And she goes and gets nostaligic on New Year's Eve

Who woulda thunk?

So, years ago, I used to work in this hotel in the middle of nowhere Yukon, miles away from anything, flat dab in the middle of the Alaska Highway. The No-Man's Land of Cruiseship Bus Tours. The town's population was 88 year round, our hotel housed about 80 seasonal staff members, and when the tour buses pulled into town at 6 a.m. each morning, our population tripled.

Our staff and the locals got close. We were stuck together. The nearest next town was four and a half hours over the shittiest, dustiest road you could dream of over the border in the states. You had to go that far to get a newspaper, since our town's only gas station didn't carry them, and neither did any of the 4 bars or 4 hotels that existed for a town with a population of 168 people. We loved each other, but we were all sick to death of each other.

The hotel company recognized that our small town's staff had a morale problem, based on the high number of employee attempted suicides and homicides, and sent an expert consultant from the home base in the U.S.A. out to "deal with us." In the three days she visited, she called each staff member into her temporary office individually, told us to call her by her first name--Anne-- gave us her phone number and cell number in Georgia, in case we "ever just needed to talk to a friend," asked us if we'd seen other staff members smoke drugs--she could "get them help", she "wasn't there to judge." She wondered if any of us were lesbians and if it bothered us that there were so many lesbians on staff. She wanted to know how we "felt" about that--whatever we felt, she wanted us to know it was "o.k." She told us that even though we might not think so, we were a HUGE priority at head office and an important part of the corporate team. She greeted us each by name in the staff cafeteria, loudly complimented the staff cook who had been attempting to hide grated carrots in every dish for 3 months, sat with us all and moved from table to table so everyone could feel a "connection" with her.

Anne declared it should be Christmas. We worked hard for four months a year. We were "like a family," and since we couldn't have Christmas together in December, we should have it together in July, she said. The management seemed super excited about this--they were all "right behind it." Boy, they looked like they were ready to jump up and down when they told us about it, the way they all stood in a line facing us and grinning madly; even Kerry, the mustachioed secret-stoner desk manager, who'd been up playing poker and drinking all night with the rest of us underlings with whom the management was discouraged from spending leisure time.

Many of us were Scrooge-like about the idea. Bah humbug and all that jazz. This idea was stupid. Who wanted to celebrate Christmas in July, when it was 33 degrees outside and we were being eaten alive by mosquitoes and old people from Florida and North Dakota?!

Then they told us there would be a talent competition. Each hotel's department would team up and compete. And there would be a $100 dollar prize for group performance, and another $100 for individual performers. Also, the hotel's general manager decided it would be open bar--on the house!--Christmas and all...

Suddenly the hotel was alive with the holiday spirit! We put up trees and decorated them. We cheerfully told bewildered tourists that in the Yukon we celebrate Christmas in July! They were confused and just wanted their prunes and whole wheat toast and a map before they left, but they seemed happy for us, and thrilled with the strange fine friendly Canadian youth they'd met.

All I knew is that my group, the waiters, were bound to win. We were the most talented and scrappiest lot of misfits in the whole town, and goshdarnit, we were going to win that money and get right fucked up while doing it! I was determined. And so I gathered the gang together.

"What do ya say gang--for old time's sake--have we gotta show, or have we gotta show?!"

"Hell yeah!" cheered the plucky waiters, and we all set to work making props, sewing costumes from the sheets we stole from the laundry department, and practicing our act.

I was ruthless as a director, but I knew these kids had it in 'em. We might have to eat this show, sleep this show and breathe this show for the next three days and nights, but by God, if I had to bleed it out of them, I was going to take this rag-tag team of ribs salesmen and make them STARS!

To be continued...

The kid and Christmas

He just came running in from his friend's house, breathless and jumping up and down, and then he said, ""I'm so essited because it's dark which means it's night soon and that means Santa's coming, and I think I'm not on the naughty list, I'm on the good list because I've been nice to kids at school and because I got a whole bunch of stars and also I told his helper that I wanted a Gameboy and she told him and I know he was going back to the North Pole and I think she told him in time and oh mom what kind of cookies are we going to give him and how the heck is he going to get into our house when we don't have a chimney?!"

I Pity da Fool Who Tries to Bring Me Down This Season!

You know, I've never been one of those obnoxiously cheerful people who live for the holidays, but this year I'm in a good mood. I think it was bolstered by the fact that last week, I found the perfect Christmas tree. It is gorgeous, and as soon as I figure out how to work the digital camera, I will put a picture up. My house is reasonably clean, the presents I've chosen for everyone are hilarious and perfect, and soon it will be over and I can relax. Today I avoided all holiday shopping apart from one place--took the lad to the comic book store near our house and while he chose something for himself, I wound up finding the BEST stocking stuffer for my brother....it's a Mister T keychain, and when you press a button, Mr. T's voice says things like, "Don't mess wid me, suckah," "Quit your baby jibber-jabberin," "First name Mister, middle name period, and last name T," and of course, the all time holiday favourite, "I pity da fool!"

Merry Christmas, Happy Hannukah and a great Festivus or whatever y'all celebrate, fools!

YES!!!!!

I am finally finished this semester. Many down, one left to go. Just breezed through my last exam, and I have one more day of work left before a ten day break--I am psyched! This means I might actually write a decent blog or two soon--and I know I've been a lousy blog visitor too, but all that will change--can't wait to see what you've all been up to! Already I'm beginning to feel human again--this robot life of work, work, work is not for me my friends.

Freak Magnet

Go Freak Magnet you're burning up the quarter mile--Freak Magnet, go Freak Magnet!
You are supreme, the freaks'll cream for Freak Magnet....


In case you haven't already guessed this, I am a freak magnet of the highest order. If there is a freak anywhere within a ten mile radius, he will automatically gravitate towards me. Maybe it's something about my face...I don't think I have a kind face, but who knows? Strangers tell me their problems in line-ups. The wasted guy who is just about to get kicked out of the club? He's in love with me. Old ladies who want to talk about cats? Seem to think I want them to talk to me. The sleeping guys on my way to work? Know me by name--some of them have taken to trying to hug me as I walk by. Mimes stalk me...getting the idea?

Nowhere, however, is my freak-magnetism more powerful than it is on the bus. Ah, buses! Rolling cans of freaks! And trust me, my latest freak encounter only made me more determined to buy a Hummer and start polluting this planet as fast as I can. I would be doing humanity a favour.

Yeah, so as I mentioned last week, I went to Vancouver. I was planning to fly, but the whole city became blanketed in fog for days, and therefore I was forced to take the ferry. It wasn't so terrible on the way, but they way back? The worst.

First off, I just missed the last flight out of town, so I had to run to the bus station. I decided instead of taking a cab, I'd take the Skytrain to the station...during rush hour. Holy cow...if I'd been blindfolded, I would have been convinced I was in a Japanese subway, it was so packed. I almost missed my stop, it was so hard getting out the door, but after shoving a few old people out of the way, I was free again.

So, I run into the station and pay for a bus ticket to the ferry terminal, and I'm annoyed, because had I caught my flight, I would have been home in twenty minutes. Instead, I have to wait in a crappy bus station for an hour, then an hour's ride to the ferry, then an hour and a half to Victoria and then another hour to downtown and then to my house. Crazy. Yes, I know people LOVE taking the ferry between Vancouver and Victoria, but I am not one of those people. I live on this island, and I've seen enough killer whales for a lifetime. I just want to get out, and when I come back, I just want to be back.

Anyways, after much waiting (and after being given the hairy eyeball by several bus station freaks lurking about just looking for a freak magnet like me) the boarding announcement is finally made for my bus. I get on and make myself comfortable. Then realize I left my headphones (and my hairdryer, and my book and about twenty other little things) in my hotel (I was a bit foggy when I left, if you know what I mean) so I had nothing to do except stare into space. Which is fine. I'm good at space staring, and it was dark and the seats were comfortable, so I settled in, closed my eyes and then....

"HARUMPH!" This loud bark came from behind me. A huge force started thrusting my seat forward until my nose was almost touching the seat in front of me. Kick, kick, kick. Shove, shove, shove. This woman behind me appeared to be moving furniture back there. I cast an annoyed glance at her, but she seemed oblivious. Finally she stopped shoving and my seat went back to normal. Stillness. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes again.

Then the panting began. My God, I have never heard anyone pant like that by themself and I used to be competitive long distance runner and have a very healthy sexual appetite, so trust me, I know from panting. This was bizarre. I've never heard an elephant pant, but I imagine it would sound just like the noise coming from this woman. I tried to be patient. But this went on for ten minutes. Other passengers started looking at each other with this, "Can you believe this?" expression. Then her cell-phone rang.

"Hello?" she screamed. "Harold, is that you? Harold, I'm on a bus...Harold, I think we have a bad connection--can you hear me? CAN YOU HEAR ME, HAROLD?!"

Oh my God. I'm pretty sure half the lower-mainland could hear her, so Harold must be really hard of hearing.

"Harold, the funeral was AWFUL."

Oh no, I felt bad. This poor woman. Sure she was obnoxious and had no consciousness of space or sound, but wow...the poor thing had just been to a funeral. I felt horrible for thinking such awful thoughts about her.

"Harold, I have NEVER been to a more boring funeral in my life. Speech after speech after speech. It was terrible. I don't know who organized this thing, but they should be fired. I think every student he ever had spoke. It was just horrendous. I almost fell asleep....WHAT? Oh, she's fine. I mean, actually, she was in good spirits. I mean, sure she's sad, her husband just died, but actually she seemed really cheerful. Still, I don't know what she was thinking letting all those students talk on and on like that! Worst funeral ever!"

