Laughing at you

Yes, you. The guy in the family sedan, blasting your club beats so loud that your shitty stereo makes your car vibrate, and leering and hollering at us girls passing by.

You will never have sex with any of us.

I'll bet you're in that family-sized car because it's what you got out of the divorce when your wife left you for reasons of irreconcilable differences due to you being so utterly lame.

There is a capital 'L' on my forehead for you. Haven't done that since grade school, but what can I say, your pathetic example just inspires me.

So Sue (Johanson) me

There should be an official holiday named for this woman. Not only is she the female equivalent of my beloved Dan Savage (see a testament of my love for him here) but I was enjoying her humour, and frank manner of speaking about all things related to sex, for years before I discovered Dan. Moreover, I believe that she has done more than anyone to promote women's sexual health (and just about anyone's sexual health, in general) in Canada since Dr. Henry Morgentaler fought for the right to a safe abortion in the 60s.

Plus, the delight that I garnered from seeing her recommend sex toys on her Hot Stuff Bag segments on her former t.v. show (made all the more amusing due to her remarkable resemblance to my late maternal grandmother) will likely never be matched by any other septua- or octo- genarian.

Also, this.

Oh, and also, there was some Order of Canada thing. That too. That's just as important as the chin dildo, you know. If not more, even. Just slightly more.

S. and I have an ongoing tradition of occasionally naming a certain day to be [insert name of celebrity or well-known figure or even just a person we know here] DAY. For instance, we declared May 20 to be James Stewart Day, when we will participate in some doggone good, wholesome activities and talk just like Jimmy. There are many other examples, most of which I can't remember specifically because we normally make these decisions while slightly tipsy.

However, being of sound mind and body and having had only two 5oz glasses of wine, I declare July 29 (Sue's birthday) to be the official Sue Johanson Day in our home, which will basically be an all-out sex toy and lube fest. It goes without saying that we will use fully poseable dolls to work out some yet-untried positions for ourselves, and make reference to our body parts using medical terms, foregoing dirty slang for the day.

Or perhaps May 31 will be more fitting, since that was the day she received her Order of Canada.

Oh, heck. I'll just go ahead and celebrate both days, in the aforementioned fashion.

Things said by dumb girls at my work #7

"I don't think my see-through top is, like, see-through enough."

Wondering

Why you need to make me privy to your toddler's potty-training achievements. Please don't tell me just how well he is excelling at pee-pee and poop-poop both at home and in public restrooms. The look of pride on your face frightens me.

You make me want to get my tubes tied.

If you sound like Fran Drescher

Chances are he's not going to call you.

Wondering

If you would be less busy if you didn't spend so much time updating your Facebook status to say how busy you are.

Common Courtesy

I have a new job, and at my new place of employment I am friends with a girl who is from the U.K. Earlier today we were having a discussion about the perception that Canadians are polite, that Americans are jerks, and that Brits and the French are rather rude.

She said that before she came to live in Canada she was under the impression that Canadians are always saying, "Sorry" and are overly concerned with being polite. Then she came to live in Canada and found that Canadians really only seem to say sorry without 1) meaning it, 2) even really thinking about it and just doing it automatically, and 3) sincerity.

In the time she has been in this country, she told me, she has rarely been given what she feels is a genuine sorry by anyone.

She told me she didn't want me to feel offended that this is the feeling she has about most Canadians. I told her I couldn't agree more.

First of all, having experience in customer service and as a research worker, I am not unaccustomed to rudeness and the sarcastic "Sorry" that Canadians seem to do so well.

I have always felt that kind of behaviour says a lot about a person. To treat someone you don't even know as being somehow less deserving of courtesy is just low. I have little tolerance for people who think so highly of themselves they feel they can treat others as being inferior. Even before I ever had a job I never treated anyone as poorly as some people treat me. I have never spoken rudely to a waitress or to someone at the other end of a marketing call. I've never yelled at a bus driver or demanded to speak with a manager to make a complaint. It's not difficult to treat another person with respect, even in a difficult or even extreme situation.

A manager in a cafe once explained to me that some people are "difficult" because they like to feel important or special. Like a customer who makes specific demands about drinks or food, and orders off menu. Just go somewhere that actually serves what you want. I think it is pathetic. I'm able to feel special all on my own without someone giving me special treatment or making exceptions for me. Maybe I'm special in that I don't treat others like shit, or that I feel different from others without even trying to be unique, but I have never needed for anyone to bend over backwards for me to feel good about myself. That's just lame.

An anecdote: this evening on the streetcar a woman screamed at me for wearing a knapsack. I had my hands full of grocery bags and the trolley was so packed that I could barely move to slide the straps off my shoulders and place the bag between my feet. Still, I apologized.

Nevermind the fact that she appeared to be at least 300 pounds and that two people could fit snugly into the space she occupied.

Oh yes. I'll be a bitch online, just not to her face. Because that would be rude, Ms. Fatty McFatfat.

I find Canadians certainly have a habit of apologizing, but only as a precursor to an insult. As in, "Um, sorry? But you're totally incompetent. No offense, of course." We've become so very polite that we're back at the other end of the asshole scale.

Anyhow, Girl From the U.K. says that while people in North America tend to think Brits are rude, she thinks that while they may definitely be restrained they are far more polite, in general, that Canadians and Americans.

I told her I would love to travel to England and see just what common courtesy is like on the other side of the pond, since it can't get much worse here.

EDIT: It could just be Torontonians.

I can't stop eating jalapenos, stuffed with feta cheese, and soaked in olive oil

My mouth is on fire and there is just no end in sight.

One pepper isn't even all that hot.

But if you've eaten a whole pile of them there is no stopping the heat.

Things said by dumb girls at my work #6

"Is cheese a meat? It's not, is it?"

Things said by dumb girls at my work #5

"I was sooooo sad when The Situation got kicked off Dancing With the Stars. And then that girl won from Dirty Dancing or whatever. Ohmigod I hate her."

Things said by dumb girls at my work #4

"P____ is my little fishy. And I'm his little chicken. And I'm so going to have his babies, we're like meant to be together."

Things said by dumb girls at my work #3

"So I gave my professor my thesis statement and he's, like, 'That's it? One page?' And I'm like, that's so embarassing, cause we were standing right in front of the whole class and it's not like he gave an outline saying it had to be more than one page. And like, I'm paying to take his stupid class, I should be able to write as many pages as I wanna and not have to worry about him making me feel bad about it in front of everyone. I mean, I saw everyone else hand in more than one page but he didn't say to anywhere. Anyways, if he gives me a bad mark on this research paper I'm totally going to contest him on it."

Things said by dumb girls at my work #2

"I don't really have anything against gay people. But, like, my religion prohibits it, so the whole concept really just grosses me out. Y'know?"

Things said by dumb girls at my work #1

"Wait, so potash is a rock that gets used for fertilizer? Ohmigod, I totally thought it was like a marijuana issue, or something."

Oddly

Due to synesthesia (see previous post about this remarkable neurological phenomenon) the word "suicide" tastes like Signature Swiss Chalet sauce.

Yum.

I find it amusing that the word for such an unpleasant (yet occasionally alluring) concept as suicide could be so darn tasty. The words "greed", "murder", and "molestation" don't taste good at all.

(Greed tastes like when you unknowingly pour curdled milk in your coffee and take a sip, and then get chunky coffee. Murder tastes like a hamburger that hasn't been cooked through at the centre. Molestation tastes like old cheese).

