29 April, 2016

acute assholism

while i'll be the first to admit that i can sometimes be snarky, i generally tend to be nice to people, especially those who serve me, if for no other reason than it usually ends with better service. i try not to snark at tellers, or phone operators, or waiters, or anyone else who's doing a thankless job.

yesterday evening, i dragged my sorry carcass to the closest grocery store to pick up some edible substances and was treated throughout the endeavour to very loud big hair rock music. not sure whose idea of a grocery store soundtrack it was, but i would wager that most of the exhausted working stiffs could have also done without it: not one person could be seen banging their head in rhythm, hand raised in a defiant satanic salute. i turned to the young woman putting out olives and said, "wow! that's some pretty bad music!" in a come commiserate with me sort of tone. this is where it started to go wrong because instead of commiserating, she immediately got defensive and snarky and said, "i didn't pick the music!" as if i had thought that from her lofty heights of the deli department minionhood, she also directed the media. i walked away, but the snark had started.

after paying for my groceries and being very nice to the very nice cashier, i decided to walk over to the customer service to ask them to maybe tone down the tunes (this was not the first time bad big hair music had happened in this store). there was a blank faced young man at the desk who looked up at me, when i started to speak to him, with the expression you'd likely see on a butcher if the pig, lying in pieces on his counter, had asked him for the time. he seemed utterly flummoxed by either the english language or the peculiar nature of different beings making sounds at each other at all. i asked him several times to please turn down the music, eventually resorting to slow talk: CLASSIC. ROCK. MUSIC. TOO. LOUD. he stared blankly at me some more ("why is she still here? why is her mouth moving? what does all this mean?!?") then asked me, "in the store?" by then i'd had enough. "no," i said, "in my head. OBVIOUSLY in the store. this is customer service, correct? (a weak nod) and i'm a customer, right? (another weak nod). then i want some service! ok?" "ok."

i marched out of there knowing i accomplished nothing other than giving the teen another adult to despise. and i really wasn't proud of myself - aside from accomplishing nothing, i'd made myself angry and made someone else feel bad (if anything had penetrated). deep cleansing breaths, and onward home.

today i did it again - asked for a glass of water nearly 5 times at a restaurant before eventually walking over and getting it myself, snarking at the waitresses who watched me walk up with varied expressions of confusion. whoa, nelly, thought i to myself, i may be having some sort of psychopathic psychotic breakdown! and as i texted my tale of woe to sanity salad, it hit me: i have been sans internet entirely for 3 days, and prior to that sporadically for 3 days more, which translates into 6 whole days of no meditation*. could this have something to do with my sudden uncontrollable assholism? why yes, methinks it might.

sanity salad responded with an article that had this to add:
So stay the course. We need to be extra vigilant once we feel like we’re on a roll. Part of our practice is learning to come to the cushion under all different levels of enthusiasm: excitement, complacency, doubt, indifference, and every feeling in between. We practice not because of how we feel or what we need right now, but because it’s time to practice.

ladies and gentlemen, please excuse me while i go and chill out for a while and try to get my own self back. it's meditation cushion time!

*yes, i realise one doesn't need internet to meditate but i really can't do it very well without the guided talky bit - my brain flies off all sorts of handles and i usually forget that i was even meditating in the first place.

28 April, 2016

strawberries and deer blood

after the idiotic stresses of tuesday, i woke up wednesday feeling like i'd been beaten up. my bones hurt, my skin hurt, swallowing was traumatic, and my head was suffering from all the hangovers of my life put together. i crawled out of bed to go see my dentist, then crawled to starbucks for wifi to cancel all my social engagements for the day. i spent the rest of the day in bed, wearing a sweatshirt, leggings, and socks, shivering uncontrollably.

at one point i woke up from one of my many naps and realised i was hungry but had nothing in the house except for a bowl of strawberries and a pound of raw ground deer meat, which is exactly as strange as it sounds and just as unhelpful. i ate the strawberries and went back to sleep. i woke up in the middle of the night soaked to the bone, but my fever had broken. i changed into dry clothes, fluffed out my soggy bedding and fell back into a stupor from which i didn't wake until after 10 am.