I stopped feeling bad for thinking terrible things about this woman.

"Harold, tell me, how's Jane's breasts? How's the MASTITIS?!" she screamed. More looks were exchanged by fellow passengers. I tried my best evil eye on her, but she was fully entrenched in thoughts of Jane's breasts. "Harold, tell me...has the baby latched on yet? To the nipple. The NIPPLE! OH MY GOD. How are they feeding that thing?! No, no, no. No, they have to get her onto a bottle. Well, if you really think that they should keep breast feeding that's fine. Tell her to make the baby root. WHAT?! I said root! Make it want the nipple! The Nipple! Are they swollen? Well, they can try warming the nipple. Ok...ok, tell her to call me."

She hung up. All passengers collectively sighed with relief. Then the phone rang. "Jane? Jane is that you?! Yes, on the bus. AWFUL funeral...so dull! Oh, he would have loved it, he was such a blowhard...how are your nipples?!"

This conversation continued in that vein for the rest of the ride to the ferry terminal. She shouted through all of the driver's announcements. I was so relieved to get out of that bus, I didn't care.

The ferry ride was uneventful...I bumped into my old friend M and she and I had a good hour and a half gossip session, then it was time to go back to the bus. I prayed that the woman would be getting picked up at the terminal, and was thrilled to see she wasn't on the bus when I reboarded and made my way back to my seat. It was late and pitch-black out now, so I closed my eyes and prepared to sleep all the way to downtown.

Then THUNK. Thump, thump, harumph, sigh, sigh, kick kick kick, wriggle wriggle wriggle, shove shove shove. She was back. Still yammering on her cell phone, despite the announcement that no cells should be used until the ferry docked. She sat behind me. I closed my eyes again, willing her to move to another seat, but to no avail. Then it was quiet. Blessedly quiet. I began to drift off.

Suddenly I heard this horrible noise...it sounded like multiple cats being swung around by their tails. It was worse than nails on a chalk board. It was coming from her.

"AAAAAAAAAAVVVVVEEEEEEE MAREEEEEEEE-AHHHHH," she shrieked at the top of her lungs. She had headphones on and presumably was listening to a mixed cd of opera "hits." Everyone was staring at her, but she didn't seem phased at all. I dug my finger nails into the arms of my chair and bit my lip. I began to look for the hidden camera. I had to be on some kind of jokester reality show--no one on earth could really be this clueless and obnoxious in an enclosed space, right? I forced myself to ignore her, but the shrieking went on and on and on. Sometimes she would stop, and I would think, "Oh thank God, she's stopped," but then she'd take one of those giant elephant breaths and start up again. It was horrific. I have never heard a sound like that come from anything human.

Finally I couldn't take it anymore. Maybe all my years of passiveness in the face of freaks had come to this. I turned around and stared directly at her until she took off the headphones.

"Yes?" she asked.

"Stop it," I said.

"I'm sorry?" she shrieked.

"Everyone on this bus can hear you singing. Please, stop it NOW."

She stopped. Everyone on the bus shot me a look of gratitude. I am pretty sure I have finally broken my freak curse. I stood up for the good of all, and the Freak shut up. It was magic.

Vancouver Bound

Hey kids,

I know I've been a lousy absentee blogger lately. This full-time job, full-time school and single mom combo is killing me. The semester is almost done and miraculously, I'm still standing and managing to pass these courses. But every girl needs a break, so I'm taking one tomorrow night. My friend and I are hanging out in Van--I booked a nice suite in a 5 star hotel (I get discounts) and I got mailed a 2 for one coupon at my favourite spa in Yaletown, so we've got facials lined up on Saturday...good thing too, because we will be partying on Friday night and we'll need to detoxify!

After that, I have two more papers and a couple of exams to get through and then one more easy semester of film studies all the time, and that's it! Graduation! I never thought I'd see the day. Boy am I glad to be getting out of school. There's a girl in one of my classes who's 18. I realized the other day that she was only one the first time I went to University. A horrible, horrible realization, especially since I'm way too immature to be old enough to be this girl's mom!

My kid the Skaterpunk

Alright, I don't do the shameless cutesy parent thing very often, but humour me--how funny is this pic?

Dance, Dirtbag!

The Break-Up

We met when I was eighteen and it was love at first sight. Since then, we've shared everything--our ups and downs, our fears, our deepest secrets, our greatest hopes. We could always count on each other, and through the years, we grew closer. Our trust could not be broken.

But lately, I feel like something has changed. There's something missing. We don't communicate anymore. I don't feel understood. And though it kills me to say this...

I think I might have to break up with my hairdresser.

I met her when my high school boyfriend dragged me to a Supercuts so he could get his hair cut for a school photo. I had been to several high-end salons that month, trying to get my hair cut super short, but all of the hairdressers I went to refused to cut it--they wanted me compromise and get a long bob, or come back in a week after I had thought about it. I'm not one to ponder a haircut. I wanted it short and I wanted it done now. So while the boyfriend was getting his hair trimmed, I walked over to the other hairdresser in the place, sat in her chair and said, "Can you cut it all off?!"

Her grin lit up the whole room. Well, actually, it was probably the flourescent lighting that lit up the room, but we had a connection. I could feel it. We had chemistry. She understood what I wanted, and she was willing to give it to me. That kind of hairdresser doesn't come along every day. It was magic. She snipped away furiously and we talked non-stop. I told her all about my boyfriend and she gushed about what a cute couple we made. Halfway through the haircut she turned my chair away from the mirror so I'd be surprised when she was done. I knew it would be ok. I trusted her. She took her time, avoiding the dreaded razor and clippers that so many lazy hairdressers are quick to reach for when cutting short hair. We laughed hysterically about boys and tv shows. Finally she was finished, and she spun me around to face myself, minus the 8 inches of hair I'd walked in with.

It was perfect. It was short like Mia Farrow's and it made my eyes look huge. My boyfriend just about fell over. And the best part? It cost me only ten bucks. Supercuts, remember?

I continued seeing her. When I dumped the high school boyfriend she said, "He was never right for you," but she liked the sound of my new boyfriend. She really GOT my hair, and she was always excited when I wanted a change. When I arrived at her salon, she would aways say, "I was so happy when I saw you on the appointment list and I have some pictures of haircuts I think would be amazing on you!" The weird part? We had always chosen the exact same pictures. It was kismet. We were perfect together.

She became quite popular and her client list grew, and over time she moved up and on to newer and better salons. Sure, it would cost me more, but a good haircut from someone like her was worth it, because I always knew I'd walk out thrilled.

But then I moved to the Yukon, and I would only get to see her every six months or so. You would think the distance would have taken a toll on our relationship, but somehow it just made our love stronger. She would plan haircuts for me that were so well-thought out that I wouldn't have to visit another stylist the whole time I was away. Whenever I grew my hair from short to long, she styled it so perfectly that I never had that in-between look.

One day I came home from the Yukon and called the salon where she worked, and the unimaginable happened. The receptionist told me she'd left. I begged the girl on the phone to tell me where she'd gone, but she would only tell me that my beloved hairdresser had fallen in love with some guy and moved to Calgary. How could she do this to me?! How could she leave me?! No note, no phone call...nothing. My heart was broken.

For three years I suffered through inferior haircuts. Ok, sure, some tried...I had some good times with a few hairdressers, but none of them got me like she did, and I always felt a little dirty after each cut, like somehow she would know. None of them had that magic we had together. I grew depressed, knowing that no one would ever really understand my hair like she did. It was devastating.

Then one grey and gloomy afternoon, I was walking past a near-deserted mini-mall in town, and as I passed a salon there, out of the corner of my eye, I thought, "My God--it's her!" Could it really be true? How could she have been in town without me knowing? It seemed too good to be true. I steeled myself for disappointment, and then I opened the door to the salon. The little bells on the door twinkled and she turned towards me and we both screamed in joy!

"They told me you'd left and fallen in love and gone to Calgary!" I cried.

"No, I've been here the whole time! My boss canned all the staff and hired a whole team of Aveda graduates and then stole our client lists! I had no way to call anyone! I will never let this happen again! I tried to find you but you aren't listed in the phone book!"

I was on top of the world. Fate had brought us back together. We nearly cried catching up--she was shocked and thrilled to learn I'd had a child and had returned to university. I was blown away to find out she'd finally left her live-in boyfriend who kept dragging his feet whenever the M word came up. Life was good. Everything was finally as it should be.

Except my hair.

I don't know what happened in those three years we were apart...maybe it's too painful for her to speak of-- maybe her old boss's actions killed something inside her--but she had become obsessed with layers, and convinced my hair looked great with them. The worst thing ever began happening...I would look fantastic in the salon and then an hour later, when I tried to style it myself, my hair would look limp and ordinary. Sure, I still love seeing her. We still talk, we still have that connection, but she really likes my hair short and she really likes these layers. In the entire time I've known her, I've never had to put limits on our relationship. I never had to say "not too short and cut it out with the layers." But now? Now I'm not so sure.

I've been avoiding her. A few months ago when I was getting my hair coloured at Aveda, I even cheated on her a little and let the stylist cut a quarter of an inch off my hair to get rid of the split ends. I'm riding a slippery slope, I know.

My hair is past my shoulders now. It needs a cut. I'm thinking something shoulder skimming and kind of blunt with slightly long bangs that I can comb to the side if I hate them. But how can I communicate this to her? Can our relationship survive this?

I'm not sure I'm ready to find out.

If you don't have anything nice to say, come sit next to me!