At least it's better than being chased by scientologists

For the past month or so, a group of theology students from South Korea have been hanging around outside the subway station closest to where I live.

I would have no trouble with this if they would just leave me alone. However, they want something from me, and from the rest of the world; they want church members.

The first time I encountered two of the students, I was moderately interested in what they had to say. They weren't preaching, they were explaining. Despite my lack of patience for religion, I admired the fact that these theology students had, more or less, created their own sect. We got into a debate, but it didn't get ugly.

They were stressing the importance of not only God the father, but God the mother as well. I was shown several passages from the Bible that seem to (rather ambiguously) indicate that there has always been God the mother and that if we don't worship her and God the father we will never have everlasting life.

I found that to be interesting, and when the students discussed the Sabbath day and their belief that Saturday should be the holy day, not Sunday, I understood where they were coming from. They also told me that they felt Passover should be observed in Christianity as it is in Judaism. I liked it. A sort of Seventh Day Adventist kind of thing with a Hebrew twist.

All very good points, and I had a nice time talking to them. I explained that I was raised Catholic and that my mother still attends church, but that I renounced my faith some years ago and that I consider myself an atheist though I do look up to Jesus for the (mortal and cool) person that he was.

This totally baffled them, for starters. I tried to get through to them that I'm not a Christian; I don't believe Jesus was divine or that he was somehow born after an immaculate conception. I think he likely existed and made some good points on how humanity should behave. I think the whole Star Over Bethlehem thing got blown out of proportion, and that it was probably a comet, or, even likelier, a UFO. He was just a man, he wanted to do right, and I think he was groovy.

"But you're a follower of Christ! That makes you Christian!" they said repeatedly.

We eventually got past that point of discussion and onto the part where they tell me that I am going to hell because I don't partake of the body or blood of Christ; there is no way I can have everlasting life in heaven, amen.

First of all, I don't want everlasting life, period. I have enough difficulty with this life. I dislike the idea of life going on, indefinitely, on this plane or another one. I will live for as long as I am capable of, and then die and promptly cease existence.

Maybe, if ghosts do really exist and I am able to become one, I will return to this earthly dimension and move some shit around the room, whilst invisible, and it will all be very creepy. Hopefully someone will be playing a theramin in the background.

I don't like being told that I am going to hell because 1) that's rude and I hardly know them, and 2) it's all absolute poppycock because I'm still technically a Catholic and I can always have a confession done on my deathbed if I end up wussing out and reverting to Catholicism in the very end.

They told me I should come to their church and I said I don't go to church, I'm an atheist. They wanted to give me information about their church, and their contact information in case I changed my mind. I didn't want to be rude so I took a pamphlet.

I've run into these theology students twice since and they have recognized me and asked when I am coming to church. I've told them I enjoyed our discussion but that I'm an atheist, I don't believe in God, and I don't go to church. They've told me that their church is a lot of fun, and that I can easily fit my schedule around their services. Also, they've really pushed the "God the Mother" issue, and reminded me that only those who partake of the body and blood of Christ can go to heaven. And I continue to politely decline.

I mean, Jesus Christ what are these kids on? They're teenagers, they should be out forming Doo Wop groups and going to sock hops, not spouting Bible passages at me on a street corner.

Moreover, if this is some kind of career option for them, they need to get better at it. Right now, I am a hardcore meatatarian, and they are trying to tempt me into becoming a vegan by offering me a soy steak.

In conclusion, I find it ironic that people who are spreading the message of God the father's (and God the mother's) love can be so judgmental and focused on hell. And also that they put so much of their energy into something that doesn't exist. Except for my annoyance, which exists with a force that should not be further reckoned with.

You have been warned, theology students.

Wondering

Why real life can't be more like The Sims.

Curse you, unattainable and ideal digital world!

Going to the chapel and boosting the economy all at the same time. That's multi-tasking!

The internet is all atwitter (both literally and figuratively). The newsstands are bursting with freshly printed magazines. You can almost smell the coffee the writers consumed while they stayed up all night.

Prince William of Wales (or England or something, I forget which) is engaged to Kate Middleton (S.'s cousin, a wedding planner, refers to her as 'Waity Katie').

I think I will let it slide that I called 'dibs' when I was fourteen and he was sixteen, mostly because Wills is really starting to look really British, in that boney-faced, stoat-like manner. Plus his hair is thinning and few things turn me off more than grabbing for a man's hair during passionate sex and feeling nothing but some sparse head whiskers and oily scalp.

Having never been alive for a real royal wedding, I am kind of intrigued to see the eventual spectacle that will result. You know, the commemorative plates and china sets. The corgis decked out in morning dress.

Yes, world, there are few things sweeter than a display of luxury and indulgence in a Britain that hasn't been in such awful financial shape since, well, the last time there was a big-ass royal wedding. Sourced here y'all.
From an actual British guy, so you know it's legit.

And now a more cynical point of view.

They are going to make some mighty proper, moderately
good-looking, fraffly-well-spoken offspring to put in line for the throne.

The Dianne Wiest Factor

Eventually every aging Hollywood actress will look vaguely like Academy Award winner Dianne Wiest.


BEHOLD I HAVE CONDUCTED SCIENCE TO PRESENT PROOF OF MY THEORY.





< - - - Dianne Wiest




} The start of an homogeneous race of actresses resembling Dianne Wiest.

The Dobler effect

"I don't want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don't want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don't want to do that."

Thanks 1980s John Cusack. I admire your perspicacity.

I also like to imagine that you grew up to become 1990s John Cusack starring in Grosse Pointe Blank, just as cute but infinitely more sexy. I'm not going to throw you out of bed for eating crackers.

EDIT: What, ho! Apparently John Cusack is the "thinking woman's" sex symbol.
See article here.

I am pleased that there is a distinction between "thinking women" and, presumably, "non-thinking women". This explains things like Josh Hartnett and Zac Efron.

Unpleasant Physical Observation #1

My chest has been tight and achey all day. Perhaps a result of acute anxiety or the fact that not a day has gone by since I was 19 that some part of my body has not been sore.

For the past year and a half now most of my torso has been in some kind of physical pain, be it the persistently tight shoulder, upper arm, and mid-back muscles, or the jammed up hips a lower back. Sometimes all at once.

I see a chiropractor every two to three weeks, and I tend to feel good for the remainder of the day. Less pain, but still a dull ache which I attribute to the aforementioned physical manipulation at the hands of my doctor. I would go more often; I would go every if I could afford it. Alas $40 per visit with no insurance represents a significant amount of my income.

I pop Robax Platinum at least a couple of times a day, with no discernible difference in comfort level. My muscles are not relaxed they are just slightly less tense. Not even a good dose of marijuana combined with a sound night's sleep and a heating pad on my back cannot undo the tension that is my constant state of being.

Today my chest has been feeling a strange pressure, almost like someone hit me in the solar plexus. This has been going on all day and I am wondering if I should get worried. After all, I have been complaining about chest pains for the better part of seven years. I worn a Holter monitor, had an ultrasound of my heart, had an ECG, and done that test where you run and they monitor your heart. I've been told by my family doctor, two chiropractors, and several psychiatrists that I need to relax and I will feel better.

Even when I have no reason to be tense, I am tense. I'm tense right now. I keep catching my shoulders creeping up towards my ears.