i've been couch surfing at my aunt's today, taking advantage of her wifi, warm fuzzy cat, cabbage rolls, and tea. i think i will survive and it was stress that likely pushed me over the edge, but man, oh man, i really don't have time for this.

my next door neighbours are coming home from their long european trip today or tomorrow and i hope that translates into renewed fully functioning wifi (maybe all that was needed was a solid thwack on the modem, but since it's at their place, not mine, i could do nothing but howl with frustration and haul my carcass to starbucks), so that i can set up my official centre of operations from my bedroom again, and, if need be, never ever leave my bed again...until the movers and packers come on the 2nd, but that should give me enough time to recuperate.

27 April, 2016


since we’re being philosophical on all sorts of fronts (when we’re not being pummeled by imperiously illogical bureaucratic requests from enigmatic purveyors of real estate magic), here’s one front i’ve been mentally pursuing for some time – the idea of deferred gratification. it’s quite possible that i’ve written about it before, but i’m far too lazy to search for the topic herein – these posts are like the children of some beast that values swiftness in its progeny; born, they must learn immediately to stand on their own feet and having once done so, cease being of any interest to their parent, namely: me. let’s assume then that this is a new topic, and if it isn’t, let’s assume i’ve got some new light to shine upon it, and if i don’t, let’s assume you don’t remember what i write anyway, which brings us, for all intents and purposes, full circle to the beginning of this sentence. swell!

those of us who live in winter cities and who don’t waste time stupidly wailing about the unfairness that it should snow and drop below freezing for a large portion of the year, those of us like to think ourselves heroic – surviving months of very cold weather makes us tough, we like to think. it makes us tougher and stronger and more badass than the wusses who inhabit warner climes. we’re so badass, in fact, that come february with the slightest hint of warmth, we gladly shed our parkas and enjoy our drinks outdoors. but what i believe makes winter dwellers tougher and stronger and more badass than their southern cousins isn’t just the ability to withstand wind chill factors, but the deferred gratification that every winter brings. we are good at waiting. we are good at waiting and hoping and wanting and hungering and thirsting for the slightest hint of spring, and when it comes, we pounce on it with the voracious joy of a small child in the 1980’s finally outwaiting the whole long week and pouncing on saturday morning cartoons.

society has made it hard to want and not immediately get. waiting for anything has become so rare that i fear we have come to see it as something to be eradicated, like measles or racism, instead of realising that the better part of pleasure is precisely in the wanting, the waiting, the counting down towards a goal. i was reminded of this today when i drove across the river valley and realised that the cottonwood trees were suddenly sprouting tiny leaves in that indescribable shade of green, still wet from the sap of their buds, all too soon to turn the perfectly respectable but far less exciting colour of fully grown up leaves. spring is the ultimate tease in the northern country – we want it so very badly, and watch for it with such keen eye, and never let our disappointment at yet another snowstorm stop that hunger.

i love winter, i truly do, but i stop loving it right around the time the days get longer and the snow melts, revealing my city at its worst and when, despite the most fervent wishes of my fellow citizens, winter persists for another month or three. but oh, when spring comes! it’s a miracle every single year. every year, no matter if it’s late or early, the coming of spring feels like rebirth and love and joy, and all because it didn’t come easy like yet another toy in the kinder surprise of life; like yet another cartoon pulled up on netflix on any old day of the week. maybe i sound like an old fart pining for the days when we had to walk uphill both ways to get to the coal mine where we worked (if we were lucky!) but i stand by my conviction because today when i saw the first poplar leaves i felt that after wading through the grey and brown of winter,  i was given a glimpse of a something priceless, and it was so worth it!