That line is just about the only thing I found palatable in Steel Magnolias. Today it suits my mood. I feel like a bitch. A complete and utter bitch. Not because of anything I've done recently, although certainly I've repeatedly had to stifle the urge to hurl myself at various morons and prevent myself from angrily gnawing their flesh apart with my teeth, or at least resist my desire to give them a sound dressing-down. No, I feel like a bitch because I have let myself get run-down and the universe is apparently out to get me. I know, it's so boring to read people's complaints, but c'mon, it's me! We're friends, right?

So here's what's bugging me. I have an inner ear infection. Do you know how embarrassing it is to be 35 years old and have to call work to take the day off for an ear infection? Because, you know, I'm really four. I should have just told them I had lice, and then they wouldn't want me there for the whole week. Anyways, it's making me feel dizzier than usual and everything is muffled and I can't quite decide if this is what makes me feel like I've gone crazy, or if I really have gone crazy. I mean, honestly, how many crazy people are actually that self-aware?

What's worse though is that I wrote a ten page essay while feeling like this, and though I'm prone to self-criticism, I am almost certain that I just handed my professor a piece of what the French call "ordures." I don't know how I'll be able to hold my head up in class, given that I'm embarrassed and dizzy and one side of my head is heavier and about to start oozing something nasty.

To top it all off, despite my current state of crappiness, I decided to press on and attend my mid-term exam for my Gay Lit class this afternoon. I was on fire, whipping through a fabulous essay about performative behaviour and how society's rules do not apply to a culture forced to invent itself due to its rejection from the mainstream (or something like that) and my cell-phone rings. My emergency cell-phone, which NEVER rings, because generally, there are never emergencies. It was my son's old kindergarten. Not my favourite place in the world, by the way, since I think the Principal is a condescending cow, but guess who it was on the phone?! Seems that my little angel decided to bolt from his babysitter, and he grabbed his skateboard--sans helmet--and rode on down to his old school to have a little pow-wow with his old pals. The babysitter was in hysterics, the kindergarten wouldn't release my son to him because they didn't know him, and only I would be allowed to get the kid. So, I apologized profusely to the professor and left. And now the exam which should be behind me is still in front of me.

Merde.

Happy Halloween

It's monsoon weather out there, but my spawn is die-hard and he and his cohorts in creepiness are determined to score as much candy as possible tonight, so I decked them out in face paint, fangs and rubber boots and sent them on their merry way. Hopefully I'll have VERY spooky pics to post later. I know there's nothing more mundane than a mother going on about how ADORABLE her child is in his Halloween get-up so I'll spare you until I have photographic evidence to prove it.

You know what I love about Halloween, though? I love when you open the door to find freaky grown-ups in costumes pushing their terrified children to the door. Nothing says Halloween better than a sobbing two-year old in a pink bunny suit.

Don't give up on me!

I know--I suck. I just haven't had time to update in a while--life is a little insane around here. I plan on doing something dramatic or humiliating any day now, I promise, and I'll be sure to let you all know the gory details as soon as possible!

Oh, any Mike Doughty fans? I finally bought Haughty Melodic and I love it--it just puts me in the best mood--had to dig around for it and finally found it in the last store I looked at under punk, which I think is kind of weird. I've been playing Ted Leo's Tyranny of Distance and Shaking the Sheets to death and made the mistake of buying one of his self-titled album (bloody expensive too) but it's way too early experimental and I'm not big on shitty sound and reverb for effect, so I haven't listened to the whole thing yet.

The Fabulously False Confessions of Katie Pom-Pom-Hands

So, to begin with, let me explain the Katie Pom-Pom-Hands thing. I was recently in a heated debate in an online forum I like to think of as my brain's second home, and feeling as if I was expected to be a bigger cheerleader for something than I am I declared, "I'm sorry I wasn't born with pom poms in my hands!"

Later a funny friend (who I will refer to as Insane Creative Muse) wrote to me, "You were SO born with pom-poms in your hands!" And suddenly I imagined myself as a kind of female counterpart to Edward Scissorhands; a forlorn pasty brunette with bits of fuzz stuck to her through the magic of static cling, staring sadly at her great big giant red wooly pom-pom hands.

And thus, Katie Pom-Pom-Hands was born. Clearly I have too much time on my big giant red wooly pom-pom hands.

So, just for fun, I am going to share with you all the online conversation I had in which I finally came out to my friends as pom-pom handed.

***Katie Pom-Pom-Hands Comes Out***

Poster friend #1: How do you type with pom-pom hands?

Katie Pom-Pom-Hands: I use my toes. Please, don't mock me. Last time I cried, I wiped my tears with my big giant red pom-pom hands, but they didn't dry properly and now they smell moldy.

Poster friend #2: And you wonder why you're stalked by mimes...

Katie Pom-Pom-Hands: It is a mystery.

Poster friend #3: Mimes love pom poms!

Katie Pom-Pom-Hands: They ARE very useful if you're expressive. And mimes do like expression. Maybe I need to rethink my mime aversion. Maybe the love of my life, the one man who can accept me and my big giant red pom-pom hands, is out there, hiding behind a sad white clown face, wishing he could say the words to let me know how he feels. Maybe he feels too "boxed in" or "trapped" somehow by his emotions. Oh great. Now I'm crying all over my big red pom-pom hands again. Can someone please spray some Febreze on me?

Poster friend #3: oh, god, Katie, I am losing it big time over here. I can't stop laughing, even though it's so Very, Very Sad.

Katie Pom-Pom-Hands: I am glad my tragic obstacle in life amuses you so, Poster friend #3. I would punch you in the nose, but it would probably be too soft to hurt.

Poster friend #3: ooph! Aw, that was sweet, Katie. More, more, more!

Katie Pom-Pom-Hands: You are truly sick, my friend. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go and visit my friend John CornCob Feet now. He understands my pain.

Poster friend #4: Careful KatiePPH, if those pompom hands are made from tissue or crepe paper, you have to worry about the colors bleeding if you cry all over em.

Katie Pom-Pom-Hands: No, they're wool, Poster friend #4. Something terrible has happened. I went over to John's and he'd been attacked by crows last night. His poor feet.

Poster friend #5: OMG, I. am. dying. here!!!

Katie Pom-Pom-Hands: You're dying?!!! Think of John and his poor nibbled corncob feet! I really can't get over the selfishness of you people!

Poster friend #3: I hope that wool is well processed. It could shrink and felt and you could just have itchy little tufts. Be careful, Katie PomPomHands! Be very careful!

Katie Pom-Pom-Hands: Finally, a little concern. It takes a village, people. Poor John Corncob Feet. He could barely hobble to the door when I went over there, and I can't turn the knob with my pom-pom hands.

Poster friend #5: I can see where that would be hard to do, Katie.

Poster friend #4: I'm glad that your hands are more substantial than tissue or crepe paper. I had visions of you with two sodden rolls of colored toilet paper on your arm stumps if you ever went swimming. On the other hand, you can wash and dry your dishes without a dishcloth or towel.

Katie Pom-Pom-Hands: You are all evil. I have to leave for a while. Auntie Jemima-Jello-Legs is here.

(Later that evening...)

Katie Pom-Pom Hands: I'm back. Auntie Jemima-Jello-Legs is such a hooooer. She drank a bunch of vodka earlier today and when I answered the door a bunch of frat-boys were on their knees, licking her feet. She's what we like to call "loose."

So I guess I never really told anyone except Insane Creative Muse until now about my big giant red pom-pom hands. I guess I just wanted you all to accept me, and think I was "normal." But what is normal, anyways? How do we define that?

This is something I have lived with all my life. Kids at school growing up were merciless. One girl used to shake my hands, but she'd hide gum in her palm. In high school one boy I liked pretended to kiss my hand and then he lit it on fire. It smelled horrible for days and then all the kids chanted, "watch out for Katie Burning Smelly Pom-Pom Hands!" I was ostracized. Even my piano teacher told me I was useless.

I was terrified that my son would be born the same way, because you know, I ate a lot of lamb when I was pregnant. God help me, I know I shouldn't have, but it was a craving!

Fortunately he turned out fine. He has been wonderful. He helps me wash my hands (cold-water hand wash with gentle detergent only) and then he air-dries them with my hair-dryer. This is a huge responsibility for a boy his age--if he doesn't do it right away, the hands get moldy as you all know. One time he accidently dried one of my hands on the hot setting. Oh God, at the time it didn't seem so funny, but now I think of it and just laugh and laugh. My right hand/pom-pom shrunk up to the size of a golf-ball and the other one was still the size of a volley-ball! I panicked a bit but then I called a knitting hotline (it's really hard to dial a phone with your toes) and they told me to rewash the hand and then stretch it out. The poor kid will never live that one down!

Poster friend #5: In this case...you piano teacher had a point.

Katie Pom-Pom-Hands: See what I'm up against? I knew you wouldn't accept me as I am!

Poster friend #6: Katie, you need to do something to raise public awareness of your...uh, differently-abledness. We should make little red rubber bracelets that say something like, Give a Hand to Someone with PPH. Or someone could even come up with a slogan that's actually catchy.

Katie Pom-Pom-Hands: Rubber?! Are you all too good for wool, Poster friend #6?!

Poster friend #6: No, I'm not too good for wool! I love wool. In fact, I wear it all winter. But I thought you may want to capitalize on the rubber bracelet craze while it's at full throttle.

Poster friend #5: I have lots of bulky red yarn. I could braid some bracelets for all of us, Katie PomPomHands.

Katie Pom-Pom-Hands: I am overwhelmed. You guys!

Poster friend #6: We just want you to know that we care, Katie.

Katie Pom-Pom-Hands: Is anyone here allergic to wool? I just want to hug you all!