I would like to feel good, genuinely good, for just one day. I haven't felt truly well since I was in my teens, and even then I was having anxiety issues. Now sometimes I feel I have more than I can contend with. If I am not having a headache, I am depressed. If I am functioning at a normal mood level, I have aches and pains. If I am headache free and functional, I am anxious. If I am having a headache, I know that likely within the next 12 hours my mood will be highly unpredictable, and that I could either be ecstatically happy or fantasizing about suicide. Things could be worse, I know, but that doesn't mean I don't feel how draining it is or wonder why in the world I waste money on pharmaceuticals to begin with.

My mom always says, sighing, "No one can feel good all the time." True mom, but I would like to feel entirely, wholly good, just once.

Something about Dune and rare, tasty mushrooms

A remake of Dune is, or was, in the works. S. is understandably excited, since it is one of his favourite novels. Yet he is apprehensive as well. Apparently someone called Pierre Morel was chosen to direct, and he is not well-liked by S. or any of the hardcore movie nerd community.

Fear not, movie nerds. The other day S. burst out of our (or rather his office, since I tend to just plonk down on the couch with my laptop) office with a look on his face right out of a 50s sitcom and happily announced that one Mr. Morel has been removed from the project.

S. was so happy he ate a muffin and cracked open a beer in celebration, while I sat nearby and basked in the glory of his immense nerdliness.

Of course the question on everyone's mind is whether or not they will replace the director, or just scrap the project altogether.

Please let it not be Uwe Boll. Please let the world burn in apocalyptic flames before anyone thinks of him as a possibility.

In the meantime, enjoy this gem of creativity from writer / director / actor Tommy Wiseau, who is surprisingly similar to, and yet entirely unlike, Uwe Boll.

http://www.atom.com/channel/channel_the_house_that_drips_blood_on_alex/

An open letter to people I don't like about why I don't like you

I don't like many people, and in fact I like animals better than I like most humans.

Here are some things that you do, people of the world, and it's why I don't like you one bit.

Have your two-year-old child record the answering machine message so that I have no idea if I've reached the right number, or if I've misdialed and got the main switchboard in Munchkinland.

Write Facebook status updates about Jersey Shore so that they show up on the news feed and I am subjected to your terrible taste, grammar, and spelling.

"im so addicted too that show, its a train wreak & i luv it. "teeshirt time" lmao."

"jersey shore all the way i havent missed a show since it started i love ya all"

"i love the jersy shore!!! that show make my night.. i love seeing vinny!!!"

I can't make that shit up. WHY DO I EVEN KNOW YOU?

Talk very loudly on your cell phone in the break room, using the word "like" every few seconds. Make me wonder how someone as vapid as you manages to breathe, and why I have the misfortune of being in the same space as you.

Stand on the escalator going down when there is not enough room for the twenty-or-so people piled up behind you to get by. How lazy do you have to be, anyways, to not move? You're going downstairs. That requires almost no energy.

Stop me on the street, try to talk to me about God and convert me to your religion. Assume that because I am an atheist I know nothing about the Bible. Then you try and convert me to your religion. That's not very polite. I am (to your face at least) respecting your ridiculous religious beliefs by not trying to convert you to atheism. Be nice and respect my stance and not bore with me with your jibber-jabber.

Expect that because I am an attractive girl in her 20s, travelling alone on a bus after dark, I must be single and want you to talk to me. I rarely want you, or anyone I don't know, to talk to me. I don't want to make small talk with you or listen to you talk about your band. I have a boyfriend and I'm not interested, hence the book and the iPod and the fact that I did not approach you. You're going to be chatty anyways, and ask for my phone number. I am going to have to tell you I have a boyfriend. Feeling like a bitch is going to be the only outcome out of many possible scenarios.

Particularly to dirty men of the world: feel me up on a crowded subway. Do it and I will kick you in the testicles.

Cancel Gilmore Girls. Cancel Firefly. Cancel Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. Cancel Veronica Mars. Keep Scrubs on the verge of being cancelled for years before, finally, cancelling it. Cancel Party Down. Cancel Freaks and Geeks. Keep shows like Gossip Girl, According to Jim, Two and a Half Men and 9021fucking0 on the air. My only consolation is that I don't pay for television.

Talk about how flu shots don't work, because a month after your flu shot you got a cold. Well, it's not called a cold shot is it, genius?

Have some kind of religious opposition to flu shots. And blood transfusion. And life-saving surgery.

Automatically assume that because I think I may not want children, it's because I fear I will be a bad mother. That is most certainly not the reason. It has more to do with the fact that there are 650 000 000 more people on the planet than we can support in a sustainable fashion and the idea that we have to have babies and replace ourselves to "keep the human race going" is just outlandish. But you go ahead and reproduce. You'll make an excellent mother by virtue of the fact that you think babies are just so gosh darned cute and worth all the trouble. Then you will proceed to spend the next 18 years whining about how hard it is, as if no one ever indicated this to you before. Of course by then I won't be taking your calls.


Hmm. Well. That was actually quite cathartic. I was feeling kind of down earlier, partly because I'm in a low mood, but also because I listen to CBC Radio 1 nearly every minute that I'm home, and being constantly inundated with bad news from all areas of the world can be a bit of a downer.

But this has really made things better between us, world. If only for a short time.

Loving Savagely

I would say I wish it were possible to make Dan Savage fall madly in love with me and marry me, but I know deep down that this would only make him miserable as he is gay and already married.

Also, I love S. and already intend to be married to him, eventually, when I get the rest of my life sorted out and something like marriage can actually become a priority instead of existing only as my mother's fantasy for me.

However, this doesn't stop me from practically worshipping Dan Savage. S. listens to his podcast, and I live for every Thursday when I can pick up my free copy of Now magazine at work, and read Savage Love during my break.

I love how he doesn't take shit from people, and how he can be alternately sympathetic or condemning. I enjoy it in particular when he shoots down someone who tries to rationalize their bad behaviour by blaming it on childhood baggage or a unpleasant relationship experience. I can always count on him to give a big 'fuck you' to social conservatives and hypocritical Christians.
(see: http://www.thestranger.com/seattle/SavageLove?oid=5135029)

I think part of the reason I derive so much pleasure from his harsh views towards religious beliefs criticizing extra-marital or even polyamorous sex and gay marriage (in particular gay marriage) is because even as a recovering Catholic I can't understand how some Christians can be so goddamned uptight.

I was raised in a Catholic household, attended a Catholic elementary school, and eventually went to a public high school where religion was not part of the curriculum, but where there was a Christian fellowship that I joined for the five years of my secondary school career. I had all the beginnings of a bigot.

Maybe the difference in my upbringing was that my mother (the only practising Catholic adult in our home; my dad is the son of a former, and now dead, United Church minister, and my dad is a strict believer in evolution and believes that the existence of any god is highly unlikely) has always been a very accepting person, as Christ always taught people to be. Case in point: she watched The Rocky Horror Picture Show with me when I was nine. She was a big fan of the movie when it came out in the seventies, and when it played on Much Music the year I was in grade four, I watched it with her.

Obviously I had some questions about the film, mainly, "Why is that man wearing ladies clothes?" It was a peculiarity I had not yet encountered in my young life, aside from attempting to dress my brother in one of my dresses and pretending he was my sister. She said, "Because he likes to." No further explanation, no statement about how it was something that not everyone likes to do, or that Tim Curry was somehow "different".

I took the whole thing very much in stride. And why not? Children gauge the reaction of the adults in their lives in order to come up with their own reaction. Had my mother not been a fan of Rocky Horror and lambasted Tim Curry, and the film, for being crazy gay, I likely would have felt the same way.

