I want one!

Look how pretty!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! You can read about them here.

Taking one for the team

L’histoire de Melody Nelson arrived chez Figaro yesterday, as he told me in the following words: “Yeah, so, I got your Cameltoe Classics CD.” That does look quite vicious, doesn’t it?









I need a haircut, I’m starting to look like an Old Man of the Andes. Also this will be the one that finally cuts out the tiny remnants of a crap streak job a well-meaning retard gave me before I started my master’s in 2003, and which a series of hairdressers has tried to mask since. 2003, bitches. My god my god my god. If time seems to spin wildly backwards over a series of bewildering events when I’m 27, I’ll be completely barking mad by the time I hit menopause.

Anyways, I’d get a haircut today but I’m going to Montréal after work for Miss T’s wedding. Everybody is getting married or pregnant these days, it’s like cholera. J*Fish just got word from an ex that she is heavy with child. I remember the first time one of my exes had a baby. I soooo knew he was going to have the baby, and I knew he’d have it the 12 months after I left town forever that he did. It made me feel a little funny, though. A rather shameful cocktail of ‘thank god we used protection’ and ‘oh, er, technically don’t his balls belong to me? Shouldn’t he have asked permission?’

Anyways again, this is Miss T’s wedding, the one with all the mathematicians. When I went to her shower a month or so ago it was proclaimed to the room that as the only unambiguously single female guest, and one Miss T, at least, knew parts of the checkered sexual history of, I was going to have to single-handedly marathon circle-jerk the hordes of single mathematicians in attendance, or something – the women making such statements were quite prim, some religious, so it was more words to that effect. No longer being unambiguously single aside, it wasn't cool . . . so I must give this advice to any unslutty ladies reading this blog.

Please don’t let that needling inner voice that wonders if you’ve missed out by never being loose lure you into entertaining abstract Miller-esque grandiosities about sluttery. Honestly, there is an element of personal choice involved. Women who like fucking around when they're single aren’t giant voracious snatches going through life in a perpetual state of moist readiness, and it isn't reasonable to assume they're going to jump into every high-density-of-single-man situation with open legs and a lasso. An Italian sophomore engineering boy’s dorm, maybe; a party of single Canadian mathematicians in their late 20’s, less so. Women who sleep with anything aren’t sluts, they’re dealing with some sort of complex. Just as you may well be if you espouse the bizarre belief that the percentage of the female population easily identified as sluts is endlessly occupied by finding strategies to fuck their indiscriminate ways through the mindless miasma of their own uncontrollable lust.

Whew, I feel better now.

My darling, I can't get enough of your love

Oh, bring my baby back to me . . . I’m bluer than blue can be and though experiments in flapjackery set my mood right for awhile, their reefer butter has made the past two days catastrophes of hovering up every scrap of the delicious food that crossed my path and viewing the world from the interior of a calm, lazy, pretty glass box. Yesterday I burst into an uncontrollable giggling fit that ended in a wheezing fit of choking in front of the company director when I found this little exchange. You know how I feel about Noam Chomsky so it came very close to killing me, getting me fired, and making me pee myself all at the same time. Multi-tasking.

I’m trying to rabidly dislike Noam Chomsky less. Figaro is a fan – ah, you know, I’d promised myself to not waste vacation time arguing about something we evidently inextricably disagree on, but you know what happens when you get an Aries and a Sagittarian into a political discussion in a galley kitchen after they smoke hydro. More importantly, though, since people generally disagree about things even if they adore each other and that’s fine, is that the lovely book I’m wrapped up in now, the Singing Neanderthals, mentions Chomsky’s linguistic ideas calmly and undismissively, which is making me think I should look at them more and not just be pissed off by what a dick he is. The more I read this Mithen book the more enchanted I am. I'm glad I only got it after going on a little psycho-linguists kick to help put all the terms into context but everybody would like it, I bet. Particularly if thier short term memory is uninhibited.

