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.

Keep on rocking in the freon world

S. busted our refridgerator today.

The building that we live in is kind of old (as old as a place can be in Toronto; for reference, my parents's house, which qualifies as "old", was built in the 1920s) and the fridge has probably been here since the first tenants phased out their ice-box.

It's so old that it doesn't defrost itself, and so every now and then we need to defrost. This is a largely unpleasant task, especially since our freezer is always full and an opportunity doesn't present itself until we realize that it's not possible to actually fit anything in the freezer anymore.

I decided the other night that I would defrost the freezer. I removed a significant amount of the ice, but there was still a large amount of ice clinging to one side of the freezer, and to the underside. It even seemed to have developed more ice since just a few days ago.

Last night, S. had the idea of chipping at the ice with a screwdriver and hammer, as if he were creating an ice sculpture. Because it was very late in the evening and not the best time to be defrosting a freezer, I suggested that he continue the next day.

The next day came, which is, of course, today. This afternoon, before he had to leave for work, S. decided to complete the task, and so he began chiseling with glee while I washed some dishes.

Chunks and chips of ice were flying every which way. And then, an "uh-oh".

Before I explain the next part (although anyone could guess what happened), I need to explain something about S. He is not a careful person. He is forever knocking things over, most notably a few years back when he managed to splash my glass of red wine all over his parents's $3000 custom-made white-and-green-and-rose carpet, and myself as well. The reason he did this? He was making a dramatic sweeping gesture which his arms. In that situation, he freaked out, while I calmly fetched a box of salt from the kitchen and began pouring it over the splotches of wine (salt absorbs wine, and makes a spill much easier to clean). I told S. that we would, the next day, borrow my parents's carpet cleaner vaccuum-dealie, and it would all be looked after.

That's not the only example I can offer. There are many. Just last weekend, at a party, S. knocked his elbow against my beer bottle against my teeth and lip because he was making an enthusiastic arm gesture far too close to me for comfort.

I'm not sure if he's clumsy as much as he is not careful. In the situation with the fridge, he was not being at all careful, and punctured a tube containing freon. And of course that tube blasted freon into his face (fortunately freon is only harmful if one is very over-exposed, and S. had none of the symptoms of overexposure, which includes dizziness, itchy eyes, headache, and cardiac arrythmia (or possibly arrest).

He freaked out and I was mad, not only because I knew he wasn't being careful, but because he had caused a problem, which I would have to deal with because he had to leave for work soon.

At S.'s behest, I called my father to see if the situation was fixable. I knew it wouldn't be, and my father confirmed this. He said it would be likely that our fridge would have to be replaced. But we both agreed that, in the long run, this would result in a more pleasant fridge situation: modern fridges defrost themselves, and suck up much less power.

The next problem was what to do with the food in the fridge and freezer. I just loaded up on groceries a few days ago and did not want anything spoiling. The fridge had to be turned off so that it would stop blasting freon into the apartment.

I called my parents's house to see if I could store my food in their fridge and freezer, and my brother came over to pick up myself and my food. S. went to work, and I had a moment where I yelled and said, "Who's going to have to look after this?!" but he was feeling so bad about himself that I couldn't be mad at him for long.

Later in the day I visited our landlord to determine what should happen now. She said that the fridge would have to be replaced, and that we would have to cover the cost (I didn't bother lying to her and saying that the fridge broke on it's own, because if she were to check the freezer herself she would see the hole that S. created with his chisel).

S. makes more money than me, and I feel that if our fridge needs to be replaced, he should be the one to pay for it. Not only because it would remove a significant chunk of my income for the month, but also because he was the one who wasn't being careful. When I was trying to defrost, I used a hair-dryer, not a fucking chisel and hammer.

I have at least ascertained that a refridgerator can be obtained at a relatively inexpensive cost, in terms of how expensive appliances can be.

The only downside in this situation, for me at least, is that I will have to listen to S. bitch about money for the next month.

Also, I have nothing to eat tonight. Must forage.

If you saw a Pomeranian would you cry wolf?

Hello little protester (or possible tourist, but more likely protester). I'm led to understand that many of the more violent activities taking place in my fair city have been caused by a relatively small and militant group of anarchists.

I am also led to understand that many of you who are from Toronto believe that you are now living in a police state.

If you have the opportunity to take a photo of riot police to post on your MySpace and give yourself, I don't know, some kind of activist cred, and nobody beats you for doing so, you are not living in a police state. Talk to someone who survived Germany in the late 1930s and 1940s.

For those of you claiming "police brutality" because they've pelted you with rubber bullets, I invite you to view the following video. Unless your reality is something akin to this, you are in no situation to claim you are a victim.

But I don't really need anymore underwear, that's the sad part

This is Little Miss Higgins, and is she not super cute?