Likewise, I used to freak out if I heard the smoke detector go off in our house, but calmed down immediately upon discovering that my mom was completely unconcerned, only newly burnt pot of carrots sitting on the stove-top.

Having been raised Catholic, and having no issues with gays, anal sex, deviant sexual behaviour (very much enjoying my own frequent experiences with bisexual adventures), and thoroughly enjoying the movie Shortbus, I have very little patience for anyone who presents intolerance and a sense of religion-induced self-righteousness.

And reading Dan Savage's vicious attacks against anyone like that just makes my cynical little heart burst with glee and, I won't lie, a bit of girl cream.

Just writing about it almost makes me happy I don't live at home anymore. Except for the mild homesickness.

Whenever I go to my parents' house to visit (I refer to their house as "home home" because I still consider it to be my real home, even though S. and I have done a good job of making our apartment a new home for the two of us) I am filled with a weird type of homesickness. Even though I can be with my parents and my brother in the house where I grew up, I still have a sense of melancholy. What I am sad for is the way my house was when I lived there.

I miss the way my bedroom used to look, filled with all my clothes and books and CDs. Moreover, when I lived at home, things were cleaner. I regularly tidied up around the place, a habit I got into during high school.

Prior to my grade ten year, my mom was largely a stay-at-home mom. When I was in elementary school she did a lot of babysitting for neighbourhood kids; there were always tons of children in our house after school ended for the day. She also worked part-time at the school my brother and I attended; she was a playground and lunch monitor. The rest of time she did stuff at home: cooking, cleaning, laundry, etc.

When she went back to work when I was 15, she had no time for all of that household stuff. Consequently she took to coming home from work in time to cook dinner, and tended to be in a bad mood. Then she would scream at me and my brother for not helping out more around the house. She yelled at my dad too, but he 1) was used to not doing anything around the house because she coddled him for 16 years and 2) didn't see why he should have to clean the bathroom after work when he had college-level exams and labs to mark.

It so followed that I started doing all of the necessary cleaning in order to avoid having her scream at me and to keep the tension in our house at a bearable level.

For the next nine-or-so years, I did the brunt of the housework. The place stayed . . . manageable. Then I moved out.

Now the house rarely gets a good cleaning unless I am visiting. Irritatingly enough I will scrub down the kitchen when I visit, and then return a week later to find it just as messy as before.

Everything is even messier than before. The bathroom attached to my former bedroom is littered with dustings of tobacco and marijuana; my brother uses it as a drug den. He has never learned any housekeeping skills because my mother, or I, did everything for him. I don't think he's even made a proper bed in his life.

My mom is too depressed by work, and visiting my elderly grandfather every few days, to do more than come home from work and sleep for a few hours, get my dad to pick up Swiss Chalet and wine, and then drink herself into a stupor from half a bottle of wine and the alcohol she keeps hidden around the rest of the house. If she does cook dinner she watches t.v. or and goes back to sleep before my dad and brother have even finished eating. Sometimes my dad cleans up the
dinner dishes and cutlery but rarely any of the pots and pans, which sit congealing on the counter until I return home to clean.

I am the one with bipolar disorder, anxiety issues, and a mild case of OCD, and I am the most sane member of my family, the guard against dysfuntion.

Let me point out that my own apartment is relatively tidy. S. is fastidious about cleanliness, and I am almost as careful as he is, unless I am in a low mood, wherein I couldn't give a shit whether the place is clean.

Maybe that's how my mom feels all the time. But the thing is, she could easily hire a cleaning lady. But she won't. Know why? My mom doesn't like the idea of some outside person cleaning her house, because she feels that person won't do things right. Also, my mom has said repeatedly that if she had someone come in to clean for her, she (my mom) would have to clean everything first so that the cleaning person wouldn't think they are messy. ARGH!

Getting to the point.

The point is: when I go home I feel sad for the way things used to be when I was home. Tidier. More structured. I get ever get back to that point unless I were to move back home. If I'm homesick, I can't ever go home because that place doesn't really exist anymore.

Optimism is overrated.

It may sound disgustingly pessimistic to say that; however, I don't consider myself to be pessimistic, I think I merely have a realist outlook on life. I don't go for the glass-half-full or glass-half-empty nonsense.

In my mind, there's just a glass. As long as it's not smashed on the floor, things aren't as bad as they could get.

Here is my world-view that allows me to survive: always expect disappointment. When things turn out badly, as I always expect them to, I am never surprised and even get to have a sense of self-satisfaction out of knowing I was right.

If I expect disappointment, and things turn out well, I am pleasantly surprised and even cheerful, and feel for a fleeting moment as if this stupid world is really not a bad place, after all.

Life can be bad or good. Always expect disappointment.

I quote a line from a season one episode of Bored to Death. The one with the 16-year-old girl who says she is 21, Jim Jarmusch and the lost movie script, and the cut-to-the-chase psychotherapist (incidentally the father of the aforementioned jail bait) quoted below.

"Lives don't change, we simply become more comfortable with our core misery. Which is a form of happiness."

Thanks, doctor.

It's really not a theory I guess, or even a hypothesis. It's not as if I actually intend to prove or disprove anything.

I have a theory which I half-heartedly began forming in high school. It has nothing to do with cliques or social status; I can say now that it took me a bit of time to fit in, but high school for me was never the way it appeared in teen rom-com films. I didn't waste much time pondering why some people were popular and others were not. High school was never like that to begin with and I was never interested in, or envious of, what other people did or who their friends were. And aside from that, there was never a controlling, elite group of kids. I found it to be very live-and-let-live.

However, I have always been an observer of people, and there was one difference that always stood out between myself and others.

Or, to put it in a manner that makes me stand out a bit less than I intended to, there was a key difference between two groups of people. And myself being a member of one of those groups.

I have felt since then that those two types, that I first identified, continue to prevail.

There are people who have been well-molded to fit the world. I'm not sure what their parents did or taught them, or if they were schooled differently, but they seem to 1) always know what is happening and what needs to be done, and 2) are always able to easily go along with it.

Then there are people who are perpetually trying to fit into a mold they weren't made for. I always see it as a misshapen lump of bread that is trying to look like a proper loaf, except it can't because that's not the way it was made. And I am one of those people, who are continuously baffled by the world and all of its processes, and spend half their lives trying to get used to, and be comfortable in, such a non-sensical place. So consequently we end up being the ones who are called strange by everyone who is so much better adjusted.

However, I feel that despite this, we end up being the ones who are able to see the world better. Things can sometimes be so much clearer if you are outside looking in.

Although then you're still just outside of where you need to be to actually get along properly, so I'm not really sure who wins in this case.

A discrepancy

In Halifax, Nova Scotia, there have been reports of a man who creeps into women's homes in the dead of night, and watches them sleep.

Apparently this is a very, very awful thing.

However, I seem to remember a very popular, sparkly vampire who was guilty of similar night-time trangressions, and that his only real crime was making girls swoon.




Can you spot the real criminal?

It should be "shopping fiend" or "shopping addict", as "shopaholic" is technically an incorrect word; however, way more cutesy.

Please stand by for this moment of temporary, estrogen-induced, girly insanity:

OMG! There is a new Shopaholic novel!


(Cough.)


I mean . . . Grrrr, consumerism. Grrrrrrr.

This is not my brain on drugs, this is your brain on drugs

Here is something that is cool: synesthesia.