26 April, 2016

an evening in with kim crawford

all i want right now is several large glasses of wine poured into my mouth in quick succession, but first let me tell you the story of a banker for whom i may just leave my husband, and a lawyer who spent an hour with me and didn't charge me a penny.

ok, actually, the very thought of working my way back through the convoluted happenings of the last two days fills me with such trepidation that frankly i simply cannot face it. suffice it to say, i almost drove down to calgary to the american consulate for one stupid stamp, and i almost paid a lawyer for the same, but in the end i did neither and still got my stamp, which, you must admit, is pretty miraculous: i accomplished everything that i set out to accomplish and then some, all thanks to my mortgage guy (MG).

i've been dealing with this particular MG from the very beginning of our house buying adventure and he is a veritable powerhouse, a fixer of epic proportions, a man whose capability and effectiveness are rivalled only by the sexy timbre of his baritone and the warmth of his personality. do i sound like i have a bit of a crush? why, how perceptive of you: i have come to believe that any man who can make the process of buying a house relatively painless and actually somewhat pleasant has earned the key to my heart, even if he is an avid golfer.

at any rate, my poultries, i am now sitting, slumped sleepily, in my neighbourhood starbucks, trying my best to string a sentence together and having a hell of a time of it - i've deleted about six times more than what i've actually left written, and i'm fairly certain some of these sentences don't add up, for which i apologise. i think i may very well buy myself something yummy, go home, pop open my book, and start pouring the aforementioned wine into my mouth before passing out in my bed.

oh what a day!

25 April, 2016

recipe for self

i think it goes without saying that i'm not a believer in horoscopes. there is one notable exception to this rule, free will astrology, with a far more literary and philosophical approach than mere star-gazing woo. time and time again, i've plucked pearls of wisdom from his thoughtful and often irreverent words. this week hit one of the themes I’ve been exploring in various guises lately:

I've got a controversial message for you, Pisces. If you're addicted to your problems or if you're convinced that cynicism is a supreme mark of intelligence, what I'll say may be offensive. Nevertheless, it's my duty as your oracle to inform you of the cosmic tendencies, and so I will proceed. For the sake of your mental health and the future of your relationship with love, consider the possibility that the following counsel from French author André Gide is just what you need to hear right now: "Know that joy is rarer, more difficult, and more beautiful than sadness. Once you make this all-important discovery, you must embrace joy as a moral obligation."  

i don’t think i've been a very good cynic in recent months – yes, it pops up on occasion but i feel that a great deal of my earlier cynicism has fallen by the wayside. that's not to say that i won’t engage in some good old fashioned skewering of our society over a bottle of wine, but i think i'm falling more into the other side (except when an overload of what-is pushes me firmly into the arms of team apocalypse). and even if i still engage in cynicism, i think i'm finding it a weight to carry: an entertaining friend who, over the years, has become a burden. i'm slowly working on laying that burden down. my choices have very little to do with the final outcome of our civilization, but a lot to do with the way i perceive and live my life. like another old friend righteous anger, i’m willing to back away from cynicism to save my own psychological skin.

a good friend sent me an article recently that at first made me very very angry. then, as i continued to resentfully work my way through it, it forced me to put aside some of my antagonism and to reexamine how tightly i hang on to my opinions. an adjunct, i think, to the idea of the moral supremacy of joy over sadness, is the idea of the moral superiority of compassion over smugness. step by slowly taken, hard-won step, i want to think i’m moving towards the idea that being right might not be as important as being kind, and being blasé might not be as healthy as being open to the wealth of the good things available in the world. both notions come hand in hand with my growing awareness of my own agency - if i have the power to choose how to react to what life throws my way, then i may as well choose the higher path. 

oh sure, some of you are vigorously rolling your assorted eyeballs: that'll be the day when you're some sweet-smiling pie-baking polyanna, spreading kindness and light across the universe. well, perhaps i will never fully be that person (for one, i think pies are far more trouble than they're worth), but i have moved far away from the person that i used to be who'd blithely join in the bitter squawking choir that certain female family members of mine engage in with chronic regularity. increasingly, i find it an exhausting and pointless exercise, so completely irrelevant and old that i just want to walk away as i have yet to find a way to make them stop. it is definitely a personality trait that's been undergoing a profound shift and for the better, if i may say so myself. 

so what final point am i making? not much of one, and definitely not one aimed at anyone other than myself. i really don’t want to be the person whose self improvement path becomes a weapon to beat her readers with – as it is i've already been proselytizing about meditation to anyone who will listen, though i have nothing to prove the efficacy of said exercise save the anecdotal incremental improvements in my own ability to function in this mess of a gorgeous universe. so take it as you will – the newest ingredient in my recipe for building a better me – not necessarily the recipe for building a better you. 