In my earlier post I mentioned my love of blues music, and my penchant for listening to Saturday Night Blues on CBC Radio 1, hosted by Holger Petersen. Two weeks ago, I was in my dad's car with him and my brother. My dad was playing taxi, and dropping C. (my brother) off at a party, and also returning me to my apartment from home base, which is how I refer to my parents's house. We were zipping along Dundas Street West when Holger introduced Little Miss Higgins as the next feature, spoke about her newest album, and played a track that was absolutely delightful. My dad loved it and couldn't stop laughing, my brother started filling in the chorus, and I was thinking, Why have I not heard of this person? Of course there are probably thousands of artists who impress upon a person immediately, that I have never heard of.

And so since two weeks ago I've been after anything of Little Miss Higgins's that I can listen to.
Nothing yet has beaten my first experience of her music (I find this a common phenomenon; if something I've never heard before really catches my attention, it sticks with me. A good example of this is Terrible Lie by Nine Inch Nails, off of Pretty Hate Machine. The first NIN song I ever heard and it remains my favourite because it struck me so much). And that song is Bargain! Shop Panties. It's got this bluesy, vaudeville-ian feel to it, and then it almost conjures these images of a raunchy burlesque show. It's fantastic. Every time I hear it I want to raid Honest Ed's down the street (the only place I can think of that would qualify as a true bargain shop) and buy myself some panties and bounce around my apartment in nothing but undies and a white t-shirt with no bra, doing a little bump and grind. If I am feeling relatively inebriated, there will be pictures to follow.

There aren't really any good YouTube videos featuring Bargain! Shop Panties but this link to her MySpace Music page should work, I hope. Bargain! Shop Panties (Radio Edit) by Little Miss Higgins

Another good track to check out would be Glad Your Whiskey Fits Inside My Purse, and a visit to littlemisshiggins.com doesn't hurt.

I got the blues interrupted blues

If I happen to be home on a Saturday night I liked to listen to 1) Randy Bachmann's Vinyl Tap, and 2) Saturday Night Blues with Holger Petersen. A lot of the time, I prefer a quiet evening at home if the alternative is a noisy night out. I'm particularly enjoying it at the moment, because I'm reminded of last weekend, when we held S.'s birthday party in our relatively small apartment that doesn't have air-conditioning. I don't mind this horribly, but when the place was packed with warm bodies complaining about the heat, I really wanted some air-conditioning.

So this quiet evening is rather pleasant. S.is at work for the evening, and I've been puttering around, watering my plants and nipping out for groceries, and behaving in a manner that feels very old for someone 25 years of age. At least, it feels old in a Saturday night kind of way. It also feels comforting.

At the moment I'm tackling my freezer. We have an older fridge that does not defrost itself. And so every so often the frost situation gets so bad that it's no longer possible to buy frozen food because it won't even fit. Also, the door stops closing entirely.

Things like this, defrosting freezers and cleaning bathtubs and toilets - all of those things that are necessary to keep your home clean and running efficiently I can't believe how much I sound like a woman from a 1950s detergent commercial aaaahhh - can be made so much more pleasant if one has some nice tunes to go along with it. I often like to have upbeat music, something electro-poppy like MGMT or Le Tigre. Just to keep me going strong.

But tonight is Saturday night, and the blues are on the radio, and I love it. The blues was one of my first loves, musically. My parents raised me on Raffi and Eric Neglar, and then once we grew out of kiddie music, it was a choice between country music in the car with my mom, and blues in the car with my dad. I won't lie; when I was about 11 I went through a big country music phase. I had a Shania Twain poster and everything.

I also loved the blues, and my dad always talked about this or that show he had been to at the El Mocambo in 1960-whatever. I'm not great with the who's-who of the blues world, but I know what I like, and almost all of it appeals to me.

After I had my 19 birthday, and could legally drink, my dad and I would regularly stop in at Grossman's Tavern (Toronto's Home of the Blues, located at Spadina Avenue and Cecil Street, in downtown Toronto, near Kensington Market) to catch a set, and often to see our neighbour play the drums in his band.

So when I am at home on a Saturday night, it is always the blues. However, this is a Saturday night during the G20 summit, and Holger Petersen is regularly being cut off for updates, which are really a re-hash of breaking news from earlier today. It really gets my goat. I like the news, I have the radio on almost all the time when I'm home. I like hearing what's going on in the world. I particularly like CBC because they give me the serious news, and then of course you get shows like As It Happens, which will interview someone who managed to grow a really big cabbage.

But, damn it, these are my fucking blues, man. I'm relaxing and I don't need to hear about ignorant protesters who believe that they aren't the violent people in these situations because they aren't the ones wearing riot gear. "We don't have guns, they do!" some guy said in a sound bite. No, no, you're just throwing bricks and Molotov cocktails, a perfectly innocent bit of activity for a bit of romp around town. I'm sure someone in Thailand would gladly kick your ass for willingly creating a hostile atmosphere in an otherwise stable part of the world.

