23 September, 2008

hey lady, hey lady!

anyone who has ever been forced to take CPR with any regularity will be well familiar with the titular holler, though in class it is more of an embarassed monotone as the instructor looks on with glee while we attempt to get a response from one butt ugly plastic alien corpse.

so, all together now: hey lady, hey lady! are you ok? are you ok? (i really don't know why we have to say it twice, it's not like the bleeding corpse by the steaming car wreck will suddenly look up at you and say "...uh, sorry? were you saying something? i was lost in thought" while their severed head bobbles comically.)

the truth of the matter is that although i am required to take CPR every single year, the only thing that i remember for a solid fact is that stupid holler. i probably even remember the correct ratio of breaths to chest compressions (although the bastards seem to change them, as though our physiology keeps coming out with a new model every year!) but i am less than enthusiastic about the actual act.

oh sure, if you (provided i know you and then provided i at least tolerate you) were down for the count i would most likely glue my lips to yours and try to bring you back to the land of the living, but grungy strangers in back alleys with open sores can merely count on my alerting the authorities. i ain't kissing some dude i don't know. baby, those days are over! (shut up.)

and even if i was the most keen of dental professionals,* the other thing i remember from the class is that CPR almost always fails. so fill yer pants!

tomorrow i will be down on the floor smacking a silver baby on the back, at the very least ridding my body of some very unsavoury aggression. wanna come?

*why is it that i throw up a little in my mouth every single time i hear or utter those two words?

22 September, 2008

up the wazoo without a paddle

i spent the weekend swearing at the computer. at slightly irregular intervals i also smacked the couch (it is made of low quality armpit leather, is soft and therefore hurts less, but makes a deliciously resounding smacking noise that satisfies the bloodthirsty barbarian hordes that apparently reside within my soul). all this was accompanied by the rolling rrrrr's of a certain polish swearword (don't be shy! admit it! if you know one polish word, this is the one you know!). i think we need a new computer: 4 is the new 82.

i managed to clean up my i-tunes, reconfigure my i-pod, do several loads of laundry, force my bloated carcass to endure half an hour of yoga, cook a bigass pot of beans, and never once stepped outside. some prefer to face reality, moi? i'll take denial any day. their reality, in all statistical likelihood, does not include fort mcmurray. unless it does.

note to self: must write more about god and cars, since it is these two (possibly) unrelated subjects that generate swift and multiple responses. which i like, because it makes me feel like i have a readership. a ship of readers, if you will, streaming...steaming...swimming...(what in the name of god do ships do?????!!!!) through the rough waters of my verbosity.

ed. note (next day): sails. a ship sails. yes, i am embarassed.

21 September, 2008

a rose, by any other...

buick has a new luxury vehicle named the lucerne, because when naming luxury automobiles nothing springs to mind like swiss fields of alfalfa, plump cows grazing, snow-capped mountains surrounding a lake shimmering in the distance. i don't know though, the car looks nothing like alfalfa, maybe it's the bovine factor...

hell, if i had a luxury vehicle to name, i'd name it canola: sleek! yellow! good for the heart!

moi, i've always been partial to ford's dental instruments line: the probe and the explorer, both pointy metal things you probably don't much enjoy having in your mouth, but as car names go? couldn't get better. though the probe always tends to conjure up images of alien abductions, arguably even less pleasant than the semi-annual visit with your dental professional.

what would you name a car? extra points for unintentional anal references.

20 September, 2008

oh liver, my liver, how mistreated thou art

last night: dinner with the girls


more wine (but, and this has got to be stressed, not that much more wine)

unzipped my boots in the elevator, ran down the hall undoing my belt, exploded into the apartment clothes flying because i had to pee like i have never had to pee before. ever. in the bathroom i peed and peed and peed and, because i am a chronic multitasker, i took off the rest of my clothes much to mr.m's amusement. then i brushed my teeth, washed my make-up off and went to bed like a good girl. i was pissed by 8:45, in bed before 11. pathetic.

problem: when drunk, i talk waaay too much (and apparently repeat the same old stale tales each and every bloody time), and feel like an ijit the following day

solution: simple, no? and yet i seem unable to apply it. what can i say? mommy likes her wine.

perhaps acupuncture ought to do it

remember how annoying i was about the whole trip to london? how there was the rending of garments, the gnashing of teeth and the occasional but well timed sprinkling of ashes on the forehead? remember how i had to talk myself through it, as though i was on a one-way flight bound for a particularly unpalatable bit of siberia?

what gives? it was a trip. a short trip. it will not go down in the annals of history as my bestest excursion ever (though the british breakfast will warrant an honourable mention for its sheer horror), but i survived, had a nice time, saw some people, saw some statues of men on horses, saw that piccadilly circus is a traffic circle (why do they make such a big deal of it? it's a traffic circle!), saw some people with hats, made it home in one piece. was it worth the panic?

so now, yeah, more strange and inexplicable paranoia and fear linked to something that should make me happy or at least neutral: art.

