1. If some idiot in tight pants approaches you, you get to knock his ass flat.
2. There’s a penalty for Offensive Holding.
3. Getting shut down? Just call an audible.
4. There’s an actual possibility of Too Many Men On The Field.
5. Three words: Backfield in motion.
I’ve fallen a thousand times in a thousand places, but it manages to surprise me still.
I was trundling (I don’t use that word nearly enough) innocently down the hill to work, latte in hand, new iPod Touch playing nothing less than Kenny Loggins’ “Footloose” as I prepared mentally for two days of busyness and mental fatigue.
I was wearing FULL SHOES… yes, complete boots, warm and practical and Mom-approved.
I was being CAREFUL… it snowed last night, so things were a bit “fluid” out there.
But it didn’t help, evidently, because I hit an icy patch and was airborne in seconds flat.
Which is also how I landed on my knee, which caused my jeans to rip and the sidewalk to skin me right open. I’m hobbling now.
I won’t even mention how stiff my neck just got.
Oh, and the graceful latte is now just half-full, and it was mere seconds old.
I’m a little grrrr right now, so I will be doing things to try and cheer myself up today.
What a start back to the whole thing….
I’m not easily startled.
I’m one of those “keep a cool head” people who can wade into emergencies and stare down creeps and walk dark alleys without seeing a boogeyman behind every dumpster.
However.
Spiders? Turn me into a complete and total KNOB.
I see one — well, okay, a spider bigger than say, the palm of my (very small! very small!) hand, not just a mini spider fooling around on a wall, because hey! hi. it’s cool you’re here, I understand our ecosystems need you, just stay out of my pants — and my brain goes absolutely blank.
I want to be ANYWHERE BUT THERE.
Which is essentially what happened in my bathroom early this morning when I came rolling in with my happy white towels, ready for a hot shower.
There he was.
On the shower curtain.
A behemoth (okay, not really, but he wasn’t tiny AND I DON’T CARE! IT WAS SHOCKING AT 5:45 AM!) of a spider, just waiting to torture me with his very presence.
I made an immediate and involuntary squeak toy noise, and shrank back against the wall.
He was blocking my Portal to Cleanliness, and I was not impressed.
I got a magazine — Avril Lavigne was on the cover, I hoped this would help — and steeled myself to take a whack at him, but every time I moved to do it, he moved enough to startle me into dropping Avril on the ground. And there was nothing solid behind him to help the magazine out, either, so my hits lacked little punch when they actually connected.
Sigh.
That’s how I ended up not showering, pulling my hair back into a ponytail, and doing my makeup bent in from the doorway, one eye trained on the interloper at all times. I’m aware of how ridiculous that sounds, but I literally could not force myself to stay in the room with him.
Finally, he made a hardcore break for it, and that’s when I screamed.
Screamed.
At 6:15 am.
It was at this moment that three things happened:
1. I felt like a COMPLETE TOOL and started to cry. CRY. Partly because of the spider and partly because I WAS BEING A TOOL.
2. Catherine came flying out of her room (she was due up any minute, it’s okay!) to see if I was injured in some way.
3. Dean heard me scream upstairs, and texted Catherine (who he thought was the screamer) to lie and say she woke up the baby (The baby was already awake, as was Dean.)
Here’s where the story improves, mostly because Catherine has a morbid fear of mice and understands the Power of Irrational Panic in Enclosed Spaces with Unpleasant Creatures. She would do no better than I did, if it had been a mouse.
(Which it wasn’t. It was something much smaller, of course. Did I mention that I’m a tool?)
Fortunately, Catherine is NOT afraid of spiders — a power I’d been trying to access for 30 minutes by whimpering in the direction of her door (forgetting, of course that Catherine sleeps like the dead.)
Once she figured out why I was crying, she went straight into the bathroom, shut the door, and less than a minute later, I heard the toilet flush. Then she came out, patted me on the back, and it was over.
Well, except for the fact that I still felt like a tool.
It didn’t take me long to get past it once I got to work and focused on other things, but part of me continues to flail because I never wanted to be one of those girls who was scared of stuff.
Especially a screamy one.
And here’s the worst part — when I’d have a cabin full of terrified girls gathered around a much larger spider at camp, I wouldn’t hesitate to actually PICK THE DAMN THING UP and put it outside, or dispatch of it in a less poetic and earth-friendly manner with my stowed-away and incredibly heavy copy of the Fall Preview Vogue.
I was the rescuer! Not the rescuee!
I’ve become a screamy girl. LATE IN LIFE.