If there is one upside to regular news updates, it's that the journalists who have been reporting from the streets are managing to speak to what sounds like the least intelligent selection of individuals I have heard on the radio in quite some time.

Rocking the fake lake

The very moderate earthquake we had here in Toronto last week creating some news on the radio that was a welcome change from discussions about the G20 summits.

It was the fake lake that seemed to set people off the most, and the dislike towards security fences and the money being spent. Amidst all of this, I heard little to no discussion about just what this particular G20 summit is hoping to accomplish, and I'm almost of the opinion that all of these last-minute "issues" arose as a means to create a smoke screen for the public, so that they would feel indignant towards 1) the amount of money that was spent and 2) the inconvenience, for them, personally, created by the summits. And, in that, pay less attention to the point of the summits themselves, and the fact that little is ever solved or agreed upon during these meetings. If anything, our world's leaders come out and say that they will "try" to combat climate change, and "try" to improve economies, etc.

In response to that, the words of Yoda: "No. Try not. Do . . . or do not. There is no try."

As to that earthquake, !fuck-a-monkey! did people ever over-freak out about that. All over Facebook, "OMG...quake! Run for it!" I can safely say that most of the people on my friends list would have little to no idea of what to do if they were hit by an earthquake with a magnitude of more than 5.0. The kind of earthquake we felt can rattle one's dishes, and cause minor damage to very poorly constructed buildings. Fortunately here in Canada we have construction codes. After this earth -- it wasn't even a shake, so from here-on-in I will refer to it as an earthshimmy, similar to what a girl does when she's trying to get into an tight outfit and has to rearrange her boobs. She shimmies. And the earth did something similar that day.

After the earthshimmy, all afternoon, it was the "breaking news" at the top of every hour on CBC. At first it was a welcome break from discussion about soccer and the G20. And then I got more and more irritated, as they went live to people all over Ontario who had felt really shimmied.

When I was a young girl, I developed fears about horrible things happening, like fires, tornadoes, black holes sucking up Earth, floods, hurricanes, and (proper) earthquakes. My dad was very good at alleviating these fears, because he would sit me down and go over everything logically. He wouldn't just say, "It will all be alright because mummy and daddy are here." No, the man would explain the shit out of things. My dad would explain to me how a fire alarm works, and show me how even the tiniest bit of smoke could be detected. He showed me how the solar system works, and told me there are no black holes anywhere near us, and then we read, together, about how the nearest black hole is very very far away.

As for earthquakes, we got out the atlas, and my dad taught me about tectonic plates. He showed me where the world's biggest fault lines are, the ones that cause real devastation. He explained why his cousin Heather, who lives in California, knows a lot about earthquakes, because where she lives, a person must always be prepared for an earthquake.

And most importantly, he showed me where we live, where there are no fault lines and that we are situated on a very large plate, and that there are very ancient left-over fault lines from millions of years ago, but there is nothing that can do significant damage, at least not for another few million years.

So I got the sense that anyone who is making a big deal out of it just wants to turn it into something that affects them personally. If there is an earthshimmy, who doesn't want to say, "OMG my bed was shaking so bad and one of my dishes almost broke and I think maybe there might be a tiny crack in it! Sooooo scary!" Yes, yes, it's not nearly as scary as your house being swallowed whole.

If you're able to go on Facebook and update about your earthshimmy, you're going to be perfectly safe.

Get your gas masks out, boys and girls

This weekend, the city where I live is hosting the G20 summit. And as such I'm staying indoors, listening to the radio, and hearing what is happening in the downtown area.

I support activism and peaceful protest, I have been involved in peaceful protests, but I can't sympathize with the people who are creating the violence that has taken over downtown.

I can't understand how people will expect others to listen and be aware of their cause when they are responsible for disruption and vandalism. A person trapped in their car during a traffic jam that is the result of a protest is not going to have sympathy. A peaceful protest rarely results in a difference being made; how will these actions do anything more than incite anger? Violence and oppression occur around the world everyday; I fail to see the logic behind a chaotic protest by people who want to spread messages of peace, justice, and equality.

And how can a person protesting these summits say that Toronto is now a police state? It is not a police state. A person who is here, protesting, exercising his or her right to free speech and demonstration, etc., is likely to have no way of knowing what it is really like to live in a police state. There exists a police presence downtown because of the events that are taking place. It is a response to the threat of violence, which has become a real situation. As soon as this kind of violence manifests itself, I see no issue with an equal response by authorities.