Having studied English literature, it is a term that came up a lot. Writers are forever mixing senses, sometimes to better describe a certain feeling or object.

Most people, when they hear the term synesthesia, think of people who can listen to music and "see" it as colours, or see shapes dancing in the air after hearing a particular sound. Or some such. Personification is another type, wherein a number or letter "behaves" a certain way.

Myself, I attribute personalities to letters and numbers (I had a particularly hard time in elementary school math; I didn't like adding 2 and 7 together because I knew they didn't get along because 2 is weepy and whiney, and 7 is assertive and can't stand that kind of thing). and taste words. Not all words; "the" doesn't taste like anything. Neither do other small words like "it", "a", "some", etc. Mostly it is people's names, or verbs or adjectives. The name Jesse tastes like water chestnuts. When I say, "Jesse", I can taste and almost feel, physically, the delicately crunchy and slightly sweet little water vegetable in my mouth.

I only realized a few months ago that this was a "thing", that it doesn't happen to everyone. I was listening to Ideas (at least I'm fairly certain it was Ideas) and there was a discussion about synesthesia. The host of the show was speaking to a woman who was describing the taste of certain words. She said that certain parts of long words (she used "multisyllabic" as an example of a long word that has different tastes for each syllable). As I was listening to this, I found it interesting but I didn't realize at first that she was describing something that is not particularly common. It felt really awesome to realize that my brain does something that most people's brains don't do. I suppose my brain already works a little differently that what is common, seeing as I have bipolar disorder. Somehow synesthesia is a way more enjoyable thing to think about. After listening to Ideas that day I googled "synesthesia" and learned more about it. That was when I realized the way I see numbers and letters is also a little out of the ordinary. I just always assumed everyone felt that they have distinct personalities.

I have made a point, since my discovery, to tell people what things taste like. Everyone likes to know what their name tastes like. Some things have a taste that it takes me some time to identify. For example, the name "Leigh" has a taste but I really had to think about it hard in order to figure out what I was tasting (it is the taste of chewing on a popsicle stick after the popsicle is all gone and there is no flavour left).

Some words have tastes or sensations that I think are very obvious. The word "Europe" tastes like maple syrup; the words sound similar, and I find this happens often, sometimes with strange results. The word "credit" tastes like nothing, really, but when I say the word I can feel something in my mouth like I am holding a debit or credit card between my teeth, and biting down.

The word "blog" tastes like plain, unsweetened yoghurt. Don't know why that is.

I think it is pretty nifty that my brain does this on its own, while some people only get to experience feelings like this if they are on really good drugs.

In other news

Oh yes.

Same girl.

Stieg Larsson's Millenium trilogy ("The Girl Who ..." novels) are apparently the best things to come out of Sweden since ABBA. I liked the first movie, and then read the first and second novels. It was all very intriguing. I decided to learn Swedish, since it sounds so much like English. So far it is not proving too difficult. I have read that it is easier to learn another language if you already speak more than one.
The best thing, though, to come out of Sweden is, in my opinion, Noomi Rapace. She plays the eponymous Girl, Lisbeth Salander, who has a skewed set of morals and doesn't take much shit from anybody. If she does take shit from you, then you'd best be running and hiding because she will either totally fuck you up, or just kill you.
The character is described as pansexual; so far I have enjoyed seeing Noomi Rapace (as Lisbeth Salander) seduce an older male journalist and writhe on the floor with another girl. Which totally turns me on. As a character who is a hacker with a vigilante mindset and no willingness to be seen as a victim, she has fulfilled my fantasies of strong women.
Also, I think Noomi Rapace is incredibly sexy. I love seeing her embody this character, who does things I wish I were able to do if I were as skilled with technology, and had such an extreme black/white good/evil all-or-nothing mindset.


Excuse me now while I find my lube and vibrator.

Mother dearest darling daughter

I am thinking about moms.

My friend J.'s mother died last Friday. Actually, J. is mostly S.'s friend, but he has become my friend through a process I like to think of as being similar to osmosis. I would say that he is my friend. I just always feel the need to clarify, as if I have to explain why on Earth another human being would be my associate.

I never met J.'s mom, not even when J. lived with S. in Waterloo (they and five other guys shared a house while they attended the same university). I have heard J. talking about his mother at least within the last four months, and always without being upset. His girlfriend explained that she had been sick for some time; I don't know how long -- I would never have known anything was wrong in J.'s life. He is a very happy person and I always found that to be a great (and enviable) quality.

I feel for J. because I do know how much it sucks to lose someone, although I do not know how much it sucks when that person is your mother. J. is 24, a year younger than me. He has siblings who are younger, and I feel for them because no one wants to lose a parent when they are still barely an adult. Before it's time for that sort of thing. Especially when that parent has barely hit middle age (I think I am correct when I say J.'s mother was not even in her 50s).

So I am thinking about my own mother right now, and poking around my current feelings about her. At the moment I feel guilty; J. no longer has a mother, and I do, and I am often irritated with her. Instead of cherishing my mom and being thankful, I get upset with her.

My mom is what my dad calls an intermittent alcoholic. I think he says that just to feel as if he has, in his mind, not yet condemned her to full-blown alcoholism. At home, at my parents' house, if you don't hide your alcohol, she will drink it. My dad is very creative in this aspect; he hides his rum above the basement ceiling. There is a hole in the ceiling (put there in order to do wiring or some-such) and it is covered with a white plastic square that pops into place and makes it look very tidy. And that is where he keeps his stash.

Of course, this does not mean that my mom does not buy her own alcohol. She hides beer around the house, or vodka. Occasionally I will stumble across an empty, hidden bottle. My dad and brother have a tendency to ignore this. They put the evidence in the recycling and no one ever mentions it. I used to do that as well, until I realized that does no good, and more or less got fed up. Nowadays I tend to deposit them on my mom's bed and ask her if she can please not leave empties just lying around the house. It's messy, I tell her. At least make sure to remove the proof of your secret drinking.

She drinks and she is not a merry drinker. My dad, my brother, and myself are all relatively happy when we drink. I had a spot of difficulty a few years back, before I was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder. I drank more since it made me feel more normal. Later I learned in hospital that this is called self-medicating. Prior to being medicated, I would drink and it would drastically alter my mood; I would either be very manic (which I thought was an improvement on my regular self) or severely depressed. It could be a bit of a toss-up and I wasn't in the state of mind where I even cared what happened. Now that I am balanced, I don't need to do this anymore and I can enjoy a glass of wine without downing the whole bottle in half an hour. I didn't know I was having a problem until it was pointed out to me.

My mom, though, she knows she has a problem. We've all talked to her about it. She acknowledges it herself; every so often she says she's trying to drink less. She'll say something like, "Oh, it makes me act a bit weird". A bit weird. Try ... ruining dad's birthday this spring, or not being able to do more than slur on the phone when I call you.

We had an incident the other day, my mother and I. She called my cell phone the other day while I was at work. On my break a few hours later, I gave her a call back. She was so wasted, she could barely keep up a normal conversation. I was in the midst of headaches and a lowered mood. She mentioned that she was feeling tired because she had taken an Ativan (also known as lorazepam; it's an anti-anxiety medication) and had a couple of beers later on. Every time she does this, she acts as though she's so surprised to be feeling so out of it, like Oh my goodness, whatever has come over me. Golly fucking gee. I had no patience for her and I didn't want to take the kind approach, so I said, "Yeah, well, you've done that before and passed out. You missed most of Christmas, remember?. Don't act so fucking surprised. It's not like you don't know the medication has that effect if you drink." She slurred, "Don't use that kind of language." I told her I'll behave well and use proper language once she gets her shit together. She started to tell me that she is having a bad day. I told her I didn't care and asked her to give me a call back when she wasn't drunk or passed out, "but oh wait, mom, that might be never!"