21 April, 2016


i’m typing this on word because for the last 3 days my relatively reliable borrowed internet completely stopped being reliable. it went from hours at a stretch of gently tethering my consciousness to the rest of the world, to dropping said connection every 15 seconds or so. this means that if i want to say, send an email, i must turn the wifi off, turn it on, refresh my email and find the email i want to respond to (quickly!), then press reply. by then the wifi is fully non-functional (though pretending to be fully functional according to the task bar icons). once my email is written and ready to send, i must turn wifi off again, turn it on, and in the nanoseconds following reattachment to the interwebs, i must swiftly and decisively press send before it drops connectivity once more. if i'm doing several things on several different pages, i need to repeat this process with every action. pages can only be refreshed one at a time in the nanoseconds following reattachment and all actions must be decisive. attempting to do more than one action at a time invariably leads to failure on all fronts and having to start from scratch again. turn wifi off. prepare stuff. turn wifi on. PRESS BUTTONS TO MAKE THINGS HAPPEN!!!! turn wifi off. lather, rinse, repeat.

as you can imagine, this is rather time consuming and extremely stabby-making. as a result i’ve spent hours in local cafes, trying to manage my various realtors, bankers, lawyers and other assorted courtiers in the kingdom of my adulthood. i feel like don corleone holding court in the local pasta joint, but with fewer supplicants and far less pasta. mmmmm….pasta….. anyways, i seek out places where it’s not considered gauche to sit for 3 hours with one americano and a surprisingly delicious croissant, i.e. those favoured by the beautiful children of the university area. so young, so shiny, so very very clear-eyed and glossy-haired. was i ever thus? i assume i was, though it seems to be lost in the mists of time, a mythical yesteryear where the breadth of my youthful beauty was rivaled only by the depths of my youthful dumbness. truly they speak that youth is wasted on the young, though i do know several very notable exceptions to this rule.

the condo is sold in all sorts of official ways. sadly, it sold to the initial bidder and not to the much sweeter back-up offer we received on sunday. sweeter financially and sweeter in that the potential buyers seemed just as smitten with my home as i was when i first saw it; sweeter, then, in both the pragmatic and the fuzzy ways. alas, such is life, and i have found, once again, not to be particularly distraught over it.  now it’s on to lawyers and realtors and movers, oh my! the latter better not go rooting through my folded lady dainties, since i wrapped my teas and herbs in them. i’ll be damned if my good stuff fails to cross the border. you can take my nigella seeds from my cold dead hands, america!!!!

tonight, having accomplished much, i am heading out to procure some smoked sausage for a ladies’ firepit evening. what’s on the menu, you ask? why, feminism, cheezies, vaginocentric conversation, sausage, wine, and excessive amounts of laughter, appropriate and otherwise. i’m seriously looking forward to it. onward and upward, my poultries!

20 April, 2016

and another thing!

aside from all the psychological benefits of an awesome bananologist, here's an unforeseen benefit:

i was kvetching to her about how the movers won't take food, including canned and bottled stuff and my glorious collection of spices and teas, and the gorgeous golden creature asked me why i don't simply pack it all up in a box or container, since they take big bin containers as-is, without repacking their contents. i almost kissed her! once i'm done interwebbing here, imma head home and box up my shit!!!

(see? this is why it's good to see a bananologist!)

out of the hole, baby

if you're ever in need of a bananologist, may i recommend mine? she's nothing short of brilliant, as well as being witty, funny, insightful, and warm. i saw her twice over the course of my visit home and each time she managed to get to the root of something that's been bothering me, sometimes for years!

