fresh hells as an underutilized creative writer living alone with a cat in a pricey downtown condo I can't really afford (but yeah, it kinda elevates my white-trash image).
It's a gloriously sunny fall day today and what could be better than going for a walk in the park beside the lake? Thing is, City employees like to drive around in their pickup trucks on the bike paths. This seems really hillbilly to me. It's not very relaxing to feel a truck creeping up behind you. inching along waiting for you to jump into the wet, muddy grass so it can pass. Why can't those guys drive on the roads?
Also, what is it with the diesel-powered weed whackers? First, why be weedist and discriminate against these plants? Second, burning fossil fuel to kill plants is insane. And third, they're loud enough to drown out the jets at the airport.
Before leaving, the fire inspection team arrived to check that my smoke detector was working (since I set it off every time I forget I've put something in the oven, I can vouch that it's OK). I was amazed to see the high-tech equipment the technician was using: a blow dryer tied to a broomstick!
I have to say my mood was not particularly improved by seeing today's Globe & Mail insert: a full-colour magazine showcasing the accomplishments of various high-powered Toronto women. I hope to soon start giving my "Why Bother?" demotivational coaching workshops so I can make it into the next issue. The first workshop's theme will be "The Seven Hangups of Highly Ineffective People" featuring my favourite: procrastination. Which reminds me, I need to go look at the bathtub and think about maybe scrubbing it some time this week.....
It's a gloriously sunny fall day today and what could be better than going for a walk in the park beside the lake? Thing is, City employees like to drive around in their pickup trucks on the bike paths. This seems really hillbilly to me. It's not very relaxing to feel a truck creeping up behind you. inching along waiting for you to jump into the wet, muddy grass so it can pass. Why can't those guys drive on the roads?
Also, what is it with the diesel-powered weed whackers? First, why be weedist and discriminate against these plants? Second, burning fossil fuel to kill plants is insane. And third, they're loud enough to drown out the jets at the airport.
Before leaving, the fire inspection team arrived to check that my smoke detector was working (since I set it off every time I forget I've put something in the oven, I can vouch that it's OK). I was amazed to see the high-tech equipment the technician was using: a blow dryer tied to a broomstick!
I have to say my mood was not particularly improved by seeing today's Globe & Mail insert: a full-colour magazine showcasing the accomplishments of various high-powered Toronto women. I hope to soon start giving my "Why Bother?" demotivational coaching workshops so I can make it into the next issue. The first workshop's theme will be "The Seven Hangups of Highly Ineffective People" featuring my favourite: procrastination. Which reminds me, I need to go look at the bathtub and think about maybe scrubbing it some time this week.....
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