Continuing to listen to the radio, I heard an interview on the street with a protester who said that they are attacking places like Starbucks, and banks, because they oppose the sentiments of the corporations behind them. Fine. I get that. The protester said that they will not be attacking small businesses because that is the kind of business they support. However, only minutes later I am hearing about independent businesses on Yonge Street and Queen Street being vandalised.

I can't help but feel almost indignant about all of this. It's my fucking city. I know there's shit happening all over the world, and I like being safe from it. Stop trying to turn the place where I live into more shit. And why, if so many people are so opposed to the money that has been spent on this summit, are they creating a situation that will require more money, in the end, to put everything back together?

An acquaintance from university once told me that I am too "conservative". I forget even what issues we were talking about, all I recall was that I said I don't support radicals, and this whole idea that a deep injustice has been done to a someone on a personal level, and so they must lash out irrationally. She said that I didn't understand passion, especially passion for a cause, and we never really spoke again.

How is passion equated with violence here? I was always taught the opposite; the idea that passion is associated with love, not violence (unless of course I'm in the mood for a little sadomasochistic action, but that's a whole other area to delve into on another day). And how is this kind of violence proactive? I feel so frustrated at this kind of behaviour; on one hand, among many of the issues at the heart of all this are things I believe need to be addressed, the sooner the better. On the other, I can't have sympathy for these people at all, who claim police brutality and a police state, but from what I'm hearing they are being allowed to run amok, and there doesn't seem to have been any police-to-protester violence because they are allowed to demonstrate. And of course if there is a violent clash the reaction from protesters will be that it was unnecessary. Ridiculous.

P.S. My comments about people's complaint comes mainly from people on Facebook who are involved in protests this weekend who post pictures of police and caption things like, "This is the REAL violence, there are the REAL terrorists". Unless they are beating your ass for just standing there with a sign, I fail to see the validity of your point of view.

Geek out (c'est chic!) For real, though. Going to Comic-Con is somehow now a turn-on, although unfortunately it includes "Twilight" :-s

A few weeks ago, I stepped out with my friend G. to check out the Harry Potter exhibit at the Ontario Science Centre here in Toronto. Both of us are Harry Potter geeks and found ourselves being the oldest (except for a couple of mommies) in the group of people going through the exhibit at the same time (the exhibit operates on a schedule, and tickets are available for every half hour).

As for being the oldest in the group, we did feel a little foolish. G. and I both got hooked on Harry Potter way back before the first film came out. The summer of 2000 was when I read the first book. Incidentally it was the same summer that Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire was being enthusiastically anticipated everywhere. I was 15 (a little old, I admit) and my mother had bought Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone for my brother. He never liked reading much, and my mother hoped to encourage him with some fun literature. As for myself, I have always had a life-long love affair with books (my brother and I are generally considered, as people, to be opposites of one another).

I pinched my brother's copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone one morning, for something to read on the subway on my way to school. I was in summer school for math (I had all the skills in languages and humanities that I could ever want, and absolutely no proficiency in arithmetic. My brother, of course, is very skilled at maths and sciences, but if he has to write an essay he is at a loss) and from Monday to Friday, for all of July, I had to take the subway from one end of Toronto to the other to attend the only school that offered my class.

The day that I brought Harry Potter with me, I finished it by the time I was home that evening. I read it on the subway, while I was walking to the school, under my desk in class, on my lunch break, etc. The next day I went out and bought the second, third, and brand new fourth book. I loved fantasy novels and I felt this was the most rewarding I had come across in a while. I couldn't wait until the rest of the books came out.

So I am a Harry Potter geek. I have all it's facts catalogued in my head. When I watched some of the films with S., he kept pausing the movie and asking me to explain the meaning of certain plot points. I gave him so many details he could barely keep track.

The Harry Potter exhibit at the Ontario Science Centre let me geek out beyond my wildest dreams. I wore my custom-made Harry Potter Expecto Patronum! t-shirt and saw things like this:

Harry and Ron's beds and clothing in the Gryffindor dormitory. There in the middle

is the golden egg from the Triwizard tournament in the fourth novel.

A few props, including the Marauders Map and the box of chocolates from
Romilda Vane that were filled with love potion, meant for Harry but eaten by Ron.

Dress robes from the Yule Ball in the fourth novel.

For someone who is not very invested in the books and films, it would be pretty boring. This is why I went with G. and didn't bring S.

We had a fantastic time and the only disappointing part of it was that we had to exit through the gift shop. Nearly everything in there was over-priced and beautiful (including a $350 replica of a wizard chess set), and there was no way I would be able to justify to S. why I needed to spend $60 on a replica of Harry's wand, when I could have spent that kind of money on groceries. I don't think I would even be able to justify that kind of purchase to myself, not when I could get a wand like this.

Nevertheless, G. and I bought a few inexpensive items, mainly "magical" candy.Then we proceeded to check out the rest of the science centre.