Here is are my issues with this:
1. Being soft about things won't get you anywhere. But apparently, tough love doesn't help either. So I go back and forth between trying to be understanding, or just telling it like it is and letting my disappointment show.
2. My mom frequently says that she is depressed, and tired. I tell her to go see a doctor or psychologist. I offer to call Dr. F. and set up an appointment for myself and my mom. I tell her she should have her iron levels checked (she and I both have a tendency towards anemia), and that since she is taking blood pressure medication, she should not drink so much, if at all. My mom says yes, those are all good things. Then she doesn't take any steps at all to fix her problems. But she continues to complain about the same shit over and over and expects me to just listen to it and then say, "Poor you," and pass the vodka.
3. I've read several articles on families and friends and their relationships with alcoholics. Apparently she is not the one to blame, it is us, for being enablers or what-not. I can understand where this is coming from; I'm sometimes not nice to my mom when she drinks and I see how this can turn me into a reason for her to drink. BUT. Being nice to her makes no difference. She knows there is a problem and will not resolve it. We can't force her to get help, and she seems to want help but isn't doing a single thing about it.
4. As for trying to get her some help, I have talked to my psychologist, Dr. F., and she has given me some advice but the situation is still no better. Basically, my mom has to hit rock bottom before she will see that she needs help. I am afraid that she is going to die before that will happen. She has very high blood pressure, and it is always creeping higher because she is overweight. And gaining even more weight. She never exercises because she is too tired. She has a stressful job. She drinks heavily. (She would probably not be so tired if she didn't drink so much, and then she would be able to exercise, and then she would be less stressed, and her blood pressure would go down. I see it, the solution is simple. Getting my mother to that point is not simple). And she comes from a long line (on the maternal side) of alcoholics who can't drive and have heart problems and mental illness, who either kill themselves, go into cardiac arrest, or crash their cars.
5. I often feel like her behaviour is some kind of convoluted punishment for my leaving home and moving in with S. These episodes have increased tremendously in the two years since I've moved out. When I stayed at home recently (due to the fridge incident), my mother became much more normal than she has been in that last few months. She often asks me (usually in jest), "How could you leave me with your dad and brother?" I usually joke right back and tell her that S. and I will move into the house with her, and my dad and brother can have the apartment. In the end we always decide that wouldn't be good idea because dad and C. would try and kill each other. Or starve to death. When my mom is drunk while trying to pretend to be sober, and not asking that question in jest, I then reply by saying something like, "You moved out of your parents' home, too, you know. You left Nanny with Grampy and your two brothers, and she managed without you." My mom will then accept this, but continue to nag me. We typically end with her saying, "It would be better if you stayed here more often, why did you have to leave me?" and me responding, "Gee, mom, I get home and you just keep reminding me why I left in the first place."

Since I was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder and began devouring books on the subject, I find more and more that my mother displays much of the classic behaviour. I point these things out to her and she generally dismisses them, or says, "Oh. Aunt (so-and-so) was like that."
Her mood can change in the blink of an eye. During the course of a dinnertime discussion, she can go from bubbly and laughing, to crying and shouting. Sometimes she is irrational. She will have periods when she doesn't drink, or at least displays perfect moderation. This is when she is my lovely mother again. The next day she might be screaming at my dad for not tidying up the house while she is at work (my father is newly retired), and going on and on about how she has to do everything AROUND HERE and she is sick and tired of this and that and blah blah blah, and then pouring herself a big glass of wine while my dad says, calmly, "Maybe you shouldn't have so much to drink," and she says, "You do whatever you want to, why can't I have a drink if that's what I feel like?" My dad sometimes says, "T., sometimes you can be a little unpleasant if you have too much to drink." From time to time she accepts this, but mostly she just blows up at him again. I've heard her rants so many times before, she and I could do a lip-synching act.
When I was in high school I started making a huge effort to keep the house clean, and do whatever she needed, so that my mother would have fewer things to yell about. I didn't want her screaming at my dad or my brother in the background whenever a friend or a boy would call. I never even brought my first high school boyfriend home because I was terrified of having to explain my mother's behaviour if she suddenly began lashing out.
She is alternately delightful and terrifying, occasionally bewildering. When I am visiting home things do tend to be better; my father and brother and I are skilled at navigating the mine-field of her behaviour together. But I can't be home with my parents and brother all the time. I have my own life. I want to sleep in my own bed with S., I want to live in the apartment that I pay rent for.
My mom and I do have good times together. When we are enjoying each others company and going out shopping or for dinner, it's as if we push all that unpleasantness aside for the sake of a nice evening. We talk and laugh and confide and occasionally discuss her issues, but nothing is ever fixed. She and I become this temporarily normal mother-and-daughter team. There is this illusion, and I always want to believe that it's for real, and she's going to be better from now on, and that this, right here, is the start of things being good, for everyone, finally.

But then it always goes back to the way it really is. And the way it continues to be. She and I will talk (if she is able to talk) tomorrow, or the next day, and it will be one of those above-mentioned conversations, either pleasant or not. She will act as if she wants to move forward, I will be supportive as if we haven't been over this a million times before. Then I will wait for whatever: for her to be ready someday, for her to die, for her to finally hit rock bottom and have no other choice but to finally listen to us.

It would be like saying Neil Gaiman is my personal Jesus. Which he isn't. And being Jewish, he might not like it if he were.

During soccer fever, I happened to be at work sitting next to two co-workers who were discussing the fact that soccer is like a religion, and die-hard fans will often go to great lengths to avenge their team. One co-worker cited, for example, instances where referees have been tracked down and murdered. The other person, she mentioned that she lives in a neighbourhood with a very large, soccer-crazy Portuguese population, and that during the last World Cup matches, someone was killed outside of a bar after a soccer-related dispute (I guess he didn't die-hard, hahaha ... don't worry, I already know I'm a horrible person).

When she said this, I gave a snort of derision, and seconds later the two of them had poked their heads over the top of my cubicle and were asking what I thought was so funny. I said that disputes over soccer, disputes that lead to death, are ridiculous. And it really is, I just can't take it seriously. I mean, I know that someone died. At the hands of another person. But ... over soccer. I can't wrap my head around it.

One co-worker, a man, said that it's not ridiculous at all. He explained that millions of people are very passionate about soccer, all over the world. I said, "That doesn't make it any less contemptible that people go around fighting to the death, and believe me sir, much contempt is what I have plenty of."
In real life, outside of this blog, I hardly ever speak my mind to anyone. Except for maybe S., my friend G., my brother, and my friend H. Occasionally my parents, if it happens to be a bit of my mind that I want to share with them. So in this situation, as I was talking to my co-worker, I was turning red and starting to shake a bit. I can argue; I can yell, debate, scoff at a poorly constructed rebuttal ... it just affects me very much in a physical way, because I am actually a very private person and not used to sharing my thoughts in such an unedited fashion, especially with co-working strangers.