jools wrote me an email about a painting class she is taking. the words "painting class" made my gut cramp up. then she told me that i have a lot to give as an artist and within seconds i was hyperventilating into a paper bag.

but, brave soul that i am, i crawled to the spare bedroom, dragged out some watercolour pencils and a pad, and got to work, fighting the fear and nausea that were coursing through my bloodstream.

again: what gives? what's with these reactions? there is no pressure. i am not in a class. i am not being judged or even lightly prodded. i am alone, trying to face down the sheer evil of the blank page, succeeding somewhat.

this is reminiscent of the whole "you have so much potential" era of highschool, when people made me miserable by telling me all the wonderous things i was capable of. sure showed them, though, didn't i? cleaning teeth for the last 13 years, genius brain that i am, HA!

should i try hypnosis? accupuncture? herbal enema? christ! i am losing patience with myself.

10 September, 2008

catatonia, here i come

you know how you hear about these regular people who, when faced with adversity, show a beautiful resilience, a greatness of spirit, a breathtaking ability to rise above the shit life has thrown at them and emerge shining and strong?

clearly, i am not one of those people.

yesterday was a day that began with a whole bunch of swear words and ended with me lying on the couch with the blanket over my head, hooked up intravenously to my i-pod's soothing tunes selection, periodically reminding my husband that no, i still couldn't hear him, on account of having headphones on AND having my head covered by a blanket, so he would not continue to waste his breath, especially since each time i paused my music, there he'd be, talking about more things that made me want to return to the womb pronto.

no, no divorce is in the works. none of us had an affair. our house has not been broken into and i am pretty certain our parents still love us. so what had me knotted into a fetal position? why, the intricacies of the BC landlord and tenant act. the fact that we need to fill out roughly seventeen forms and sign them in triplicate in our own blood before forwarding them to our tenants who will then have to do the same. the idiocy of the resident manager who thinks that it is inconceivable that one tenant should move out and on that very same day another should move in. the fact that i am permanently twisted at the hips not, as i suspected, because of some birth defect (ha! this i could live with! it's got a certain byronic romantic quality to it) but because i am now regularly lugging about not one, not two, not three but four sets of keys around in my purse.

ok, i have enough self-awareness and analytical skills to realise that my melt-down is based on a rather enviable situation.

because, you see, we could be calculating whether we have enough money to feed little timmy, whether daddy can have that operation he needs to regain his sight, or whether we will have enough to cover the rent and utilities. we could be living in a van down by the river for fuckssakes!

instead my gut twists because i have tenant issues, issues which assume some real estate ownership and a pretty decent lifestyle. yeah, poor moi.

so while i am perfectly aware of the flimsiness of my pathos, i still have the physical reaction of a two year old, who just wants to put a blankie over her head and hope the big scary things go away.

so, yeah, world? please don't throw anything substantial at me, like...oh, i don't know, a war? a nuclear holocaust? terminal illness? because i have been tested and found wanting in the small stuff department. i suspect that something serious would have me mixing myself a nice cocktail 3 parts gin and one part rat poison, and cranking up the tunes.

08 September, 2008

sterilize THIS!

today i dropped off helmut-the-car for his overdue tune-up: the engine light had been on for a week until i nearly drained the battery over the weekend, resulting in a sluggish engine for the first 2 minutes, and, hey hey! no more engine light! still, we needed to see if any evil was afoot, especially since we spend an average of 24 hours/month on the highway of death.

so i sat there in the waiting room, not knowing that i was at that very moment being viciously sodomized right in the wallet*, bored out of my skillet and looking for something to read when a third hand romance novel peeked shyly from under a pile of shiny toyota porn.

good god, what shit! if my bosoms heaved every time mr. monkey walked in the room, i would be a broken woman with an oxygen tank. the smouldering passion unleashed at the slightest look would leave us jobless and soon homeless, but hey, we'd be thrusting throbbing juicy bits of each other into other juicy bits of each other under a bridge somewhere, hopefully unaware of the broken bottles and dirty diapers under our undulating flesh. sheesh. ridiculous. or perhaps i've been married too long. you decide.

*200$ to tell me that the engine light was on because my fuel cap wasn't on tight enough, when, upon reading my manual, the very first thing we did was tighten the goddamn fuel cap. 200$ buys a lot of sippy cups, my friends, and a lot of wine. grrrrrr.

05 September, 2008

new sippy cup for mommy!!!

it took a village to find this sippy cup: multitudes searched through various baby-themed stores on commercial drive, kits, granville island and other swanky vancouver neighbourhoods. granville rise proved the most fruitful in the sippy cup department: the sheep had me at hello. can you imagine a better theme than wacky falling sheep, when what you want is to get good and smackerdoodled? i thought not.
also, i believe this bottle is guaranteed not to cause brain damage or leach harmful chemicals into your brain or something, above and beyond, of course, whatever harmful chemicals one might choose to place in the bottle in the first place, hoping that in the course of their consumption some sort of evil chemical leaching will hopefully take place.
i can now drink red with impunity. world, your carpets are now safe.