Last night I talked to my analyst about how I might want to be an analyst, which hadn’t come up over the twelve sessions preceding last night or on the sheet he’d had me fill out at the beginning of analysis about why I wanted to be in analysis. He didn’t give me shit about not telling him, though he did write it down in his little book and say 'Fair enough', which is one of those phrases that can mean anything from smothered rage to pleased indifference. While I won’t tell you the rather startling conclusions we came to about it, I’ll tell you we discussed a dream that had me as part of a band of mindless vampires armed with acid-filled waterguns on the prowl through an old warehouse, stalking two men who turned out to be Trey Parker and Matt Stone. When I realized it was them we were hunting to the death, I threw myself between them and the guns, and then in the next scene I was being baptized by a street-cleaner in a hospital bed. All good fun.

I’ve got class coming out of me arse, mate

Questo riepilogo non è disponibile. Fai clic qui per visualizzare il post.

Rodelinda

She came for lunch with her young man. Both lovely examples of humanity. She brought me these. And she brought me these. Neither is available in Canada.

The chocolate-covered ones are already gone - the Muscles from Brussels in the cubicle next door helped, but mostly it was me. And I'm not even nearly sorry. Except there aren't anymore. I'm going to eat the plain ones tomorrow. Or now? Tomorrow? Now? I feel like Faye Dunaway at the end of Chinatown.

Maybe I should bring them to Luke Duke's house tonight . . . but I'm bringing him those yummy bagels from Ottawa . . . yes, I think it's safe to say they're all mine, the pretties . . . I'll share them with the Muscles again so I don't feel too greedy.

Mmmmmmmmm.

Mmmmmmmmm.

I'll give up refined sugar tomorrow.

(10 minutes pass. Mistress La Spliffe falls on her knees.)

"Dear Jeebus, please help me. I am full of sugar and ginger from Marks and Spencers and work is going to last for another hour. Please pull the fire alarm so I can leave and have a little bike ride, or run around the block, or coitus with a lazy man, or SOMETHING.

Jeebus?

Jeebus? I'm twitching!"

Pure synchronicity

Last night I heard out of the blue from Sam Craig's mum after posting his picture, and it was his six-month birthday. It's nice to know my unconscious can remember people's birthdays, even if my brain can't. Also nice to know Sam Craig is on the opposite end of the astrological spectrum from the Swiss - can't help but be good news.

Lady was writing some about how people who think she's silly for her affinity for astrology should stick thier arms up their bums. I stare at the night sky and am awed and enchanted by the vast indifference of it all, so I guess I should take a cue from that guy in Pink Flamingos and start practicing opening my asshole before I FINALLY see her Thursday. Although I do pay attention to astrology, less in terms of what I should do and more in terms of who people are. I once thought that the time of year you're born would impact your personality from the amount of time your mum spent dressing you and walking you and shit, but then I realized Figaro, the classiest of Aries, had opposite seasons in the moon-man country he comes from. So now I say we all have obvious personality elements of all the sun signs, and paying attention to astrology helps me notice them and divergences from them, and anything that can help me figure out the people around me is a Very Good Thing.

Anyways, felt a damn pronounced sort of mood indigo last night, missed my baby so bad, and it was getting to the point of that awful tinny fatigue of real depression, so I decided to fight back with getting rid of the refined sugar. It hurts, because I love refined sugar. But there’s one thing I love more than refined sugar besides reefer and sex and the people I love and truth and justice and fried food. And that, sweethearts, is maple syrup. So I did my laundry and invented a new flapjack recipe.