He said that I can't possibly understand what I'm saying. He told me that soccer players are regarded as gods, and that leads people to become very passionate and start riots or commit murders. This just seemed to me that he was making things even more contemptible, and so I retorted, "Well, I'm passionate about books, but I don't go setting cars on fire and rioting, or popping caps in peoples asses when I don't like a plot twist. Passion is not an excuse for anything. Except maybe in France." ( Okay, so imagine that with some stutters and what-not ) He started to say something about, well, I don't know ... I wasn't really paying attention at this point because it was soccer related, and I can't be expected to pay attention for that long. I cut him off and said, "And don't even get me started on religion!" With that, I snapped my headset back on and I haven't said a word about it since. The two co-workers (well, the man really ... there was a woman but she didn't say much) haven't brought it up since, probably because they know I'm right, and probably because soccer is now finished. Hoorah!

I realize the irony in the fact that I don't care much for soccer, yet I have devoted two blog entries to discussing it. If I were a homophobe discussing how much I hate gay people, then that would definitely point to my having, perhaps, some latent homosexuality. However, it is not so much the case with soccer, and dislike of sports in general. If you hate it, you hate it.


Also, speaking of it -- I don't have any latent homosexuality. I am completely bisexual, and fully acknowledge and realize (on a regular basis, with S. as my partner in crime) that I love to eat pussy.


No, I don't mean going to the sketchy Chinese food place down the street to get a fix for my cat meat craving.





I mean vaginas.

Eeek! Sports.

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Adventures in serotonin

I am having one of those days. I could tell it was coming after a headache last night; it felt like a migraine but I could tell it wasn't. Things often seem to change after a particularly bad one, which I've read is rather common.
It went away last night but came back today and now everything just seems to be getting worse. What makes it even more difficult is that my usual defences against mood change aren't working today. A lot of the time I can make myself feel better by thinking about all the horribly shitty things in the world. Or, at least, I can make myself feel insignificant, which makes my depression seem inconsequential in comparison to what happens in the rest of the world. And then I can do something like walk down St. Clair and give change to every truly unlucky bastard I meet and not even think about the fact that they might spend it on alcohol or drugs. S. would argue that doesn't help anyone. He may have a point, but if I want to be entirely selfish I can say that it at least helps me to feel better. And to whoever I'm passing by who has their hand outstretched or a hat resting in front of where they're sitting, at least I stopped to talk to them and smile (even if I don't feel like smiling) and give them whatever I can (which is not a lot, considering my finances are rather pitiful, now and always). That has to be better than just being ignored, and having someone assume that you're a drunk or deranged or lazy.
Today, though, none of my attempts are working. I just want to make my feelings unimportant and I can't seem to do that. All I want to do is die, and I would take myself up on that offer if I didn't have to think about my mom, my dad, my brother, S., and various other people who seem to enjoy my existance.
It really pisses me off, too, that I feel like this. I had such a great week. Stayed with my parents (which made me a bit homesick at first, but I was there long enough that I remembered why I was happy to leave, too), went to a fantastic wedding (my cousin was married at the RCYC which was followed by brunch the next day), spent a great evening at Heather's, cooking, drinking, and watching Scarface ... So my feelings towards all of this are summed up by saying, "What the fuck?"
I mean, I know why, it's just frustrating that I can't do anything about it. I took a bath. I listened to happy music. I thought about all the best things, like the bike trip S. and I went on before we were together, and when I looked back at him riding behind me and smiling and I knew it was inevitable that we would end up with each other. Or this one summer at our family cottage when a group of us took a trip to visit the monastery at the other end of the lake. We drove there and back in my aunt's huge van, with my mom and my cousins and my aunt and our cottage neighbour Lee. For some reason or other we all started singing these stupid camping songs, and halfway through there was more laughing than there was singing. Even typing that now, though, is not working to make me feel better. Right now I feel like the only thing that will make it better is to crawl into bed and just sleep my current self away.

All aboard

Listening to late night Q107 and on comes some Ozzy Osbourne. I like Black Sabbath, but I am not an Ozzy fan. I find him trite, as a person. I am told this is a bit of a contradiction, and that a person can't like Black Sabbath without liking Ozzy Osbourne, because he is Black Sabbath. I appreciate him, musically. That is the extent of it. I often get the sense that he's really making an effort to be exceptionally insane, and I can't abide that. It's like emo kids, and pseudo-intellectual textbook psychology angst. I can tell they're working hard at it. Also, I had to endure the popularity of his reality t.v. show, which in turn spawned a talk show for his wife, and resulted in his children making the tour of various sitcom guest spots and hosting on S.N.L. I can't forgive him for that.

The song on the radio was Crazy Train, which always makes me think of the Pink Floyd song Have a Cigar, which is recognizable for it's lyrics, "riding the gravy train".

I think that would be the best kind of train to have go off the rails. There'd be gravy everywhere, and it would be a bit of a mess, but oh! it's the most delicious mess there ever could be, and could be easily cleaned up by an army of dogs and turkey enthusiasts.

This is what happens when S. and I are apart and I am left to my own devices. I should be sleeping (S. is such a normal person that he keeps me on a regular sleeping schedule but he has gone back to the apartment to await the arrival of our new fridge tomorrow) but am instead imagining the mash-up of a crazy gravy train going off the rails. Goddamnit I'm hungry. It'll be a good four months until Thanksgiving with turkey and gravy. It's not something that can be whipped up in the middle of the night.

You saw it here, first. Remember.

The other day I realized that a person can be amused and a person can be bemused.

I said to S., there must be a cemused, which could perhaps be something in between the first two.

S. said, "It's not in between, it comes after. The letter C comes after A and B." I told him that language does not follow that kind of logic. It's higgledy-piggledy and meant to be played with. I get a lot of amusement out of language (but not cemusement). Amusement and bemusement sound similar but have two very different meanings. And since I invented cemusement I get to pick what the word means. I think of it as the "Option C" of musement.

To be amused (an adjective) one is: "pleasurably entertained, occupied, or diverted". A person "displays amusement" when they are amused. Amusement can be created by making people laugh, for example, with a joke.

To be bemused (an adjective) one is: "bewildered or confused", "lost in thought or preoccupied".

Whether you are amused or bemused, you are caught up in the thought of something. Either it is a fun thought, or perhaps a perplexing one. No matter what you are thinking in either situation, you are not indifferent to whatever is causing you to feel amused or bemused.

Therefore I propose that "cemused" be a glorified word to mean "meh". A person could encounter something that could possibly arouse amusement, or bemusement, but instead a person experiences indifference, or cemusement.

It's kind of like the word whelmed, which I first heard in the movie Ten Things I Hate About You. The character Bianca (Larisa Oleynik) is talking with her friend Chastity (Gabrielle Union), who says, "I know you can be overwhelmed, and you can be underwhelmed, but can you ever just be whelmed?" Bianca responds, "I think you can in Europe."

A person can just be whelmed; it's in the dictionary. It means "to submerge; engulf" or "to roll or surge over something, as in becoming submerged". Still, though, it's in between underwhelmed and overwhelmed, both of which are very solid feelings. I think of whelmed as being a "meh". Underwhelmed, well, that's very "meh".

Word games!

I need to go and be cemused at work.

Here comes the sun

I was not made for heat.

Toronto is sweltering under a heat wave, and twice in the last few days I have found myself being sucker punched by heat exhaustion. The first time it happened I was taken by surprise; I thought I had balanced sunblock, shade and hydration with the amount of sun I was getting while taking in Pride events on Church Street. At the end of the day I was tired, irritable, dizzy, barely able to lift my backpack, and headache-y.