G. had never been, and I'm not sure how impressed he was. As for myself, I have a soft spot for the science centre. I went a few times in elementary school and with my parents. I belonged to Girl Guides and Pathfinders from the time I was 10 until I was 14, and we had an annual sleep over at the science centre. It was fantastic: a thousand girls running around the science centre all night, with very few adults. We would get tired and sleep only a few hours before (traditionally, our chapter of Girl Guides and Pathfinders slept in the communications room) we had to get up and clear out before the science centre opened for the day.

G. and I took in the rainforest, the science arcade, the communications room, the human body exhibit, and ended with a tour of the astronomy section and a visit to the planetarium.
Later we dashed through the rain to get home. I finished the day with a profound desire to stay up for the next four days, re-reading all of the Harry Potter books and having another look at the movies, with commentary. But of course I didn't, because I have a life which includes important things like going to work and doing laundry.

Today, however, I have come down with a cold, or something. Whatever it is, my throat and tonsils hurt, it's painful to talk, I had a fever, and my body aches all over. I thought perhaps tonsilitis, but I haven't seen any of the usual white spots, although I have all the other symptoms I've experienced before when I've been put out of commision by tonsilitis.

I felt so shitty yesterday (and continue to feel shitty today), that when I spoke on the phone with my mother, she wanted me to come home. I had been in the apartment by myself, while S. was at work. My father picked me up and I went home to eat soup and sleep in my old room.

This evening my brother, mother, and father are visiting my grandfather for Father's Day. My mother determined that I should not come because I could make others sick, and I was happy not to go because I would only want to lie in bed and not have to talk to anyone.

Which is what I am doing now: lying against the pillows on my parents bed, drinking tea with only a quiet cat for companionship. Best of all, I am taking in Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince on TMN On Demand. I am wishing that I still had another Harry Potter book to anticipate. During the summer of 2007 I could hardly wait for July 21 to arrive. It took me a week to get through it, but only because I was savouring it, and allowed myself just a couple of chapters per day. However, when Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince came out in July of 2005, I sat myself down in an armchair and barely moved for 36 hours. I remember being on subways and buses in the days after a new Harry Potter novel came out, and every second person would be completely immersed in a copy.

I do, at least, have the Deathly Hallows movies to look forward to; I'm not surprised that there will be two movies. There is so much that happens in Deathly Hallows that it would be a difficult task indeed to fit everything into a film that doesn't run for five hours. I think up until now the directors and writers and everyone involved in the production of the films have done a fine job editing and turning the novels into enjoyable and (in my opinion) rather decent movies. I have thoroughly enjoyed David Yates's work on Order of the Phoenix and Half-Blood Prince, and am excited for the the next two movies. I just wish the summer would hurry up and get itself over with so that November can get here.

I may just have to visit the Harry Potter Exhibit again just to tide myself over until then.

On the subject of working

I have a job. Like most people my age, at least the people that I know, I don't have a career. This is due is most part to the fact that I don't know what I would want to do as a career. I know many people who knew what they wanted to do before going to college or university; my friend M. knew when we were children that he wanted to be a weather man. He went to university and did physics and atmospheric science, and now he is a meteorologist, which is even better than being just a weather man, because at least M. knows more than fuck all about weather.

As for myself and S., we had our interests and pursued them in university. We both have arts degrees, and S. in fact has a master's degree. I don't know if I believe it when people say you can't get a good job with an arts degree (myself, I have a degree in English). I maintain that people like S. and I, and many others, followed our interests and never had a clear cut path for what we wanted to do in life. And without that, it's difficult to know what to look for.

Occasionally I have the feeling that I made a huge mistake studying literature, and that maybe I should have parlayed my love of language into studying linguistics and picking up another language along the way, something to add to my fluency in English and French. My parents put me into French immersion when I was four, believing that a second language would be an asset later in life. By the time I hit university I found that most of my peers were all at least fluent in two, or maybe three or even four, languages.

Even more so than thinking I should have studied something other than literature, I wonder if I should have studied something like human resources management or administrative studies, or gone to a career college and mastered the art of real-time court reporting. Something dull, but sensible and realistic.

However, I have a job, and that is enough for now but I am constantly looking for something better. I work as a telephone interviewer for a large academic research facility. I would like to stress that I don't do telemarketing or market research. Most of the work we do is in partnership with other groups of researchers, including universities across Canada and various health agencies. Sometimes I find it frustrating work, occasionally I find it interesting and from time to time even rewarding.

On the whole, though, I find I don't generally like talking to people on the phone
but have learned what to say and how to speak so that people are less likely to hang up on me immediately. I can't, however, do the sugary bubble voice that many of the other girls in the office seem to have mastered. I used to think that no one would ever want to talk to someone who sounds like that, but miraculously enough these girls manage to spend the entire evening on the phone, with their "sweetie" and high-pitched laughs. I don't know who could put up with that for the entire length of a survey. I can't bring myself to talk like that.

