9. the baddest-ass heavy metal rocker lyrics in the known universe have got to be bon jovi's "when the world gets in my face/i say, have a nice day." oooh nasty! HAVE A NICE DAY MOTHERFUCKERS! that's right. THAT's what i could have told the wal-mart smoking dude. but i didn't. i guess i'm just not badass enough.
8. i rarely wake up with words on my lips. more often than not it's the taste of last night's excesses on my furry palate, but this one particular morning i woke up with the word "palimpsest" literally on my lips - i whispered it as i woke. i woke up knowing how to spell this word exactly, including that strange and extraneous sounding last "s,"which is odd considering i knew nothing else about it and, as far as i could tell, i had never heard it before. now thank god for google because i could immediately satisfy my curiosity regarding my brain's hijinks. as soon as i read the definition i realised that i must have come across this word before, during the course of my english honours degree. i mean my brain, mighty though it may be (snurf!), would not conjure so archaic and odd a word out of the swirling molecules of the so-called thin air. right? but i still could not recollect it at all. zeugma? sure! i remember zeugma! we go waaay back! though the particular zeugma i met could better be described as a syllepsis. still, i knew who was who with zeugma. but palimpsest? huh? what could my brain be telling me? that any writing is by definition the denial of the writing of those that came before? that i myself am a palimpsest, scraping away the genetic writing of my parents and replacing it with my own? that we are out of post-it notes? what? WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO TELL ME, BRAIN? oooh, brain's just too smart for me.
7. my arms and my legs hurt. sleeping on this futon is not good for my apparently rapidly aging body. four more sleeps and i will be sleeping on our super duper extra comfortabulous grown-up bed. in bedding that has a thread count higher than my IQ. and eating with nice matching silverware. oh, so very bourgeois! i still have to figure out what to wear to the wedding. well, to the actual wedding ceremony i will wear my old wedding dress, and lest you reel back in horror, take heed of the fact that my wedding dress is nothing of the sort - it is a wine coloured evening gown which is lovely and most definitely not white. i mean, i wasn't gonna fool anyone anyways, so why wear a colour that does not work on me? but after we leave the church i want to change into something a little more FOXXXY. or perhaps SEXXXY. or just plain shorter. although if i'm gonna be spilling wine down my front (as is wont to happen at these types of functions) my wedding dress would be the perfect colour. ponder this, i shall.
6. this morning is perfect. the birds are singing, the sun is shining (but in a dainty, well-mannered way), the air is cool, the scratchy-voiced drunks next door are pouring beer on their corn flakes, the beep-beep-beep of the recycling truck is sounding off in the distance making me feel that all is well with the universe. well, bits of it anyway. we're off for a weekend of beaching, hammocking, imbibing and relaxation and on tuesday, i fly home. things are so damn perfect i am beginning to fear getting hit by a truck. that's what movies taught me - things go too well, here comes the truck. the truck of justice. the karma truck.
5. last night mr. m and i watched la double vie de veronique, a beautiful, if slightly pretentious, polish-french film by krzysztof kieślowski, with the most amazing soundtrack by zbigniew preisner. i have seen this film time and again literally for the one minute long concert scene. the music makes me cry, every. bloody. time. i'm like pavlov's dog on this topic. sing sing, bawl bawl. like clockwork. i do wonder, though, what is it with french films that have this weird ethereal dialogue? do people really turn to their lovers post-coitally, and whisper, "i think i am mourning"? mr. m would pour me a drink and go back to reading. that kind of shit scares him, and well it should! i would also recommend les trois couleurs: bleu, blanc et rouge, by the same duo. the decalogue, though generally seen as a masterpiece, is just too grim for yours truly. but if you have a strong, resilient, shred-resistant soul, by all means see it.
4. i have these ridges on my thumbnails and when i lack anything else to hope for, i hope that they grow out flat. this makes me think that the basis of the human condition is a perpetual state of hopefulness. of course hoping for your nails to grow in straight is ridiculous but even more ridiculous would be hoping for world peace and a middle east ceasefire, so i stick to my nails.
3. i dreamt about my crazy ex boyfriend again, and as per usual for these dreams, woke up feeling freaked out. i don't fear him in a physical way. i don't think he'd take a crowbar and go apeshit on my ass or anything, but every time i see him, whether in real life or in a dream, i get a little worried. after all, this is the man who called me at our brand new place, days after we'd gotten a new phone number, after i had been away for a year, and had gotten a new last name in the interim. how he managed to track me down is beyond me but you can bet on it that our new phone number will be unlisted. he is the man who, nearly a decade after our break-up, wanted to get together because "he needed closure." scary terry, please go away. i am not the woman of your diseased imagination, and i am not the easily manipulated kid you snagged all those years ago.
2. bikini waxing is far far easier when someone else does it for you. how do i know, you ask? well, there's a story to tell but i lack the necessary fortitude to tell it. let's just say it involves self-peeling hot wax, a crotch, a kitchen, much pain and many, many tears. and chunks of wax in the afore-mentioned crotch for weeks afterward. the point is you know it's going to hurt and so you can't do it. a stranger knows it's going to hurt you and doesn't give a hot damn. i highly recommend that if you do attempt self waxing, start with the legs. much easier. also, this happened many many years ago. i wouldn't be that stupid now. well...not about waxing my privates anyways.
1. speaking of garbage trucks (were we? i didn't notice!), why does garbage smell the same the world over? i have smelled mexican garbage, czech garbage, australian garbage, polish garbage, canadian garbage, german garbage, austrian garbage, and american garbage. i have smelled ethnic neighbourhood garbage of all kinds. i have smelled winter-in-northern-alberta garbage and summer-in-new-york garbage. and it all. smells. the same. what gives? people eat different things, consume different things, break and reject different things and yet the mass of human post-consumerist waste always smells the same. please let me know if you have any ideas on this lofty subject.