today we tackled my visceral reaction to certain people. one person, a family member, saw me yesterday and, very first thing, asked me in a sad-saccharine voice if i was SO tired, and if i was SO sad about leaving my beautiful condo. my reaction was immediate stabbiness that, as always, i had to squash down to the level of civility. my response to the first question (still not quite civil) was to ask if i looked so bad that it warranted concern. no, they answered, they were merely concerned about all the things i have to do. i said i'm doing them and i'm handling it and i'm fine, thank you. my response to the second question was to say that while i loved my home and really enjoyed my five years there, i had made the choice to sell it and was fine with it. i was taking the situation as it was, accepting it, and moving forward with my life.

the thing that my bananologist and i unpacked today was my immediate anger and my self-blame for it. i feel that in the case of this particular person (and a few others), i feel like i need to take my inner bitch in hand and work really really hard to keep her quiet. rather than accepting that the problem is my out-of-control inner bitch, my bananologist suggested that i resented what the seemingly concerned questions were aiming at. so what were they aiming at? well, they were aiming to make me a victim, rather than a person with agency and a choice in how i respond to my life. as you well know, i spent enough time in the dark hole of depression, and have worked my ass off to get out and stay out. this much i knew. but i never saw that comments like those above (plus the assumption how miserable and out of control of my life i really am!!! poor me!!!) were an attempt to put me right back in that hole. the person speaking is not an asshole. the person speaking is truly concerned. but their way of expressing concern shows much more about what they need from me (to be a victim they can sympathize with and comfort) than actual curiosity about how i am handling the current challenges of my life.

the best questions asked of me - how are you? are you busy? how do you feel about the move? how do you feel about the new place? how do you feel about leaving the old place? are the questions that allow me to tell my truth. i resent it when i am required or expected to be sad or broken or inconsolable, when i am, for the most part, none of those things.

since the last few years and especially the last year of my life has been a journey of discovering my agency (see previous posts), is it any wonder when i respond stabbily to someone who, for their own messed up internal reasons, wishes me to sit in a deep hole of despair, just so they can toss sandwiches and tissues to me, while shaking their head in sympathy, fostering a dependence that would do nothing for me, but would make them feel needed and loved.

amazing how much you can learn about other people from how they treat you and what they expect of you, and how much of it is about them. i wonder how my inner bitch will react to this new information.

also, speaking of agency and choices, read this, cause it's bloody fascinating!!!

13 April, 2016

SOLD! to the one-eyed woman in the back wearing a duck!

well, my little poultries, our condo is pending, which means that if the financial institution okays everything, our lovely edmonton home will soon be our home no more.

it's been a good ride, a fun ride, a warm and loving ride, but it's time to move on. i'm doing that thing where i accept the inevitable and look on the bright side because the alternative is essentially a toddler-style emotional meltdown and we know that is not a good look on a "large boned" middle aged polish lady. my peace and acceptance feel pretty solid, but i always fear i am teetering on the edge of a precipice and, having on more than one occasion spent months in the deep dark hole of depression, i'd rather stay out of it and coddle my inner polyanna. besides, if there's one thing my advanced age has taught me it's the inevitability of change: all things end*.

okay, enough weak and obvious philosophising - i'm slowly running out of cliches and my coffee's getting cold. raise a glass of something cold and bubbly to the end of an era, and the start of another!

*a nugget of wisdom from me to you. you're welcome.

11 April, 2016

a handful of diamonds

it's easy to get lost in all the bullshit of the world, the shiny trinkets, buzzing wants, desires buffed to the high gloss of needs, but in the end when all is said and done i think i'd be just fine if all i had was my mind (though one could successfully argue i'd be even happier if that was the very first thing taken away from me) a handful of music; the freedom to think things through; the time and latitude to imagine alternatives to This; the sheer entertainment value of brain power.

oh yes, do let's not forget that the interpersonal connections i have are some of my most precious possessions (if you can call them such; if you can truly possess a connection with another human bean), but at the end of the day, even if all that was lost, i'd be left with the ability to say, what if? how about? and, on the other hand...

so there you go. love your brain, kids. love your people, but truly love your brain.

are the contents of my fridge preventing me from selling the condo?