Work is sometimes harder because of my moods. If I'm in a low mood, I find it more difficult to tolerate the people I have to speak with. From time to time I have the shining opportunity to speak with someone intelligent, but for the most part I get stuck with hicks, bitchy moms with kids screaming in the background, elderly people who are racist (particularly when we discuss things like safe driving; most people who are baby boomers or older seem to think that all bad drivers are new immigrants, who not only drive poorly but are the cause of all our traffic problems), and 19 or 20 year olds who say, "Iyunno," to every question. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, today's young people have become so lazy that they don't even bother to pronounce the "d" in "I dunno".

But, as my young cousin explained to me via a post on Facebook, sometimes you just say, "I dunno" because you don't feel like thinking. I feel it's a proud moment for women and girls everywhere.

Going back to my lack of enjoyment in my job, I realize that it isn't a particularly glamourous job, and that people probably don't treat me as nice as they possibly could because of the sheer fact that I am calling them on the phone to talk to them about something that they might not have an interest in. Regardless of the fact that the purpose of an academic research study is often important, a lot of people just don't care, and even if they do deign to speak to someone like me, a lot of the time they aren't very polite.

I can understand this, but I think that it says a lot about a person. Even before I worked as a telephone interviewer, I always treated telemarketers, researchers, etc. with kindness, regardless of whether I was interested or not. I listened to what they had to say, never yelled, and answered whatever questions I could. I never bought anything, but would listen to sales pitches. It's just common decency, and I like to consider myself a decent, if not a nice, person. S. says that I am cynical but compassionate. I think this is an apt description.

I have to admit that my job has taught me a bit about people skills. I have had to learn what to say to people to make them interested, and make myself sound like someone they would want to talk about. This may sound horrible, but as I learned once in a bartending class, anything remotely related to customer service (and my current job often reminds me of past jobs I have had in customer service) is all about a smile and a big, fucking act.

I'm not fashion conscious, it's more like a coma

One of the most popular blogging topics, it seems to me, is fashion. I can't begrudge a person who writes about fashion because it's a very popular interest and some people are very invested in it. Like religion. You may not agree with it, but it exists. This is very much how I feel about fashion.

I have always been a jeans and a t-shirt, or sweater, girl. Usually with sneakers or boots. I like to dress up from time to time and I like to wear clothes that I feel look nice on me. Most of what I would call my "style" revolves around whatever I have found that I like the look of (both on myself and also just in terms of the aesthetics of the item of clothing in question), mixed with what I guess you could call "vintage" clothes. These are mostly things that my mom saved for me from when she was younger, or that I found in Black Market on those days where every item in the store is $10 or less, from used leather jackets to rock t-shirts. I went through high school wearing overalls from the 70s and form-fitting plaid flannel shirts over a Marilyn Manson tee (mine, not her's). Nearly everything of my mother's that I still fit into and wear on a regular basis gets compliments every time.

On the question of being someone who does not follow fashion but wears what I think looks nice, I want to point out that I am aware of the "trickle-down" in fashion. I know that the shirt I picked up that has that pin-tuck detailing I like probably only exists because pin-tucks were all the rage on the runway, or something. I saw The Devil Wears Prada. I remember Meryl Streep's little speech to Anne Hathaway about why Anne's blue sweater was that exact shade of cerulean.

So much of fashion is quite ugly, and very expensive, and therein exists the reason I fail to understand it. I know that fashion is art, and that sometimes art is very good but happens to be very ugly. What I don't understand is how someone can spend a ridiculous amount of money on an ugly dress that is only in fashion for one season before it becomes dated. I would rather buy an ugly painting by a well-know artist. I would know that the painting won't out of style as quickly as the dress, and is likely to be worth more money as time passes. However, I don't have a ridiculous amount of money at my disposal, and so perhaps I can't imagine what it is like to have money to spend on outfits that will be useless in just a few months.

Another aspect of fashion that irks me is that a relatively small group of people dictate what should be worn and what shouldn't. Someone decides what is in and what is out. For example, styles of jeans. At the moment (I think) people are still wearing tight-fitting jeans. Personally I am a fan of a more relaxed fit, preferably with a flare in the leg. This business of skinny jeans is just cruel, because it forced millions of fashion-conscious yet chubby young girls to fore-go jeans that were actually flattering (read any women's magazine and it will advise a heavy-set girl to wear jeans with a relaxed fit and a flare to visually balance out their body) in favour of pants that make the girl look like the Penguin (skinny little legs and then nothing but gut).

You could say, "You're being mean! Women can wear what they want no matter how they look!"