And lo, Katie Pom-Pom-Hands admitted the truth and faced her greatest fear and she discovered that her friends didn't care that she had big giant red pom-pom hands. They just cared. They loved her, and her big giant red wooly pom-pom hands, and she knew she was the luckiest pom-pom handed girl in the whole wide world!

The End.

* Disclaimer: Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Void where prohibited. Some assembly required. List each check separately by bank number. Batteries not included. Contents may settle during shipment. Use only as directed. No other warranty expressed or implied. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment.

I have a paper due tomorrow

It's a very important paper. So of course, because the paper is due tomorrow, and because it's important, and because I hadn't started it yet, today I:

1. Cleaned my kitchen, and reorganized all my cupboards.
2. Went downtown to do a bunch of errands.
3. Went to a medical clinic where it's first come/first serve in order to get a referral for massage therapy. I did not come first, therefore I was not served first.
4. Sorted out my closet, separating clothes by season and colour and then drove a bunch of things to Goodwill.
5. Took all my cans and bottles back for a refund. $4.15!!!!
6. Flossed my teeth. Twice.
7. Called my mom.
8. Called my friend who I never phone because every phone call with her lasts an hour and consists of her screaming, "Oh my fucking God, like you won't fucking believe this, oh my God," and me saying, "mmmhmmm....wow...yeah, mmmmhmmmm, whoa, wow....mmmmhhhmmm."
9. Called the loans people to find out why my student loan STILL hasn't arrived and spent 45 minutes on hold listening to instrumental versions of "My Heart Will Go On," while I screamed, "You %@!*$@#!!'s!!!!!"
10. Watched America's Next Top Model and Lost.

So, I'm kind of screwed now, I think.

Some humiliating revelations about me...

1) I try to avoid it like the plague, but if for some reason there's nothing else on tv and I watch Extreme Makeover Homeowner's Edition, I always wind up weeping.

2) I have never mastered chopsticks. The utensils, not the piano piece, but I can't play that either. Do you know how embarrassing it is to be the one dork in a Chinese restaurant who has to ask for a fork?

3) There are a couple of BeeGees songs that I like. I know. You don't have to tell me how wrong this is.

4) Whenever I see ice skating during the Olympics, I spend the next hour pretending to do double axels in my living room.

5) I also voluntarily watch American Idol and its Canadian counterpart, and then I sing "Stop!" by Sam Brown for about half an hour after each episode and curse the show's age restrictions. I coulda been a contender!

5) Ever since I saw an ABC afterschool special in the 80s about a bunch of "popular kids" who make over a homely classmate who winds up being the prom queen, I've been addicted to cheesy movies in which a girl is made over and winds up winning everyone's heart. I mean cheesy. Like Pretty Woman. Or even worse, that piece of crap Freddie Prinze Jr movie where his dorky sister makes over a girl he likes--she looks like Winona Ryder with glasses and a bad haircut--but wow, a little lipstick and some mascara and (it's a miracle!) she's suddenly a knock-out! And come on...that scene in Breakfast Club when Molly Ringwald teaches crazy Ally Sheedy about the power of brown eyeliner? That's gold, baby. I have a disease. I was channel surfing and actually slowed down to see homely Mandy Moore turn into pretty-but-fatally-ill Mandy Moore in A Walk to Remember. I need help.

My name is Dipshit and I'll be your waiter for the evening...

Ick.

I went for dinner by myself because I decided impulsively that I wanted a steak at a place I like and it was too late to call anyone. I was disappointed when I arrived and saw the menu had changed drastically, but I ordered something anyways.

Then the cheesy waiter started in: "How're thing's love? Is anyone joining you, hon? Would you like a drink, hon? How's your salad, hon?"

I kept wondering if I was sitting across from a guy would WaiterBoy have been so quick to drop the "hons" on me.

It annoyed me even more because he was 25 at the most and I don't know...it seems a little presumptuous to me to be going up to single women in their thirties and calling them "hon."

Anyways, after about the 7th time it set my teeth on edge and on the 8th time he called me "hon" I looked at him and said, "You know, SWEETIE-PIE, normally I don't allow anyone to call me hon all night until AFTER we've had sex, so if you want to whip it out, we can go at it.... or you can stop calling me hon."

He went bright red, mumbled an apology about how sorry he was for offending me, and then got the busboy to serve me for the rest of my meal. And the funny thing is, I wasn't offended for some great feminist reason...I was offended because it was like being forced to spend the evening with Ryan Seacrest.

So kids....

I'm just feeling really happy right now. In case anyone was worried, based on the lack of posts and the depressing tones of the ones I've put up recently. Yeah, I'm still tired and I'm still poor, and I'm still a bit bored...but who cares? I bumped into some great friends today, hung out with some other great friends, had a decent day at the JOB, one of my classes was cancelled, an old friend called and said she's coming for a visit, I found out two really great old friends of mine from another life are now living in the same city as me and I get paid tomorrow! And my loan is expected to be here on Wednesday, which will pay off my immediate debts! Woo hoo! Anyways, I'm going to take it easy tomorrow and try really hard to work up enough energy to go out at least once this weekend in order to have something so incredibly embarrassing happen to me that I'll have something funny to write about. See how much I love you guys? It's all about the love. I'm actually saving energy in order to publicly humiliate myself so that I can crack you all up. That's what love is, peeps. Don't say I never did nothin' for you!

An open letter to the motherfuckers at the Royal Bank and Canada Student Loans

Dear Royal Bank Student Loan and Canada Student Loan Centre Motherfuckers,


I am writing to express my dismay and disbelief over the incomprehensible level of incompetence to which I have been subjected by you. I am afraid that you have me a wee bit riled-up. So please, please find it in your teeny-little stone hearts to forgive me for what I am about to say.


Please, don't tell me you didn't receive my fucking faxes that I sent you last week. Don't tell me that my Canada Student Loan was held because I failed to make a payment at the Royal Bank, when some dipshit at the Royal Bank told me outright not to make the payment until I received my Canada Student Loan.

Don't tell me it will take 5-9 business days to process any of this information, since I've been hearing this for 5-14 fucking business days already.

And please, don't you fucking dare tell me it will take 5-7 business days for the Royal Bank to process this shit which I gave them 2 weeks ago, but they apparently couldn't be bothered to look at until yester-fucking-day, and then another 5-9 fucking business days for Canada Student Loans to release the money after they're received information from the Royal Bank!!!!!

GODDAMNIT! I want Supervisors to call me. I want to see some fucking follow-through. I want my bloody money now so I can pay my student fees, pay my rent, drop the class I'm in that I don't want and pay for the one that I do want. I want to stop having to worry about goddamned forms and faxes and sitting on hold for hours at a time listening to elevator music while you people with your heads up your asses tell me fifty different fucking stories!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

If you have any more questions, please contact me. I will be happy to clarify things even further if you asswipes so require.

My Life of Crime

1974: I was four. I stole a pack of Love Hearts from Wong's grocery down the street from where I lived. My mom had refused to buy me a treat that day, and for some reason my full-on tantrum didn't persuade her to change her mind. So, penniless and powerless, I did what any defiant sugar-addicted child would do. I took matters into my own grubby hands. I remember glancing around the store furtively, looking at Mr. Wong out of the corner of my eye, checking to see where my mom was in the store, looking to see if anyone else was watching...then slowly I picked up the Love Hearts and as discreetly as possible, I shoved them into my pocket.

Later that day my neighbour Stacey McCormick came over to play. Stacey had a voice so shrill she made Fran Drescher seem soft-spoken by comparison. My parents used to imitate her whenever she left our house. I couldn't stand Stacey, but I still couldn't resist the urge to impress her with what I'd done, so I pulled out the Love Hearts and gave her one. I explained to her in whispers that we had to hide them and she squealed, "WHY DO WE HAVE TO HIDE THEM?! I WANT ANOTHER LOVE HEART PLEASE!" My mother spun around, stormed over and pried the pack of candy from my clenched fist. The tell-tale lines of powdered sugar over our lips gave us away. I was busted.

My mom hauled me by my collar back to Mr. Wong's store and made me tell him what I'd done. I started to cry. Mr Wong smiled at me sweetly and waved his hands quickly.

"Is ok, is ok, she keep them--they free!"

"No, Mr. Wong, thank you, but it is NOT ok for Katie to steal from you. She has to pay for candy when she comes here," my mom said firmly.

"No, no!" cried Mr. Wong, embarrassed for me, "is ok--she good girl, she keep."

"No, Mr. Wong, Katie will pay for what she took," and she handed me a dime to give to Mr. Wong and made me apologize. I paid him and he smiled sympathetically at me, and I wanted to disappear on the spot because I was so ashamed.

1977: When I was seven, my family moved. My parents were busy getting the house finished. My sister and brother were in the grocery store next door, but I was killing time at Robinson's. Robinson's always had a bunch of cheap toys sitting in the front of the shop . It was summer and I remember being hot and incredibly bored. The girl at the counter was talking to a teenaged boy and laughing at everything he said. I looked around and no one was looking back at me, so quickly I grabbed a small ball, threw it in my pocket and walked out of the store.

I hurried around the corner and threw the ball around a bit, bouncing it against a concrete wall, but then I was hit by an overwhelming sense of guilt that made my stomach ache. I dusted the ball off, put it back in my pocket and went back into the store. I sidled up to the box I'd grabbed the ball from, and quickly dropped it back in. As I turned around the teenaged clerk was standing over me.

"I saw you take that ball!" she hissed.

"No I didn't!" I choked.

"I saw you!" she snarled.

I didn't have the ball anymore. I'd returned it. This hardly seemed fair.

"I don't have any ball! You can't prove anything!" I yelled and I ran out of the store. I was sick all night.