1.5 cup rolled oats
3 tablespoons milled flaxseeds
3 tablespoons poppyseeds

2 pears – the funny crispy juicy ones the Korean sells - neutered, peeled, and chopped up
1 cup chopped dried apricots

2 tablespoons runny honey
6 tablespoons maple syrup
2 tablespoons strong reefer butter

Mixed all the ingredients over low heat on the stove, patted them into a 7 X 7 inch baking tray, and baked them at 320F for 20 minutes. Cut them into bars, smoked a bowl, ate, and started a book called The Singing Neanderthals. Felt better. In fact, felt bathed in the warm and loving light of existence. Those are some happy fucking flapjacks, though I should have chopped the fruit finer and I reckon some nice chopped almonds would be good for those who aren’t allergic. And the Singing Neanderthals is interesting enough to warrant its own entry some day. I am going to start speaking to people again today.

Ohhhhh, Rodelinda is coming to the office for lunch, that'll be nice - goodness knows when I'll get back to Oxford to see her. Rodelinda is sweet in many ways, but one of the sweetest is the way she laughs at me when I talk about boys. Most people laugh at my cynicism, but she laughs at me when I get all soft, and, as a classic Sagittarius, I respond well to being laughed at.

Cute days have tracked us down

To all of those who know him, or will soon, look at adorable . . . uhm, if he's old enough to appear in a blog he's old enough to have a pseudonym - Sam Craig, the offspring of Mme. and M. C. of Kanata, lolling on the lap of one of her mother's I-drank-so-much-last-night-I'm-still-drunk-and-this-baby-on-my-lap-knows-it friends (me). He's a great baby.

The photo was taken chez Blonde Bitch, with whom I had a really cute day zipping around on her motor scooter and being attacked by her two gorgeous cats, one of whom was such a sweet little kitten I could have fainted, and this thing refuses to let me upload the other pictures, either of the motor scooter or the kitten.

Boooooooo. Blonde Bitch is so good at sending photos and I'm so crap at knowing what to do with them. At least you all get to see Sam Craig.

All they do is smell bad and smoke pot

Little to say this morning. Long-haul buses suck and Northern Ontario is beautiful, in about the same proportion.

Being involved with a person is scary because it makes you stare hard at the future. When you hear the word 'indefinitely', or think it, and it all seems so long - not to be together, not to love each other, but to colloborate when you've never colloborated with anybody for more than a couple years. But then, also irresistibly exciting.

And this morning's fruit smoothie has been made with flax seeds instead of bourbon; I'm out of ginger so it tastes like some sort of hippie peanut butter. Grr. The Red Dragon is gone so there's no power to my annoyance.

Oh. Today is May Day, that big old Commie holiday, and also the birthday of the Swiss, which alway struck me as hilarious since he was the last of the McCarthyites. Memories of him make me nervous - not because of all the ways he swore he'd kill me, I could take the bandy-legged little fucker, but what great evidence he is of how I don't know how to choose'em.

Oh Great Communist Overlord in the Sky, make me smart and clever this year . . . Have a nice week my doves!

North Bay is strange

Still home, not for much longer. I think four days is the optimum here - not too much, not too little. Anyhoo. North Bay is strange. I went out with my brother last night, met his much nicer new girlfriend and his crazy but funny neighbour who told some quaint old off-colour jokes. Then I woke up super early still kinda drunk in my brother's motorcycle room, went to Twiggs with him on his way to the firehall, and went home.

North Bay is strange. North Bay is a troggy Dundas and Jarvis with a low enough population density and high enough purchasing power that people don't shoot each other. And then the 5% of the population that isn't troggy has the room to breathe, and the landscape is breathtaking. Still. People fucking gossip. Trogs or not. They talk about each other here. They talk. They invent the wildest rumours. I had a safe childhood here but I don't think I could do North Bay to a child . . . I don't know . . . I don't know what kind of mother I'd be . . . I think I need lots of money so I can buy the fruit of my loins a much nicer woman from the Philippines to take care of it. My point is, North Bay is strange.

Quick plug - James Sroga, an amiable and adorable punk from my highschool, has a tattoo parlour in the arcade between Main and Oak. If you're ever passing through North Bay, don't omit to have him physically manipulate you somehow.