That's exactly what I'm arguing. They aren't wearing what they want. Not really. They are being told what they want to wear. Moreover, the fashion world worships impossibly thin women. I am 5'7" and a healthy 135lbs, and that would be considered grotesquely fat. If I were an overweight young woman, I would probably not be fashion-conscious. I would wear what looks good on me. I would not subscribe to a lifestyle that mocks someone of my size. Also I would try to lose weight because no matter how good you feel about your body, heart disease remains a threat regardless of sass.

This notion of what is in or out irritates me even more because there are things that I would like to be wearing, but can't, because they aren't in fashion at the moment. At least not yet.

What I would like to see is bell bottoms (face it: there's nearly no original thought in fashion anymore. Most styles are recycled from another era. Bell bottoms are among those things that were so awesome that they will regularly come back into fashion and go out again only to come back a few years later). I love them. They have always been my favourite type of pant. They were in fashion for a moment in high school and I had several pairs which I have now outgrown. If they would come back in style that would be great, because I could stock up for the next ten years and get my fix.

Awesome! And reminiscent of an era of better music, movies, drugs, and sex.
Being born into this particular generation (1984 to present) is a huge, cosmic joke.

I also want to see more saddle shoes (for some reason I always thought they were adorable) and 1920s dresses because they are just so darn pretty.

Beautiful!

Make it happen, internet!

Yes, I realize that if these beloved items of clothing came into fashion, it would then make me a fashion follower. I'm already aware of the irony, so don't feel so darn pleased with yourself.

The same thing happened with old Tupperware

I was cooking earlier today, and was dismayed to notice that my spatula has become sticky almost overnight. I scrubbed it until it should have been clean, but it has retained that tacky layer. A similar thing has happened in the past with old plastic containers. I'm not even sure how old this particular spatula is; it came in a box of kitchen utensils that S.'s mom gave to us when S. and I moved in together.

I'm not upset though, oh no. I'm now dreaming about a fancy new silicone spatula. My old one wasn't heat resistant.

Fortunately I know just the place to go.

Cake Time

Today is S.'s birthday and so celebrations are in order. Fortunately S. is not a very demanding person nor does he have expensive tastes; I think it's entirely possible that I could get away with only giving him excessive sex and snuggles (I have never encountered such a snuggly mofo as he. Note: I began calling him a "snuggly mofo" before I ever even knew what a mofo was. I'm not even sure where I first heard the term. Likely from one of the gangster-wannabe kids on my parents's street. Further note: you should not behave in a gangster street-wise manner if you live in a lovely neighbourhood in a middle to upper-middle class area of Toronto and have your own car before you are 20. It just should not be allowed. I'm not saying you have to wear loafers and polo shirts and talk about the golf club, but, my heavens! If I had to choose between the two I'd say that is slightly less annoying, if only because at least that way I can figure out what people are talking about a little more easily. It must be said, though, that I've met many people, mostly friends of my dad's family, who DO wear polo shirts and loafers and talk about the golf club, and I'm always incredibly bored. So there's really no way to win here, I suppose).

Even more fortunately for S., I am not so cheap that I didn't get him nice presents. He requested one specific item in particular and I always like to get a couple of extra little things. Plus he gets a special breakfast.

I had planned to talk him to a place called Korova Milkbar. S. and I are both Stanley Kubrick fans (though S. idolizes Kubrick more than I ever could) and for those of you not familiar with either the novel A Clockwork Orange or the film version, Korova Milkbar is the name of the cafe (I suppose that's the most apt description -- cafe) frequented by Alex and his droogs. On the menu are various types of milk laced with opiates. A few weeks back I discovered that here in Toronto a new restaurant has opened up, called Korova Milkbar. I was quite excited and even more so when I browsed the internet a little more and came across a blog (which I can't seem to find again), the writer of which was equally as excited as I was.

However, whether or not this writer is intelligent remains to be seen. The blog was singing the praises of whomever decided to open a cafe and name it Korova Milkbar, but the writer was under the impression that the place was, in fact, going to be a real milkbar. The blog mentioned milkshakes and gelato. Later, though, when I sought out the actual website for the cafe, in order to determine where exactly they are located, and what their menu is like, I found that the Korova Milkbar is little more than a regular bar. It offers what seems like a nice brunch menu and a lunch menu as well. There is no dinner menu available yet. And nowhere did I see any mention of milkshakes.

My disappointment is not so sad as the fact that someone opened a bar named after the cafe in A Clockwork Orange, but has failed to ensure that their business is a milk bar. Worse is the fact that I was excited and so I made S. excited. So I've promised that sometime in the near future I'll make him a delicious milkshake and lace it with some Tylenol 3s.

While we celebrated S.'s birthday yesterday with his parents and aunt and uncle, and had a birthday breakfast and sex and snuggles today, the actual party won't take place until June 18.