1986: I was sixteen. My friend Lee and I were hanging around downtown with nothing to do. We went into Fields and Lee shoved a pair of earrings into her purse. I stood back and watched her move through the racks of clothes like a seasoned pro--a scarf here, a lipstick there--I was in awe. When no one was watching I grabbed a training bra out of its box, caught Lee's eye and grinned at her as I shoved it into my own purse. We ran out of the store clutching each other and laughing hysterically.

Then we went to the grocery store. We didn't really need groceries, but there was nothing else to do. Lee's mom's boyfriend was over at her house and he was a jerk, and my parents were normal and that was too boring to subject my cool friend to, so we had few alternatives aside from hanging out in the Pay-Less Gas Station parking lot with the older stoners from our high school, and they scared the shit out of us. We fingered the different items along the aisles, commenting on what we liked or what was making us hungry, and I spied a pack of Chipits milk chocolate chips.

"God, I love those things," I told Lee. "I could eat a whole bag of those."

"Take it," she said.

"No, what am I going to do with a bag of chocolate chips?"

"You should," she said, rolling her eyes at me. "If you don't, I will." I laughed at her, but I was getting nervous. She grabbed the pack off the shelf and shoved it into the enormous pocket of the trench coat she was wearing. As we walked through the store she grabbed other items. Some candy, Teen magazine, a bottle of Ten-O-Six Lotion from Bonne Belle. Anything she couldn't fit into her enormous coat, she would shove into my purse. I was freaked out, but I wasn't going to do anything about it because I didn't want her to think I was worried about it. We continued down the aisle, and as we turned to enter the next one, I felt a hand land firmly on my shoulder. It was a tall skinny guy wearing a sweater vest who looked like Ichabod Crane. It was the manager.

He and another employee walked us into their back office. I could feel my pulse racing. I was shaking like crazy and I thought I was going to start crying. My parents would kill me. Lee would be fine. Her mom let her do anything. She used to drive her mom's car when she was fourteen and her mom told her if she ever got caught she had to tell the cops she'd taken it without permission.

He told us we had a choice. We could either call our parents and tell them what we'd done and get them to come and get us, or he would call the cops. He may as well have said I could either face a firing squad or run naked across a mine field while holding giant magnets.

He left the room. Lee called her mom and her mom said she'd come and get her. When it was my turn, I didn't know what to do. My parents would lose it. So, I dialed Lee's mom.

"Mrs. Mason, my parents aren't home and I need..." suddenly I heard a click followed by a dial tone. The office door swung open and the manager stormed in. He'd been listening to my call on another line.

"I told you you could either tell your parents, or I would call the police. You've left me with no choice."

Lee left with her mom. I sat in the office by myself, stomach churning, waiting for the police to arrive.

The police came and walked me out of the store. Everyone in the store, including kids who went to my school, stared as I left. When I got to the car, they put cuffs on me and made a big show of putting me in the back and locking it up.

At the station, they led me in and finger printed me, and then they stood me against a wall and took my mugshot which they displayed on a bulletin board with all the other pictures of juvenile delinquents. After that they moved me into a windowless office, told me my parents were on their way and that my dad was quite angry and said they'd be a while. I started bawling and a female cop crouched down next to the chair I was slumped in, smiled sympathetically at me and said, "don't worry, my sister used to get into all kinds of trouble when she was your age, and she turned out ok."

I don't know if this was supposed to make me feel better, but for some reason it did, and I gulped out a thank you through my tears and then waited for my parents. And waited. And waited. For three hours, in an empty office, with nothing to do except stare at the walls and worry about what they were going to say.

When they arrived they were very quiet. They thanked the officers and told me to go to the car. Neither of them spoke the whole way home. I cried, "I'm sorry!" They didn't even look at me.

After we got home and walked into the house, my mom burst into tears and yelled dramatically, "What did we do wrong?! First you fail algebra and now this! Why don't you move out if you can't follow the rules!" I tried to defend myself, but I knew it was a lost cause, so I ran to my room, closed the door and wailed miserably into my pillow for an hour or so.

I emerged from my room to find my parents sitting at the kitchen table looking very serious.

"We've talked about what we should do," my father said. "Grounding you seems to have no effect on you. I've called the manager of the store and volunteered your services. Every day for the next month you will report directly to him after school and you will work in their butcher shop until 6, at which time you will come directly home and do your homework."

There was no point in protesting. So, every day after school for the next month, I went to the butcher section of the town's only grocery store, donned a white coat and a hairnet and wrapped meat in the freezer while I shivered, surrounded by huge bloody cow carcasses. I was miserable and humiliated. Students from school who worked at the grocery would snicker and whisper when I walked past. A couple of bag boys would hiss, "Stop thief!" when they came by the counter and saw me working.

After I'd done my time, I refused to enter the grocery store for five years. By that time I'd moved away to go to school and only had to go in there when I was visiting my parents. Even then I still felt knots in my stomach just entering the place. I didn't eat meat for almost 4 years. I had a record until I was 18.

But, I didn't steal again either. I had finally learned my lesson. My life of crime did not pay. I'd been scared straight.

Well, almost straight, anyways.

Is it Friday yet?

Sunday night I went to bed, my head hit the pillow and I passed out as soon as I closed my eyes. The next thing I knew my alarm clock was honking loudly in my ear. I swatted at it blindly. How could it be beeping so soon? I had only just gone to bed!

But after hitting snooze five or more times, I knew I had to get up, and all I could think is, it has to be Friday, it has to be Friday, please God, whoever, just let it be Friday.

It was not. It was Monday. Oh Monday, I curse thee!

So I got up, went to my computer, started working (I start from home in the morning), had a shower, got my kid up, dressed and fed, and we left the house. I dropped him off with the neighbour who takes him to school, ran to the campus coffee shop (where I like to flirt with the coffee boy, who is oblivious or too polite to acknowlege my awkward early morning attempts to be cute). I grabbed my coffee, ran to the bus stop, hopped on a bus, read as much school stuff as I could, hopped off the bus, and went to work.

Around 10:30 I took a ten minute break to buy another coffee and a rice krispie square from my favourite close-to-work coffee shop. The owner is a young Chinese woman who wears a white frilly apron and looks absolutely thrilled whenever she sees a new customer--she's set up across from Starbucks--and every morning when I leave she sings, "Thankyouverymuchhaveawonderfulday!!!"

I love her. I'll never buy Starbucks when she is near.

Then I raced back to work, skipping lunch so that I could leave early to get my son from school. I left work, ran to the bus, read all my school stuff along the way, hopped off the bus, ran home, jumped in my car, drove to my kid's school, picked him and his buddy up, drove to the corner store to buy them a treat, drove home, ran and got the babysitter, kissed the kid goodbye and sprinted back over to the campus to get to my class, where I arrived sweaty and disheveled.

Then I sat through the class, tried to sound like I knew what I was talking about, managed not to fall asleep and was dismissed. Then I went to my next class. Listened to the world's most boring lecture and also managed not to fall asleep.

Class was over at 6:30, so I ran home, said goodbye to the sitter, helped the kid do his homework, made dinner for him, got him fed, let him play, got him in the bath, read him a story and kissed him goodnight.

I went downstairs, made myself dinner, grabbed a can of coke, sat in front of the tv and barely moved until 10. Then I did all the bedtime stuff (checked email, washed face, brushed teeth, removed clothing and jewelry). I started a little work that night so I could sleep in an extra fifteen minutes in the morning. Then I got up, and stumbled into bed.

And then I did this all over again on Tuesday. And Wednesday. And today. And it wasn't Friday on any of those mornings. I have it on pretty good authority, however, that tomorrow is Friday. I don't have any classes on Fridays.

So I think I'm going to get a little drunk.

An open letter to the morons on the road

Dear Morons on the Road,

I know, I know...you have a licence, but maybe they didn't tell you at the DMV, a driver's licence is not a licence to kill. It is not a licence to act like a complete moron on the road. There are other people out there. I know. I've been driving alongside you idiots for a while, and I've held my tongue, but apparently we need to go over a few things.

1) Signal lights: These are those things you use to let other cars know that you would like to change lanes or make a turn. They are a great invention! Use them! Trust me, you'll have loads of fun with them. They signal an intent to move. Are you writing this down? I hope so, because I am growing tired of drivers who assume I will know they are about to cut me off, or who decide on a whim, "oh, what the heck! Maybe I'll cross over three lanes and take the scenic route today!" Hey, I have no problem with spontaneity, really I don't--just give me a second to adjust, ok? A teeny little warning...a...how shall I put this....signal?

2) Cross-walks: See those striped white lines across the road? Yes, yes, I know, they're so very, very pretty, aren't they? I know you're probably not aware of this, but they're not just there for aesthetic pleasure--they actually serve a purpose! Here's a hint: If you are approaching some of these pretty striped white lines, and you see a nervous pedestrian standing at the edge of them (you know pedestrian? Those human things unframed by racing metal boxes?) then SLOW down and STOP. What's really cool is that when you do this, you won't kill someone who's trying to cross the street! It's win/win for everyone!

3) Cell-phones: Fabulous inventions, aren't they? Not so fabulous on the road. Spend the extra three bucks a month and get the messaging service or pull over if the conversation about Britney's c-section is just so important it can't wait. Please.

4) School-zones: What a pain in the ass children are, always wanting to stay alive long enough to see their next birthday! I know, I feel your pain, friend, but let's humour the rug-rats, shall we? I know you just can't wait to get to work, but how about slowing down when you see the signs with the teeny little children on them? It's really in your best interest. Scraping blood and hair off the grate of your BMW can really be a bitch, and something like that can ruin your whole week.