The second time I was just stupid: I ventured out for the Pride parade, armed with more sunblock, water, and an umbrella. The happiest of parades, however, just would not end and after more than two hours I found myself swaying into S.'s arms and then later vomiting on my way home. I called in sick to work, stood under a cold shower for ten minutes, and crawled into bed to sleep away my headache.

Winter weather never makes me feel this shitty.

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that all of my ancestors came from climates that are not well-known for being toasty (I'm largely of Irish, Ukrainian, and Russian Tatar descent, as well as some Scottish, English, French all on my dad's side, and a sliver of Spanish on my grandfather's paternal side). My mother (who is the product of a mostly Irish father and a Ukrainian / Russian Tatar mother) has the build of a sturdy Eastern European peasant who could spit out babies with ease while grinding flour or some such. We don't look very much alike, except perhaps in the face. She is short and curvy, with a wide jaw and a mouth filled with beautiful white teeth that have always reminded me of Chiclets. Her arms and legs are thick and muscular. I am taller, narrower, with dark brown hair and white skin that freckles and burns, but doesn't tan. I mostly resemble my father, who is an ageing hippie and retired computer sciences professor with a WASP-y upbringing. We share the same thin arms and legs, small jaw and crowded teeth (although mine have been improved by orthodontia), papery white skin, and dark hair, although his has greyed substantially. He does not fare well in the sun, either. The top of his head becomes pink at the slightest ray of sun and he will burn and peel if he's not careful.

My mother, though, she tans beautifully in the summer, says that she was built for working in the fields under the sun, and that I was made for sitting in a dark house, looking pale, and mastering embroidery. I do two of those things exceptionally well. I don't tan, I burn, and I generally prefer to avoid the sun and stay indoors. More than anything, I appreciate Canada for it's temperate climate. I love experiencing four seasons, and I love winter more than any other. I love snow, I love wool coats and scarves, I love being cold and then getting home and warming up with a mug of hot chocolate and a fleecy blanket. There are some nice things about summer (ie. flowers, the ice cream truck, having sex outdoors, excellent thunderstorms, and visiting our family cottage) but by and large I find myself tolerating summer until cooler weather begins to make an appearance in August.

Now, though, it is so hot in Toronto that everyone (who previously loved summer and called me crazy for my life-long love of wintertime) is crying about the heat. I just want to point out that I was saying I dislike hot weather waaaay before all of y'all.

The fact that the power went out this afternoon only made things worse. People are cranky in general, I've found, and if you take away their air-conditioning they become downright unreasonable. Facebook and Twitter exploded with complaints about the incredibly high temperatures and the sudden lack of air-conditioning; an explosion at a transformer station on Kipling in Toronto's west-end (much closer to where my parents live than to where I live) leaves everyone wondering who to blame for incompetence, negligence, etc. and so on ad nauseum. I hope beyond all hope that the explosion was caused by an overload on the system. I am always delighted by situations where people seeking to lay blame find that they are the ones at fault.

As for me, I am hiding out in my old room in my parents's (finished) basement, where the sun barely peeks in through the windows at any time of the day, and where it is always cool in the summer and warm in the winter. When I lived at home it was an oasis of calm for me, always cool and quiet, giving me the feeling that I am cut off from the rest of the world. I could always hide out here, away from my mom's moods or my father's preaching about whatever aspect of my life he feels could benefit from improvement.

Down here it is almost chilly. I think of the thick basement walls blocking out all that steamy, stinky city air, and I really see no reason to go outside anytime soon.

Fridges and frigging

I am currently enjoying the luxuries of, once again, living in my parents's house. At least for the next few days.

As I mentioned in my last post, S. destroyed our fridge, and now we are waiting for our property managers to install a new one. In the past, whenever we've had a problem in our building, it has been fixed promptly. Although this time, the problem wasn't created through some kind of malfunction. So perhaps the fact that we won't be getting a new fridge put in until Monday is a sign of their disgruntled sentiments towards my chisel-wielding boyfriend.

Until we get a new fridge we have little to no food. I moved all the contents of our fridge and freezer to my parents's house so nothing would get spoiled. The only problem is that all that food still needs to be eaten. S. destroyed the fridge on Monday. I did a big grocery shop on Saturday, and bought things like ham for sandwiches, yoghurt, milk, tomatoes, baby spinach . . . All tasty things whose expiry dates are coming up soon.

S. suggested that I spend a couple of days with my parents, and I thought this seemed an excellent idea. S. may visit his parents, or stay with me. Personally I'd prefer if he stayed with me because then I wouldn't have to miss out on our sleeping together (S. is a fantastic sleeping partner. He seldom snores, he never overheats or does a tuck-n-roll, and he is a snuggle fiend. My only complaint is that he tends to crowd me, ie. I will be at the edge of the mattress and he will be pressed against me, with what looks like miles of bed on the other side of him). I love to have a bed partner. S. and I have been sharing a bed for so long that it just feels so strange to sleep by myself.

At the moment, though, S. is still at the apartment. He came home after work to find that I wasn't there, and only then did he check his voicemail to hear that I wouldn't be home. His parents are away at their cottage, so he'd have to check with them first to see if he could stay at their place. I said he's always welcome to stay with me, and he said that he'll sort things out tomorrow, but for now he'd just prefer to stay in the apartment, since it was late (after midnight) and he was already there. A worthy argument.

And then he told me to make him promise he won't stay up until 6:00am masturbating. I said that's ridiculous, and made him promise to be in bed by 4:00am.

S. has a bit of a porn addiction. We both enjoy porn (I actually don't know any girls that enjoy porn as much as I do, especially the work of Sasha Grey. The girl really loves sex and just gives it her all, you've got to admire that) but only one of us spends a ridiculous amount of time jacking off. I have always been a quiet and efficient masturbator. My feelings are that I want to come, and I'm going to do it as quickly as possible, and be on my way. This is the main reason that I love sex toys.

Brilliant!

Rarely do I set aside time to really fuck myself. If I'm going to take a long time to get off, I might as well be having sex. After all, isn't that what sex toys are supposed to be replacing?

Well, actually, I guess sex toys are filling in for the absence of good sex, whether temporary or ongoing. Also, there are things a vibrator can do for you that is not possible with a man (or woman; I like those, too). Conversely, there are things a man can do that a vibrator can't (for instance, tonguing).

While S. is masturbating tonight, I won't be. Part of the reason he has to is because I have chronic pelvic pain, and this makes it difficult to want to have sex. And gosh darn it, S. loves me and won't have sex with me if he knows I'm hurting. He doesn't even ask for oral sex or hand jobs as a replacement and, to be honest, who can work up the enthusiasm to suck cock if they are cramping horribly when it's not even that time of the month. So as it stands, it has been a few days since I've been able to (enjoyably) have sex. And to give an idea of just how bad things are, even if I were pain-free and horny, and masturbated without penetration and came, orgasms themselves are immediately followed by pain. It's a rare case indeed that any kind of sexual encounter can go by without some kind of pain.

I feel bad about this a lot of the time, especially because of how things were when S. and I were first together. We were both 20 and I was insatiable. Pain came occasionally but never lasted long, and I was never bothered about it. As for what causes it, all the doctors I've been to are saying endometriosis, which is this.

If S. wants to stay awake until 4:00am watching internet porn and masturbating, I have to say he's earned it. And if he wants to be tired but satisfied and sleep in until 1 o'clock, more power to him, I suppose.