I think this is more depressing than the day I realized that Andrew Ridgeley was never really going to have a comeback.
And I’m still not over that.
Sigh.
Hello peaches!
(Do you mind being referred to as a fuzzy fruit that bruises easily? No? Harvey Fierstein jokes notwithstanding…)
It’s Monday already, and despite the fact that it’s sunny and fresh and cool outside in Vancouver, I’m feeling a little… oh, I don’t know… sluggish? Snailish? Decorative rock gardenish? Something likewise still?
Everyone goes on and on about how hard it is to get motivated at the beginning of the week, unless they happen to be one of those people who says things like I SLEEP THREE HOURS A NIGHT IN FIFTEEN MINUTE SHIFTS and I’M JUST THANKFUL FOR ANOTHER WEEK TO FOLLOW MY PASSIONS and LIVE EVERY DAY LIKE IT MIGHT BE YOUR LAST and MY NAME IS DAVID AND I’M A SPEED ADDICT.
I’m generally fine with week-ginnings. I’m just bloody tired TODAY for some reason.
So how about we make it easy? This blog post, that is.
Tell me…
1. What’s the weather like where you are?
2. Do you have pants on?
3. What’s the last thing you ate?
4. If you could get anything at all for Christmas — $1,000 limit — what would it be?
5. Do you like your middle name?
6. Any questions?
10. Lying under a zillion blankets while cool air pours in from my bedroom windows.
I will know I’ve found The One when he does not try and close windows on me.
I’d rather pile on another quilt than shut the windows and let everything get stuffy and stale.
I guess that’s why I wake up every morning with toasty feet and a cold nose.
Like a puppy, really.
Well, hello there!
My body continues to fall apart rather charmingly, but I’ve decided to say FINITO! to complaining about it or dwelling on the fact that my $#%@stomach@#$&$knee@#*&$lungs@#&$head hurts.
Pain is a part of life, right? If we never hurt, we’d never know the sweet relief when that hurt passes away.
Yeeeeah. Uh huh.
But enough of the whining. Moving along.
Today is a glooooooriously sunny day.
And when I say gloooooriously, I like to use a different amount of ‘o’s every time.
I love it when Vancouver spends a few days being crisp and cool like my home of yesteryear, the Canadian Prairie.
(Cue noble, sweeping music and an aerial shot of snowy fields…)
Now, when I say that I lived on the Prairie, it sounds like I was all Laura Ingalls Wilder in a dugout in the middle of nowhere, when really, I lived in actual towns and cities. With running water and electricity and nary a wall constructed from sod. And cable. But no internet, since there was no internet yet. At least not an internet for everyone. It was just for geeks back then.
Mmm, geeks.
I’m getting off track here.
Clear and cold weather is my favourite kind of weather, in a near tie with clear and warm weather, which is kind of ironic, since I live in the Clouds (I’m enjoying capitalization today!)
The Clouds have lifted for now, though. I celebrated the Lifting (see?) with a Peppermint Mocha (now it’s just getting out of hand) which thrills me with After Eightish deliciousness (why is there a Wikipedia entry about mints?)
I’m also thinking about all things Christmassy, including the Christmas Train (I HAVE TO GO THIS YEAR, DAMMIT) and my work Christmas party (I’m trying to think up something to wear. I’m not big on buying some spectacular new dress, since all the rest of my holiday parties are of the jeans-heels-pretty shirt-giant earrings variety, rather than the cocktail variety. You feel me? Okay, maybe you don’t, but any suggestions for how to work up the same black, v-neck, mildly cleavage-y, sleeveless, knee length little black dress? I’m thinking a cute red wrap and some heels and an ostentatious piece of jewelery… and also thinking this is much too long for a parenthetical remark.)
If I could be doing ANYTHING today, I’d be on a sleigh ride somewhere snowy, wrapped in blankets and all cozed in behind horses puffing steam out of their noses. HOW AWESOME WOULD THAT BE? I love that stuff.
The last “ride” I was on was on a cardboard box behind my grandfather’s LeBaron on country roads outside of Devon, AB. He attached it to the car with luggage straps and whee! we were on our way.
To this day, I have no idea why my mother was okay with this. I mean, one sudden brake and I’d have been one with the undercarriage of his car. But I think he was careful. Maybe? A little?
At least until he threw me off the box into a ditch full of brambles on a sharp turn. Did I mention I was six? Yeah.
My parents were watching from the front window of my grandparents’ home and were ready to run out and get me, but then they saw my little snowsuited body emerge from the ditch, running at a full clip. My grandfather spotted me in his rearview and slowed down (how kind!), at which point I hopped back on the box and rode for another half hour. Awesome.