A big dilemna

I found a joint tucked into a toy that my son recently bought at a garage sale--this would be more disturbing, but he had no idea what it was and it was quickly confiscated by moi. No idea how old it is. No idea who originally owned the thing. No idea what exactly is rolled into the joint...not without unrolling it, at least. Yes, it does have a vague marijuana scent, but who knows? Maybe it contains other things that could make me have a heart attack, right?

Sigh. I know, this isn't really a dilemna. But it does seem like a bloody tease, doesn't it? I feel like Tantalus sometimes.

Winner of the Tell This Couple's Prom Night Story challenge!!!

Well, we had two fine entries, and probably about twenty people told me they were "going to" enter (sorry losers, it's too late!).

It was an extraordinarily tough race, but after much deliberation, I have decided that the winner of the Tell This Couple's Prom Night Story challenge is Katie!

No, not the same Katie as me. We just happen to both be named Katie. And yes, I'm aware that might have swayed me in my decision, but I strove to be as fair as I could.

And what does Katie win?

My eternal admiration, of course!


So, without further ado, here is the wonderful entry that Katie contributed.



Misty was originally supposed to go to prom with her boyfriend Kevin, but two days beforehand she had gone over to his house to make sure his cumberbund was the right color, only to catch him sucking on her best friend's toes.

So then her church youth minister asked her to do a good deed by going with Todd. Todd always had difficulty talking to girls, because he was self conscious about his glass eye. He spent most of his Friday nights playing Bingo for M&M's with his grandmother.

So Misty did the Christian thing and invited Todd to the prom. When they showed up, Kevin--who had already consumed most of a bottle of coconut rum--had a fit. "You came with Cyclops intead of me?" he yelled.

Misty tried to ignore him and instead asked Todd to dance. That was when Kevin took off his shoe and threw it at Misty, but he missed and hit Todd instead, hard enough so that his glass eye popped out and landed in the punch bowl. The prom pretty much ended right there, even though it was only 9:30.

Kevin had to sign up for a sensitivity workshop the next week. He would go on to become a Kinko's manager.

Todd moved to Las Vegas and opened his own casino when he was 30. he called it "One-eyed Jack's."

Misty became a stewardess and mother of four. She sent Todd a card every year at Christmas but never returned his calls.

What happens when we die, according to my weird but adorable kid

I'm not very religious. Ok, honestly? I'm not at all religious. I call myself agnostic because basically I'm too chicken-shit to write off the possibility, and aetheism seems like too much of a commitment for me.

But my kid has suddenly developed an interest in all things God. He tells me all kinds of weird stories about God, or asks me questions.

I'm trying not to discourage him. I believe that religion is a personal choice and I don't want to scare him from asking questions. However, I'm not terribly well-equipped to answer most of them, so I direct them to my mom who is Catholic but laid-back about it.

The rest of the time my kid comes up with some pretty interesting theories about God and the afterlife all on his own.

Tonight he said, "Mom, I have a really, really hard question for you, and I don't think even you will know the answer."

I asked what the question was, and he said, "If we die, and it turns out God isn't real, what do you think happens to us?"

I told him, "Wow, that's a very tough question. I don't really know the answer to it. Maybe we just turn into air or something and become part of nature, like the wind or the ocean or something."

Then he made this noise like a buzzer on a game show, "aaaaaah!"

So I asked, "What, did I get it wrong?"

And he smiled and said, "yeah, you were way off. The answer is leprechauns!"

I said, "You think if God isn't real we turn into leprechauns?"

And he looked at me like I was totally insane and said slowly, like he was talking to an idiot, "Noooooo, we go to the leprechauns."

Then I asked, "Ummm, what happens when we get to the leprechauns?"

"How the heck am I supposed to know that?" he cried. "I've never been to the leprechauns before!"

The Marriage Scam

Many years ago, I was in love. With a perfect boy. He was sweet, he was funny, he was attentive, he asked me to come to Costa Rica with him. I booked our tickets, I was happy, I was overjoyed.... and then I found out he was sleeping with my roommate.

My heart broke into a million tiny pieces. My face puffed up from crying everyday. I couldn't have a conversation without bursting into tears. Friends of mine started hanging out with him and his new girlfriend (my former roommate) because I was no fun, and they were such a blast to hang out with. I wore pajamas everyday, rarely washed my hair, cried into my tub of ice cream every night and had anxiety attacks over whether I should stay up and watch Letterman or go to sleep.

My mother, in her infinite wisdom, suggested I take my ticket to Costa Rica and trade it in for a ticket to London where I have lots of friends. Unable to make any sound decisions on my own at this point, I decided I would do just that. My ticket to London cost much more than the ticket to Costa Rica, so most of my savings went to paying the difference. But it didn't matter, I just had to escape. I couldn't be in the same city as that wretched happy couple and all of my back-stabbing fair-weather friends.

So off I went to England, with my shiny new ticket and probably about $800 Canadian dollars, which in my insanity I thought would be more than enough to last me 8 months. That's right, you heard me. 8 months! Yeah, I had free places to stay, but this is England we're talking about, not Thailand, and although it was about 12 or 13 years ago, even the most thrifty person can't make $800 Canadian last 8 months in England. Hell, most people would be lucky to last a week on that much.

My friend R and I decided to travel around together. Between the two of us, we barely had a cent, so we began sneaking onto trains and buses and crashing on couches until we got tired. R had a guitar and I can sing (well, I can kind of sing) so we began busking everywhere we went.

We did pretty well, and most days we'd manage to score about thirty odd pounds which would get us through until the next day.

But then I had an idea. An idea so fabulous that I know I'm going to regret sharing it, but you people have been good to me, so I'll reciprocate. This is like your grandmother's secret lemon cake recipe that she never shares with anyone, or like the secret to your mother-in-law's perfect lasagne, so I want you all to appreciate the value of the information I am about to pass on.

I call it The Marriage Scam.

R and I would busk until we had made enough to eat a nice meal in a decent restaurant. We would tidy up first though, because you can't pull a good scam unless you look the part, so we'd scrub our faces and clean the dirt out from under our nails and put on the cleanest clothes in our packs and then we'd go to dinner. Always a new place. Never the same place twice.

Then we would order our meals. Usually a salad to start. He would hold my hand on the table and I would smile at him like he was dipped in chocolate and diamonds. You know, like JLo does when she's trying to play the cute young ingenue type in any one of her many forgettable romantic comedies. Then I would leave and head for the washroom (the loo in England, for you international types). R would then flag down the waiter and hand him a ring (an old ring my grandmother gave me) and tell the guy he was going to propose to me. Then he would arrange to have the waiter hide the ring in my salad or on the plate somewhere.

Well, word carries fast in most restaurants, and generally by the time I got back to my seat, most places were buzzing with the news of R's imminent proposal. People at the next table would whisper and try not to be too obvious about staring. Kitchen staffs would gather at the swinging doors and peek out at us. And I would pretend to be oblivious to this happening all around me.

So, I would take a bite of the salad...sometimes two or three just to torture the crowd a little. And then lo and behold! I would "discover" the ring. Everyone loves a proposal, and I, the heart-broken cynic and theatre school drop-out, would milk it for all it was worth. I deserve an Oscar for some of the crying I did on these nights. And then R would get down on his knee, night after night, and say to me:

"Katie, the first time I met you I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. " Then, every night, he would go "off-script" and say something totally ridiculous designed to crack me up, like, "when I broke my leg in Nepal and you carried me down that mountain, I knew I couldn't survive without you in my life. You carried my body, now please, allow me to carry your heart forever. Would you make me the happiest man in the world and be my wife?" He should really be working for Hallmark, I'm not kidding.

And the best part about this whole thing is that women who've just been proposed to are nervous and crazy, so if I was feeling anxious about whether we'd pull the whole thing off, my shaking and laughing and crying only made it seem more convincing.

So I would stammer and cry, and try to get a reply out until someone in the room would say, "answer him!"

And I would shout yes! Oh yes R! I want to marry you! I love you so much! And the room would erupt and people would laugh and cry and clap their hands, and everyone around us would be so happy!

Every. Single. Night.

And, every single night, the restaurant would promo something--a bottle of wine, sometimes even champagne, a lovely dessert, and once or twice, our whole meal. And people at surrounding tables would send us drinks and start talking to us and asking how we met, and every single night we'd invent some crazy bullshit story and the room would be alive with happy people, celebrating the sweet young Canadian couple and their lovely romance, and they would order drink after drink after drink until most restaurant managers were in the back having orgasms over their liquor sales that evening.

And R and I would stagger out, holding hands and addresses of lovely people who insisted we come and stay with them while we were in England, our stomachs full, our livers hurting and our heads spinning.

Every. Single. Night.

Night guys--see you in a few days!

Alright, I admit it...I am having blogger's block.

That's not a gastrointestinal disorder, by the way...I have just had nothing to write about lately. Well, that's not entirely true. I've had lots of things buzzing around my brain, but now so many people I deal with everyday read this thing once in a while that it becomes really hard to bitch about them or talk about the stupid things they did. But trust me, there are some stupid things happening all around me, and one day when you all least expect it, I'll write the tell-all.

Anyways, it's been a stressful couple of weeks for me recently, and I'm heading to Vancouver to see a friend and decompress. I'm hoping some really weird shit happens enroute for me to write about...preferably something not involving mimes or patchouli. I get back on the weekend and I've decided to screw the whole camping thing and go to Ted Leo, who I really want to see. Besides, it's raining here, and camping? Not so much fun in the rain.

In the meantime, here are some things that I've been thinking of talking to you guys about:

1) My hair. This sounds like a boring topic, but trust me it's not. So get ready for this, because oh man, the stories I will share about the hair....wait for it!