as i said before, when you're selling a home, you're selling a lifestyle (assuming, in an entirely statistically reasonable manner, that the majority of the human population lacks imagination and thus needs to be shown the wondrous possibilities inherent in living right here in this very house). my home right now shows them what it would be like to live in the heart of a city, to love art, and to lounge on the fuzzy skins of various dead ruminants. it shows them the svelte and sexy dazzle of urbanity. the floors gleam; the stainless steal glows; the vast expanse of counter space speaks to them of dinner parties with beautifully dressed, perfectly coiffed specimens of young professional urbanites. the pristine white bed hints at sexual shenanigans and breakfasts in bed (ew). the bookshelves...well, you get the idea.

and if i'm selling a sexy urban lifestyle, my fridge is selling...well, i'm not entirely sure exactly what my fridge is selling. behold, the contents of my fridge and the kind of lifestyle they suggest:
  • an almost full bottle of prosecco.("we drink, but elegantly! and in italian!")
  • an almost empty bottle of white wine. ("sometimes we drink a little less elegantly...and forget to finish the bottle.")
  • 4 litres of organic kefir ("we really, really, REALLY like dairy products and feel a little uncomfortable about it")
  • 2l of skim milk ("we are normal people concerned with weight and fitness.")
  • 3'4 of a cream-filled family-sized slab cake from my cake craving sunday ("we...eat cake? A LOT?")
  • 1 jar half filled with goat's milk dulce de leche  ("we conduct strange scientific experiments in the fridge.")
  • 1 half empty jar of plum butter ("we keep what looks like a dried up placenta in a jar in the fridge for reasons we'd rather not discuss, thank you very much.")
  • 1 half empty jar full of booze-infused cherries ("...to add flavour to the placenta.")
  • 1 bag of carrots ("oh thank god, we're healthy again!")
  • 1 bag of celery sticks (ditto)
  • 1 small jar of bacon grease ("oh, for fucks' sake, we fucking give up. realtor, show us another condo.")

10 April, 2016

exploring planet earth

the first steps took us outside of our understanding. the first words showed the breadth and depth of our ignorance. the first thoughts were unformed beasts swimming in oceans of ineffability. we looked and understood nothing of what we saw. we listened and failed to grasp the import of the sounds we heard. we opened our mouths and tasted we knew not what. we breathed in scents we could not begin to describe. our hands flailed, reaching for something we could not define or touch. our feet stepped, uncertain, on the earth we did not know. we were worse than children because we did not have a parent to show us the way. we stumbled and broke things, roared with animal frustration at the lack of order in the world around us. we laughed and cried never seeing our emotions for anything other than a reflection of reality, never knowing there was more than pure reaction to the stimuli of life. we knelt, we prayed, invented gods so we would not be all alone and meaningless, thereby giving up meaning, sifting it into the imperfect vessel of belief. we were born, we lived haphazardly, we died and rotted where we fell because we knew not that our dead ought to be buried.

the ghosts we raised through tales of childish ignorance continue to haunt us, haunt our politics, religions, art, and what we teach our young. these ghosts still walk among us, wear our coats and eat our food, while we stumble naked and hungry, wondering why. we offer up the sacrifice of time and love, effort and hope, gold, frankincense, and myrrh, burnt lambs and doves heaped high to reach the non-existent ghosts, who hunger ever more for what we give them. when will we move away from ghosts and tales of ghosts and paths laid out by ghosts? we have been given so much information, so much choice, and still we choose to put our trust in ghosts whose hunger never ends.

the light comes first in fits and starts, flashes and glimmers, grows stronger over time, flooding the darkness, then fading into it. sunlight in trees, the leaves trembling in the breeze setting their shadows dancing, flickers of light and darkness on the bark, the grass. the growing light of dawn becomes the white hot light of noon before it mellows into afternoon and trickles into the magic of the golden hour, then back to dusk and night. stars pierce the dark, flashes of diamonds, shards of glass, celestial reminders of how small we are, and still afraid of darkness. the endless loop of light and dark, our fleeting time in ribbons, black and gold, turns, turns, and turns again, a carousel we ride and think we're getting somewhere.

there's hope; there is no hope.