Well, awesome until I walked into the house and the hot air hit my scratched-up, frozen little face. Then I was a scene from Carrie (I was going to link to an image there, but EW. EW.)
Really, I’ve always been this way.
I was putting together a Holiday Online Shopping Guide for my blog, since I am the shopping link queen on Facebook, but then it occurred to me that EVERYONE ELSE WAS DOING THAT, TOO. Meh. We’d probably all end up linking to the same things, right? And I don’t shop much online… I just BROWSE LIKE A PRO.
But if you want some holiday shopping links, I’ll post them later today.
This mocha is still awesome.
Love to all!
While I wouldn’t say I’m obsessed or anything — shut up! I’m not! — I do have a love for “product” and beauty rituals and treatments. There’s just something appealing about the way the lotions and potions smell and feel… and how they feel on me.
Not to mention that I usually end up looking at least a little bit better for the time I spend. Usually.
(We won’t get into that one masque I tried that turned my face green. Or, uh, the wax that left giant welts on my… legs.)
(Ahem.)
The funny thing is, for a girl who loves treatments, there’s a heck of a lot of treatments I’ve never had, or had with such infrequency that it surprises my like-minded (like-treated?) friends.
The only things I’ve really done routinely are brow waxes (I do love my brows) and manicure-pedicures (which would seem silly, given my lack of toenails and my stupid fingernails, but walking around barefoot and typing all day take their toll.)
But.
Massages? One in my whole life. Which is actually impressive for a girl who breaks herself as often as I do. And it was a nice massage, don’t get me wrong. But hello? 80 bucks to make me feel less wonky for about a day? Riiiiight.
Arcrylic/gel nails? Well, a) they scare me, and b) my nails are shaped like tiny ski ramps. You can’t even GLUE a good nail onto those suckers. And they scare me a little anyway, like clowns do.
Makeup application? No one but me has ever done my makeup. Not even at some beauty counter. Not at a salon. Not for an event. Nada. I have no idea why, but I just don’t like people touching my face unless they’re planning to kiss me. And if you’re gonna kiss me, you should probably stop applying my lip gloss, yeah?
I’ve had maybe six salon haircuts in my whole life. And I’ve never had a salon updo (oy, they can go wrong SO fast) or a perm or whatnot. I’m actually a little scared of hairdressers. And the highlights I got? Turned green. Huzzah!
So.
Facials were another pool into which I had never dipped my toe. I think it had something to do with the “Don’t touch my face!” thing, as well as the “I’m not paying you $80 bucks to touch my face!” thing. I can do most of this stuff myself, you know?
I’ve been reading how to’s and trying vials and vats of stuff for 20 years. I ran spa nights for groups of women. Why would I shell out for that?
But, as with all things in my life, eventually I look my choices in the eye and go, “Eh. Try it once.”
So I did. With my dear Catherine. We went to get facials (and our eyebrows done) as a part of her Christmas/Birthday present (since they happen awfully close together, in about a month.)
I think it’s funny I got myself her birthday present, too, but hey… it was a fun shared experience, right?
And an illuminating experience.
(I’m not even talking about the shockingly bright light she shone onto my shameful pores, though I wouldn’t have wanted to see myself like that, no way, no how.)
It was pretty good, I’ll admit. Except for when she kept massaging over my nose and cutting off my one good nasal passage, which would lead me to open my mouth to breathe… and then she’d massage that part of my face so I’d have to close my mouth. I would get half breaths and no more, which isn’t super relaxing.
But I did learn a lot.
Apparently, the following is true of my skin:
1. It’s not oily, it’s dry. Everything I use on it? WRONG. WRONG, I TELL YOU. WRONG. Which sounded like a complete load of crap until she asked me all sorts of questions about how my skin behaves and lo… she was right.
2. Blemishes I get are from a) hormones (out of my control as a function of my disorder… and apparently out of control in general) and b) me stripping the crap out of my (it’s oily! I thought!) face. Well. And she’s like, “Sorry, do you have any?” Well, I THOUGHT I DID.
3. I have giant pores. Wait, I knew that. But! They were not all clogged. Not even most! Granted, she reefed the HELL out of the ones that were, but apparently? Good skin. Not even 33 year-old skin. And minimal sun damage? What? Seriously? That’s just dumb luck at this point.
4. My eyebrows? Wickedly resistant to plucking. Which I always thought. I mean, you have to really PLUCK to get those suckers out. She says it’s the dark hair. I say they are Follicles of Satan.