2) The day I drove to some horrible town in the middle of nowhere B.C. and decided I would introduce myself to everyone I met as Lola and speak with a really bad French accent all day.

3) This weird guy I saw who was yelling into his phone on the street. He was screaming, "She has to wear the bikini or the deal's off! Fuck that! She said ten thousand and I won't pay a penny more!" As I got close to him I noticed he wasn't actually yelling into a cell phone, he was yelling into his hand. His empty hand.

So, get excited. There's some stories coming your way!

Cancelled plans last night, wish I had some tonight.

Yesterday I would have rather had my legs sawed off without anesthesia than go out on a first date. I would have rather poked my eyes out with flaming Q-tips than go on a first date. I would have rather eaten a pound of raw hamburger than go out on a first date...you get the idea.

Tonight? I am so bored. Still not into the whole first date thing, but that has more to do with who the date was supposed to be with than anything else. I want to go see a movie. I want to talk with someone interesting. I want to take my shoes off and run around on the beach at night. No one I know is around to hang out with and I could use a little positive energy.

Last night, having a couple of glasses of wine and renting a video seemed like a wonderful relaxing choice. Tonight it feels like this might be the rest of my life.

Why Hilary? WHY?

You're a pretty girl. You had a lovely smile. What on earth possessed you to do this to your mouth?! It looks like you had a head-on collision with a box of Chicklets!

Who did this to you? I want names. God almighty, girl, what's next? Scientology?!

I have one word for you.

Lawsuit.

Oh hang on...is that one word or two? Maybe it's a hyphenated word.

At any rate, call your lawyer now. Someone should pay for this.

Embarrassing shit that my kid has said loudly on public transit to the amusement of our fellow passengers

• (while pointing) "Is that a man or a lady, mom?"
• (again with the pointing) "Funny hair! Funnnnnneeeeeeee haaaaaaair!"
• "That man smells like granny."
• "How does a baby get in a mommy's tummy?" (I actually answered this question right there. There was a bunch of drunk college kids eavesdropping and I figured they might find some of the information useful in a couple of hours)
• "Mom, if you have a baby, then you will have two kids with two different dads. And if you have another baby then you will have three kids with three..." (Me: "that's enough now.")
• "Mom, you should shave your legs soon. They look gross."
• (To an elderly woman who smiled at him) "Stop looking at me! Stop looking at me! STOOOOOOOOOOP IT!"
• "My mom is 35! How old is your mom?"
• "I want a little brother, but if you won't give me one, then I want a dog."

A warning to computer geeks with low IQs.

If you have been staring at a computer all day and all evening until your eyes feel sore, and if you decide to go put Visine drops in your eyes, please, please, make sure you do so in a well-lit room. Or you might find yourself with the new KY Warming Liquid Lubricant burning holes in your retinas. Just sayin.

Is it possible to be fascinating all the time?

I don't think so. I mean, you know, unless you're Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes or Angelina Jolie or something. I've been trying to figure out what to write here recently, and haven't had much luck coming up with anything interesting. Part of that is probably because a lot of people I know have discovered the blog, and that's preventing me from saying much about what's going on in my life. Part of it is that I'm just kind of wiped out.

But anyways, here is an update/explanation for why I haven't been a posting monster this week. I'm heading back to school, full-time. I'm also keeping my job, almost full-time. And of course, the reason I do all this is to make a better life for my kid and me, and he takes up a lot of my time as well. And man, I am worried about keeping up. One false move and I am certain I will collapse from exhaustion, or have a nervous breakdown or something. I have 8 months left and then I can join the human race again. Until then though, I won't have any kind of time or any kind of money for any kind of social life. Which sucks, because that's usually where I get my best material.

Fret not though, fellow bloggers. I'll probably need to vent a lot, and I'm funnier when I'm pissed off, I think. I expect I'll probably be pissed off a lot more in the next few months.

Of course, before I sell my soul to the university and the man, I am getting one last weekend of freedom away from this dull little city. And you can bet I'm going to enjoy it as much as I can.

P.S. The "Tell this couple's prom night story" challenge is still on! Enter! I dare you, mofos!

Why, WHY, when I actually have plans, does every other cool opportunity pop up?

Ok, Crazy Polish Kate and I have planned another trip to the beautiful island of Cortes, but this time figuring out when to go was a nightmare, because we're meeting our former neighbour who lives in Vancouver, and trying to balance all our schedules and decide on a meeting place took a lot of work. We're taking the kids too, but we're considering inviting our teen neighbour and her friend along as babysitters so the moms can go out and tear up the tiny town. We finally decided, after much debate, on an upcoming weekend and all was well again.

BUT BUT BUT!

I'm walking past a telephone pole covered in posters today, and suddenly I see the words "Ted Leo and the Pharmacists with Ghost at ______on______":the exact same weekend we're not going to be in town!!!!

Ted Leo! Ted Leo!

Of all the weekends, why must it be this particular one?

The world is sometimes so totally unfair.

3 more things I cannot abide

1) Cutesy expressions: like "anyhoo." WHAT IS THAT?! For example, "So, anyhoo, we'll all be at the barn dance with Marge later if you don't see us at karaoke night!" Or, "Anyhoo, my mom bought me the cutest pink sweatshirt with a fluffy white kitten on it." I don't understand this at all, but it's even worse when I hear a man say "anyhoo." See my reaction to short robes below in the previous post, and you'll understand what this does to me.

2)Fashion from hell: Ok, we've all made fashion mistakes. I know I have. Once in the 80's I actually went out in public wearing a neon pink beret, a baby pink angora sweater dress, neon pink fingerless gloves (!!!!) and white keds with neon pink socks peeking out. I must have been on drugs. I was walking down the street and a bunch of guys in a truck drove by screaming, "turn it DOWN!!!" So much for expression. So, yes, humiliating, but I learned my lesson.

3)Email chain letters: You know the kind--"if you send this email to five people in five minutes you will have love and laughter in your life forever. If you delete this, a strange person will rip all your pubic hair out from the roots!" Well I'm not worried. I've already had all the pubic hair ripped out from the roots once, and I PAID someone to do it! So don't threaten me with weird horrid fates because I don't want to pass on your sentimental crap...I'm tough.

P.S. I know Marky Mark in his Calvin Kleins has very little to do with any of this post, but I cannot abide a day without seeing a picture of my future husband (back off Melly!) in his tighty-whities.

5 Things that I cannot abide

1) Guys in short robes: You know, the terry-cloth ones that hit mid thigh? I was once dating a fabulous man--wonderful in every way. He was funny, smart, interesting, not bad looking, shared many of my interests and loved to travel. We hit it off and I heard wedding bells in my future. Then I saw him wearing a short robe. And it was never the same after that. It was like feeling my ovaries dry up in less than sixty seconds.

2)Ass-crack revealing jeans: Do I even need to explain this one? Have you ever looked at a girl in ass-crack-revealing jeans and said to yourself, "Wow, she looks like a class act!" No? Didn't think so.


3)Cheesy music: Any song by Jefferson Starship or the Eagles makes me want to thrust sharp objects directly into my eardrums. Also, I really, really hate the songs "What a Wonderful World" (Yes, even the Louis version) and "Unchained Melody." I know, people love those songs. A lot of people also like Celine Dion, so a lot of people don't always display great taste.


4)Yippee moms: Take a hippy, give her a whole lot of money, a bearded Jesus-look-alike husband and a doula and watch her spend the rest of her miserable life attempting to make other mothers feel like shit for not breast-feeding until their kids are 5. She always sounds so peaceful, like she just had the most transcendental spiritual experience, and that makes you feel like a frantic unhinged, selfish, superficial, consumeristic moron when you're around her. My advice--skip the date you have with her to drink organic chai tea and discuss diaper-free parenting, and go get a greasy burger and a stiff drink with someone whose company you actually enjoy.


5)Friends who aspire to be Pablo Neruda: People who write really bad emotional poetry and then beg their friends to read it. This is not right. It is just not right.

Spam me and you're asking for trouble

I'm not kidding. I am overjoyed to see that there are people out here who are actually reading my stuff, and who might even enjoy it a little. It makes me think that one day, when I decide to grow up, maybe I could be a REAL writer. So, you can imagine how depressing it is when I come across a comment that says, "Wonderful blog, nice job," and I begin to get jolt of happiness, and then I scroll down a little further and see that the commenter has also written, "I sell adult diapers, check out my site--it's KOOL!"

So, to all future readers who feel the desire to try and sell me something, I am not interested, unless you honestly have bottled the secret to eternal youth. And I'm feeling lazy at the moment, but this is a warning: spam my blog with your crap product, and I will INVENT an equally useless product and I will spam you right back. And I will spam your friends. And I will spam your family members. And yes, if your dog or cat has its own website (and I'm sure it does) I will spam that too.

I don't make idle threats. I have a dull job, a great imagination, a serious evil streak, and lots of time on my hands.

You've been warned.

10 bad things about being a single mom

I have a wonderful online friend who has expressed a desire to maybe possibly have a baby one day. It's just an urge right now--she hasn't done anything about it (not since we last chatted anyways), but she jokingly asked her online friends today to talk her out of her current baby craze. We're not sure she wants to be talked out of it, of course, and between you (the 1 or 100 people who may or not read this) and me, I think she'd be an incredible mom.

So, although I absolutely love my kid (99% of the time) I thought I'd help her out.

Here ya go!

10 Bad things about being a single mom

1) It's 8:30 at night. You look in the fridge and realize there is NOTHING to eat...baby is sleeping (probably for the first time in hours, which is why there is no food in the house, because you are completely exhausted). You can't go out to to store without waking the baby (oh dear God, no) so you eat crackers.