i dream of cake

i'm finding that the more i sit home alone, the more i want to sit home alone. granted, i had a good day yesterday breaking fast with g, and then hanging out with my wee girls and their mom, but when i came home and saw that there were no more showings that evening (there were 3 during the day, fruitless so far), i washed off my face, put on my sweats, and got down to the business of serious bed-sitting. a glass of prosecco, a bowl of cow-share cottage cheese, and a couple episodes of "the last kingdom" completed my wild and crazy saturday night.

i do make a point to leave the house not only during showings. i see family and friends and enjoy seeing both, but i also see how much i adore being by myself. my mom has begun checking in with me via skype text, which is good, because i've been forgetting to keep in touch myself. she skype-calls occasionally and when she does i respond and chat amicably, but the thought of actually calling anyone seems vaguely unpalatable. i just want to be by myself, in my home, alone, eating my cottage cheese, listening to the radio, and watching man-candy on the small screen. is that so very bad?

i think the weather is partly to blame. the spring (at least alberta spring), like the fall, offends my body and soul. the wind, the dull greyness, the slooooowww coming of green, the bitter cold interspersed with the glorious sunshiny warmth. it's just too fucking confusing! and when the sky turns grey, i hunker down and dream of cake in my little fortress of warmth and comfort. when mr. monkey is around i tend to get out more, which is odd because i'm the social one in our little duo. but when he's not here, i am perfectly happy to not see anyone ever. this go around, i must remind myself that i am here for a limited engagement and so must resist this intense hermitishness.

alas, today i'm devoting to organizing this year's taxes, lest they become an unreasonable burden to tomorrow me. but first, i will brave the cold and wind, walk two blocks to the store and get myself some cake. there's very little to say about this gloomy grey cold windy sunday, other than that it's definitely a cake kind of day.

08 April, 2016

eat your salad noisily ELSEWHERE, madam

sleep has been problematic. the bed is glorious - mine, made of some woo organic free-range non-VOC-generating memory foam woven by free elves singing chi-aligning hymns. the bedding is fabulous - charcoal grey linen, wrinkled in just the right way, breathable, soft, beautiful, woven by handsome bearded hipster scandinavian fans of sigur rós and dyed with the essence of nightshade. the pillows are exceptional - filled with the underarm fuzz of virginal ducklings fed on nothing but non-GMO artisanal ancient grains and watered with artesian springs. the duvet is sublime - brimming with the pubic hair of buddhist goslings raised on the music of enya played by tibetan monks on singing bowls. the room is cool and dark. the night is long. what, then, is the shit?

imma go out on a limb and blame the endless stream of adulting i've been engaged in: buy a house, sell a condo, get taxes ready for the accountant, phone bankers, email bankers, email realtors, visit bankers, sign papers, sign other papers, all the while dealing with unexpected things that pop up...unexpectedly. last night was particularly special: i drank several glasses of red wine at my cousin's place, walked home through a beautiful mild night, got home exhausted and ready to sleep... which wouldn't come. i must have eventually dozed around midnight only to jolt awake at 3am with a raging headache. i got up, took some meds, lied back down and took a hell of a long time falling back asleep, knowing full well i had to get up early because of a morning showing. the cherry on the insomnia cake was a dream about the evil boss who made me quit my job, wherein she demanded that i pack up my salad and eat it elsewhere because my crunching was offensive to her.*

by lunch i was loopy and by the early afternoon i decided that barring an unexpected showing (i never say no to a showing!**) i'm spending the rest of friday at home. to be more precise, because of the location of the strongest interwebs, i'm spending the remainder of today in bed, its northwest corner to be exact. i have my laptop. i have my books. i have my cup of herbal tea. i have my sweatshirt and leggings. i have netflix. really, it's all that i need. and at precisely 10pm, i shall take half a sleeping pill because if there's one thing i've learned, it's that a night of really bad sleep rarely translates into a good sleep on the morrow; on the contrary, like an overtired toddler, i can be sure to toss and turn tonight unless i medicate the hell out of the situation.

and unto you, my gentle readers, i wish a great and wondrous weekend.

*i think night brain might be running out of plot lines
**which is why i haven't cooked once since i've been back. garlic smells nice to dinner guests; not so much to potential buyers***
***we're selling a sexy urban lifestyle, baby, not just a condo!