So. I have to buy new products.
I am grinning. Woohoo!
Dry skin products always seemed more lovely and soothing and intense and squooshy than the oily skin products, which feel kind of like Lysol combined with dish soap and a little bit of sand.
Even if you put the words “refreshing” and “clarifying” all over them — as though you were taking a mini-vacation of some sort, a vacation of clean — they’re still pretty fierce.
So bring on the love!
Any recommendations?
Reality television. In any form.
Pop psychology.
Parents being competitive on their children’s behalf.
Large belts cinching everything.
Heel calluses.
Celebrity pregnancies.
The size of my butt.
Sunday night stress-outs.
Hair extensions.
The term “snark”.
My wireless router’s issue with my bedroom.
Horror movie remakes.
Juices with too many kinds of juice in them.
Passive-aggressiveness.
The monochromatic shirt/tie combo.
The looking-through-of-boxes went off without a hitch last night, though I have to say it was surreal to be reunited with strange items like my Rowlf the Dog Ceramic Piano and the now-mangled trophy I received for winning the Journalism 12 award (in grade ten.)
Sometimes it surprises me to look back and see the things I loved (a doll that smelled like oranges?), and sometimes, it makes absolute sense… because I still love those things.
What things?
Well, my Kermit the Frog with velcro flippers, my Snoopy doll with the wardrobe of clothes (including his rainwear, his baseball uniform, his surgical scrubs, and his track suit), and my “minky”: a large, fluffy monkey my Uncle Dave bought for me when I was six or seven.
Now, initially, I did not like the minky, because he was as big as my upper body and furry in a way that none of my other animals were. I believe I rejected him on sight, actually, which led to a series of follow-up gifts attempting to win back my heart (probably a bad precedent to set, but it worked out just fine for me.)
Fortunately (as with half the guys I’ve dated) I got past his weird looks and hairiness and fell utterly in love.
(With the minky, not my Uncle Dave.)
I also got to re-discover a bunch of my old elementary-age poetry and some report cards that indicated that a) I had an oddly vocal sense of humour in first grade; and b) I did not feel math was relevant to my future (grade three.)
I’ll be posting some photos of my “art” and excerpts from such fine treatises as “How To Care For a Dog” and “Lola and Lana the Christmas Mice”. Oh, and the photo of me winning the pumpkin carving contest in second grade in which the pumpkin and I are missing the same tooth.
Awesome.
I don’t know about you, but when I think of things that are fun to do at 4:30 in the morning, sitting in an ambulance wearing only a quilt and woolly boots is right up there.
Well, and pajamas, yes, but no one was going to see THOSE.
We woke early this morning to our fire alarm having a hissy fit and the distinct, cringe-worthy smell of smoke.
After checking to make sure that we weren’t the ones that set everything off (did we leave the cider on? The tree plugged in? are we running a meth lab?), we grabbed something to cover ourselves and ran out to the front porch, where we met our neighbours and their baby. Catherine called 911 and within another couple moments, our downstairs neighbour had joined us, too.
Fully clothed, mind you. With his laptop bag. Smart guy.
I started thinking of all the things I should go in and grab, but then we heard the sirens.
Lots of sirens.
And then they arrived.
Four police cars with eight police folks.
One ambulance with two paramedics.
Two fire engines with at least nine firemen.
My goodness.
Gorgeousness all around, and me looking like an ottoman with a bad slipcover. Ole!
They looked a bit hesitant to go in the house (given the uncertain origin of the smoke) but in a few moments, they were tromping about on all levels.
And instead of worrying about the place burning into oblivion, I was asking myself sage questions like:
Do I have bad breath?
Did I leave underwear on the floor?
How does one accentuate one’s figure with a blanket?
Sigh. Shameful.
They finally loaded us into the ambulance (since the temperature was well into the single digits) and so we (Dean, Karen, baby Presley, Catherine and I) sat and laughed at the fact that Karen had remembered to snag her most expensive purse after taking care of her most important concern (Presley, naturally.)
Oh, and we had to mock my attire. Because I was rocking a look I swore I’d never even try.
Uggs with bare legs.
So how does the story end?
They let us back into our apartment after divining that our furnace motor was on fire (!!!) and pumping smoke through the house. It ceased to be a problem once the furnace was turned off. So we’ll be chilly for a couple of days if our landlord doesn’t get it fixed up soon.
Dean and Karen went off to Starbucks (that baby was UP) and brought me a latte.
I was a half-hour early for work.
I’m frickin’ tired.
And how are you?