2) Friends invite you over. They insist you bring the baby, because they want you to feel comfortable and realize your social life isn't going to change (ha!). Baby freaks out the whole time (or worse, toddler freaks out the whole time) and you don't know if you should stay and deal with it or leave. You, who have always felt comfortable with these close friends, suddenly feel self-conscious about how you're handling this. You, the capable woman who has always had a ton of self-confidence, are now a mom. Plus, your breasts are leaking and you cry all the time and you feel fat.

3) Everyone you know loves babies and tells you they will babysit for you anytime you need them. Until you actually get up the nerve to call and ask them.

4) You are tired ALL THE TIME, and you cry more than you ever have in your life, and you wish you had a partner who could give you a fucking break or just hug you or rub your back because sometimes you hate this kid with every fibre of your being, and you hate yourself for hating this adorable little crying pink puff-ball who seems to be out to get you and you look at it and it's all red and puffy from crying for who knows what (you've tried everything) and you just want someone to hug you and tell you it'll be ok, you're a good mom, and maybe it would be nice if the person hugging you had sex with you later.

5) Except you don't want to have sex. But you do. But you really don't.

6) Your stomach is poochy and wrinkly.

7) Babies spit stuff on you and then they laugh at you.

8) You're at a cafe, because for the first time in months, a friend has given you a break. You are totally freaked out about leaving the baby with someone but you know rationally that the baby will survive. Still, your breasts aren't listening so you have to wear three disposable pads on each side and you still have leakage coming through your shirt. You are flirting with someone and he/she seems interested and then somehow the baby comes up in conversation and suddenly he/she finds a reason to disappear. Instantly.

9) You might be forced to hang out with people you don't like at all because you have children the same age, and they want to talk about Baby Gap and nutrition all the time.

10) You begin to feel like your mother.

But of course, there IS that nice baby head smell, and the giggling, and the way they cling to you and nuzzle up like Koala bears and all that other stuff to think about too. =)

Oh now hold on here

I was walking down the street today, feeling a little down, feeling a little tired, stressed out, broke, confused about my future, etc.

And I thought to myself, "this is not what I'm supposed to be! I'm 35! This is not what I thought I would be when I was 7."

It's sad, you know? I would have been a kick-ass ballet-dancing-crime-fighting writer/lawyer.

Return of the Scary Mime

So, I'm walking down the street after work, and out of the corner of my eye, guess who I see? (Yeah, yeah, I know, it's in the title, I'm a genius)....but humour me....give me a drum roll or something, will ya?......

That's right! It was the scary psychotic stalking mime!

Surely this could not be a coincidence?

And he followed me again, I swear to God. He spared me all his mime manoeuvers this time though--it was hot outside--maybe he'd had a long hard day of MIMING. But a couple of times I hastily glanced at him over my shoulder, checking to see if he was still there, and yes, he was STILL THERE, grinning at me like the Joker or something.

Did I do something evil to a mime in a past life? What did I do to deserve this guy? I'd ask him what his problem is, but he'd probably mime the answer.

WARNING!

Ok, to the 2 or 3 people who I don't know who are actually kind enough to read my blog, wow--thank you so much for reading--the next few posts will be new to you. To the rest of my wonderful friends who I've been bullying for months to read my stuff, well, I'm really sorry, but you've probably already read the next three entries (or at least pretended to) back when I only blogged at myspace. But man, I really get creeped out on myspace. I like this place. I want my stuff here. So, it's yet another moving day. A rearranging day. And I'm kind of bored. So there you go!

Lavalife limitations

OK, yeah, so I have a profile up at Lavalife--what's it to you? Just putting out some feelers, ok?

And, you know, there seem to be a lot of nice, gainfully employed, really desperate available men out there, which should make a girl happy, right?

But here's my problem, and it might seem silly to you....I just cannot bring myself to date a guy, no matter how great he might be, whose profile says, "I'm spontanieus, and i want a girl who likes adventiure."

If this is wrong, I don't ever want to be right.

Cuddle Parties--what fresh hell?

That's it. I give up. I am officially dropping out of the twenty-first century. I don't belong here. I've suspected this for some time, but it became crystal clear to me today when I was flipping through a Marie Claire, and tucked in between an informative article called "Prostitution Gives Me Power" and and a fascinating piece about Angelina Jolie's love of tattoos and international adoption was a story about the latest hot trend in New York:The Cuddle Party
"What is a cuddle party?" you might be wondering. Well, if you haven't read about it in Marie Claire, The New York Daily News or The Free Republic yet, chances are you're as clueless as I was. According to Marie Claire, "Cuddle Parties are touted as the new way to explore nonsexual intimacy. Adults rarely touch without it being eroticized--here by exchanging simple hugs, we experience a more innocent kind of contact."

I'm sorry, give me a second, I need to wipe up the coffee that I just sprayed all over my monitor.

OK, yeah, I know, it's nice to be hugged. We miss it when we're single and it's not always comfortable asking our pals to give us long full body contact bear hugs. For me the absence of good hugs is the most difficult thing about not being in a relationship. Perhaps, in my twenties, when I was giving it up to anyone who bought me a drink just so I could get a good hug once in a while, this might have been a helpful service...I can see why this might seem appealing at first. But let's get real. We're talking about lying on smelly sweaty yoga mats with a bunch of strangers in pajamas. We're talking about lying in very close proximity with people we might not talk to if they approached us in a bar. We're talking about getting "nonsexual" backrubs from people who might think patchouli oil smells good! We're talking about my worst nightmare.

Hugs from people of the opposite sex (and occasionally the same sex) have two effects on me. They either make me feel vaguely uncomfortable, or they turn me on. Oh, I don't need to jump into bed with anyone who gives me a good hug, but to me, a really good non-familial hug can't possibly be nonsexual.

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm just narrow-minded. I guess you'll have to decide for yourselves. Go ahead, read the cuddlemonials (I am shitting you not). I'll be over here in my time machine, with my arms wrapped tightly around myself, rocking back and forth.

Friends and nails

Crazy Polish Kate called me the other day and asked me if I had any polish remover. But she pronounced it PO-LISH, not PAW-LISH. So of course (and admit it, you know every single one of you would probably have done the same if you had a wacky Polish friend who was always walking into your house uninvited like some kind of sitcom neighbour) I could not resist saying the obvious:

"Kate, if I had Polish remover, don't you think I would have sprayed it on you years ago?"

Badap bam.

(I'll be standing by for your hate mail)

Adventures in online dating profiles

I love cats so much. I have seven of them. Mitsy, Misty, Bitsy, Penelope, Scratchy (he scratches a lot), Blackie and Mrs. Peacock Feathers. They are my babies, and my trailer would feel and smell so empty without them.

I've just joined A.A., but it's really cutting into my drinking time, and since my cats are with me constantly, I wouldn't really say I drink alone. If you love me, you have to love my kitties too! We're a package deal!

I love long romantic walks on the beach, but since I've topped out at 300 lbs, I can't walk too far without stopping a lot, especially if I'm huffing on a Virginia Slims. But hey, that just gives us more time to roll around in the sand together and gaze into each other's eyes now, doesn't it?

I'm still great friends with my ex. In fact, he's the manager of the burger stand where I eat breakfast every day. He's actually the guy who got me into this whole internet thing--I think we still have a video floating out there in cyber-space! Sure wish we'd made the money that Pamela and Tommy Lee made!

I'm looking for a man with a job. Also, you must be incredibly good looking, like Fabio, and maybe drive a muscle car. I've always wanted to meet a special guy who knows how to treat a lady, say by treating her to a candle-lit dinner at a classy place like Red Lobster (hint hint for future reference!).

I'm a real fun person and I make the best tuna casserole you'll ever taste. Also, I'm a whiz with a glue gun and I'm saving up for a Bejeweler (Santa, can you hear me?) so if you ever need anything sequinned, just ask!

I can't wait to meet you! Toodle-Ooo!

P.S. No long distance please. My parole officer gets antsy if I leave town for too long.

P.P.S. Don't be shy--you can see me. If you want a smile, have a pic. That way I can see if you look like Fabio, or Michael Bolton (swoon!).

What a wonderful WHAT?

I'm listening to 89.5 The Current from Minnesota (Thanks Ro!) and now I'm wondering, were Shane MacGowan and Nick Cave completely wasted when they recorded What a Wonderful World?

On second thought, don't answer that.

Things that go bump in the night

I should warn you in advance...this will not be one of my better postings. I have no interesting insights today, no funny stories, no stoner revelations to share.

I just have this one nagging thought coursing through my brain.

I hope there are no moths in the house tonight.

Holy shit am I freaked out by moths, and I am telling you, last night, the mother of all moths got into my house and everytime it hit a window, I thought it would crash right through it. It was terrifying! It kept flying right at me, and so I had to huddle under the covers, petrified, shrieking to myself and hoping it would go away.

I turned a light on in another room to see if I could draw it away from mine, but the moth-bat was too fast for me, and right before I could slam my bedroom door shut, it flew in and nearly took out one of my eyes.

It was a hideous creature too...a HUGE giant body under its mottled gray wings, and I swear, I could see its beady little eyes staring me down. It wanted something from me. Maybe it was my sweater, maybe it it was my child, maybe it just wanted to wreak havok because of something its mother did to it in its youth.

A couple of times it lulled me into a false sense of security, and I would pull the covers down just enough to take a peek and see if it was still in the room. Everything would be silent....eerily silent...and then just when I thought it was safe to take the covers off my face, psycho moth would start dive bombing me again. I don't think I slept all night!