I love throwing a party. I have to check myself to make sure I don't go overboard. I love to cook and I love food and a party is excuse to whip up something tasty that I wouldn't normally make, like yummy little appetizers. I definitely don't get this personality trait from my mother who has always been notoriously unpleasant before company comes. She stresses out and yells at everyone and then only calms down once dinner is being eaten. I have never witnessed this at anyone else's house. S.'s mother is a domestic goddess who is one of the most fantastic cooks I have ever known. I have seen her become a little rushed while trying to put out a fancy spread, but if she becomes truly stressed she does a phenomenal job of hiding it.

I think that I like making tasty food for people to eat not only because I like to enjoy what I make, but also because I like to see others enjoy it. Plus I like when people tell me I've made something delicious; I get a warm little flame of happiness in my tummy, and it makes me wish I could create yummy food and throw a party everyday, just so that I could hear from others how fantastic it all is.

Here are some delicious things I plan to make:

This layered Mexican dip is a main-stay of any party. Everyone

loves it, it's always completely cleaned out, and it's incredibly easy to make.

(Photo from whisk-kid.blogspot.com)
A couple of our friends have food allergies, and so
I've made a point over the last few years to note what
people can and can't eat. Vegan cupcakes made without
wheat or refined sugar and avocado to replace the eggs
make sure that no one misses out on cupcakes or flavour. (Unless they're allergic
to avocados, and I've never met anyone who is).

I love caprese salad and sandwiches, and so
this is a really fun way to enjoy the delicious
cheese-tomato-basil combination, with no
leftover mess of plates and forks.

Bruschetta is one of my favourite appetizers
and I like to play around with what I make.
Right now I love the obligatory basil with colourful yellow and
red grape tomatoes with a bit of green olive tapenade
spread across the baguette for a bit of a different taste.

Plus the usual party wheels with smoked salmon, and some hummus with gluten-free pita.

Uh-oh. I think this might be turning into a food blog.

Ictus

I have, until this point, avoided writing anything at all about bi-polar disorder, including my experiences as a patient, through managing the disorder, up until now. Everything I ever even
thought about the topic sounded, in my critical little brain, unbelievably cliched. I was diagnosed as a 23-year-old and at that point I was far past my Good Charlotte years, and I have no intention of sounding like a snivelling teen in therapy.

It was my psychiatrist, Dr. I.F., who first suggested writing about bi-polar. When we first met she asked what I liked to do as a pastime. I told her I like to read and that I've always enjoyed writing. She mentioned that people who have creative tendencies often have some form of mental illness. I knew this already because of the inspirational posters on the walls of our group therapy rooms. She suggested that I keep a journal about my new life and I did for a while and hated everything I wrote, and so stopped and have largely given up writing until now, aside from the odd scribbling.

Recently, though, things have come to a head. I feel increasingly frustrated, largely with the day to day persistence through moods and the things in life which I do not particularly like. These things are often changing; my job, for example. I don't enjoy it most days but occasionally I like my work and that enables me to continue getting up out of bed in the mornings. However, it doesn't pay nearly enough to make up for the days when I leave my home and need to force myself not to call in sick on the way.

I'm not tired of dealing; I'm always going to deal. If there's anything that I can say for myself it's that I've always tucked my head to my chest and windmilled my arms and somehow come out on the other side of whatever has come my way. What I need now is an outlet. As it stands now my only real outlets are conversations with S., my boyfriend, and I start to really feel sorry for him sometimes because he lives with me and as such hears most of my grievances and silly ideas and puts up with me when I am in my more unappealing moods (note: unappealing moods encompass highs and lows; being manic can be just as irritating as being a Debbie Downer).

My second outlet is my sessions with Dr. I.F. The only downside is that I always end up going to see her when I feel super, and she says, "How are you doing?" and I say, exuberantly and with absolute truth, "I feel dandy!" and then 10 minutes later I dance out of her office and on my way home local wildlife and I perform a jolly musical in the the streets. It always seems to be between sessions that I find myself bursting into tears in the shower or eating an entire crack pie, (minus one slice eaten by S.), on my own. And then by the time I get back to her those days are already long past and I am back to feeling good again.

I'd like to note that behaviour (feeling dandy, duets with bluebirds) is not me being unbalanced and manic; before I ever sought help I was a happy kid. Occasionally a sullen teenager, but generally smiley with a sunny outlook on life. So when I get to go back to that, for however short a time, it's fantastic. When I'm in the lows I often feel like I'm in withdrawal from that kind of high on life. That, for me, is normal.

I always hated writing conclusions to anything. Especially essays. It always feels so unncessary because I've said what I need to say, and a conclusion only serves the purpose of wrapping things up nicely. So I typed and then deleted and then tried again to write a conclusion, until I remembered that this isn't an essay and I don't need to write a conclusion if I don't want to.