January 31, 2010
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): If you really want something, figure out how to frame the question before you ask. Try to indulge your social urges a little more today -- if that’s possible! You may meet someone new who sets you in a new direction or rediscover an old flame who’s dying to see you again.
Laura’s Log:
Family brunch at Mom & Dad’s. Of course, Mom doesn’t get the fact that “brunch” allows you to sleep in. (“What do you need to sleep in for?” she shot back when I complained about the 8:30 start time. “You’ve got all this time on your hands now. Best thing for you is to be out of your apartment pronto and doing things. In fact, Dr. Phil says—”)
Lucy and Carl(a) were no-shows. Mom had made the mistake of saying she’d gone to The Bay and bought each of us a pair of those cute red Canada Olympic mitts. At the mention of the Olympics, they were compelled to boycott brunch. Mom was terribly upset, but I tried to explain that’s how their brains were wired. They needed their daily protest in order to find purpose.
Apparently, Estelle and Curtis showed up half an hour early. (“For the first time ever, Sven and Gretel were ready in a snap. Once everyone’s zipped, snapped and bundled, you just go.”) Made my twenty-minute late entrance more glaring. Mom tried to guilt me—“The waffles are hardening in all the wrong places”—but Marella’s stumbling in at 9:15 diverted all the etiquette lecturing and the more generalized “you-just-don’t-love-me” diatribe. One minute after her arrival, Marella stormed out to the back deck, Mom yelling “You lawyers…” to her back.
I decided to join Marella. We hadn’t talked much since New Year’s. She was always working. Well, not always, apparently. Lighting up a cigarette—“You’re smoking again?!” “Shut up!”—she confessed, “I only got home an hour ago. Had an intense fuck with a guy I met at Rosie’s last night. Monty. Or Marty. Maybe it was Dwayne. Anyway, you gotta try it. The energy at that pub was pretty somber, but then when the Canucks came back in the third, every guy in the place was eager to celebrate. I had my pick. You should come with me next time.”
The thought of selecting a one-nighter alongside my sister was too far removed from The Waltons for me. “See you inside,” I said, escaping one awkward moment for another. Mom was unbuttoning and rebuttoning Dad’s shirt in the kitchen in front of the rest of us. “Honestly, you’re sixty-three and you don’t know how to button a shirt. Where was your mind? You can’t go getting Alzheimer’s. We turfed those aluminum pots years ago.” Dad just stood there looking no different than three-year-old Gretel, getting (s)mothered. Sometimes I hate Mom for how she treats him; other times, like that moment, I hate him for allowing it.
When we all settled for brunch, after another five-minute delay for Curtis to change Sven’s loaded diaper—How is it that Curtis is that perfect a daddy? Estelle’s got him whipped more than Mom has Dad.—Mom enjoyed two mouthfuls of her quiche before spilling the big news that quite possibly was the excuse for the entire get-together. “Guess who’s getting a divorce?” she beamed. None of us had the time to process her gleeful grin, much less guess. “Harvey Burns! Isn’t that wonderful, Laura?”
Harvey. My boyfriend from UBC and two years beyond. “The one that got away,” as Mom regularly referred to him. Nothing I ever said could taint that status. A successful banker with a condo overlooking English Bay and a Mercedes, he was great on paper, but a bore who couldn’t contribute to any conversation that drifted too far from a connection to The Wall Street Journal, “The Rachael Ray Show” or mountain biking. Yes, that’s right. Rachael Ray.
“Mavis Benson ran into Harvey’s mother—you remember Doris, don’t you, Laura?”
“Mom,—”
“Oh, of course you do. What am I saying? She was practically your mother-in-law. Well, it turns out that Harvey’s wife put on eighty pounds after the wedding and started blowing all Harvey’s money gambling at The River Rock and everything went bust.”
“Mom…”
“After only two years. I say it just shows he’s still in love with you, Laura. And how could he not be?”
She continued to rattle on, even as Gretel threw waffle bits at Mom. (No doubt, poor Gretel’s way of saying Make it stop.) I had to take a stand and get Mom to butt out. I had no choice but to say, “Marella’s started smoking again!”
I have a grapefruit-sized bruise on my right arm, thanks to Marella’s horrified reaction, but it was worth it. Can’t have my big sis getting lung cancer, can I?
KEN’S JOURNAL (via Blackberry):
WHAT A GAME LAST NIGHT! ALL WEEK I’D BEEN SENDING SNARKY EMAILS TO FRIENDS IN TORONTO, LETTING THEM KNOW THE LEAFS WERE GOING DOWN. AND THEN LUONGO DIDN’T SHOW UP FOR THE FIRST PERIOD. STILL ON PACIFIC TIME? GOD, THOSE SEDINS AND BURR ARE AMAZING! HOW RIGHTEOUS TO HAVE BURROWS RULE THE NIGHT IN CBC CENTRALE! JUST WISH RON MacLEAN HADN’T BEEN FARMED OUT TO STRATFORD. NEEDED TO SEE HIM EAT SOME HUMBLE PIE.
MARTY & I WENT TO ROSIE’S ON ROBSON FOR THE GAME. GREAT ATMOSPHERE. MARTY, OF COURSE, ONLY STUCK AROUND FIFTEEN MINUTES AFTER THE GAME. HOOKED UP W/SOME LAWYER, OLDER THAN HIS NORMAL CONQUEST. THERE’LL BE A STORY THERE. SHE WAS DRESSED TO SCORE IN A LOW-CUT THING THAT MADE IT LOOK LIKE HER BREASTS WLD POP OUT ANY SECOND. CAN’T IMAGINE THE RIDE HOME!
ME, I STUCK AROUND FOR SOME OF THE OILERS-FLAMES. GOT A SENSE THAT THERE WERE WOMEN LINGERING…AND NOT FOR ANOTHER DOSE OF HOCKEY. WHAT’S WRONG W/ME? WHY CAN’T I JUST BANG SOMEONE? SAD THING IS, I KNOW WHAT’S WRONG W/ME. I’D BE THINKING ABOUT CLARA THE WHOLE TIME.
THINK I NEED TO SEE ABOUT GETTING 2 SESSIONS A WEEK W/THE THERAPIST.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Saturday, January 30, 2010
LOSING IT
January 30, 2010
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): You are closer than ever to your goal. Stick with it. It’s almost in your hands.
Laura’s Log:
I don’t know what to think of today’s horoscope. I’ve never really been a goal person. When someone asks me what my five-year plan is, I know that’s a person to avoid—for at least the next five years. Setting goals assumes you have control over things. With me, things always just happen. Like my firing. I suppose I should’ve seen it coming since Ann-Marie and the girls had officially shunned me, but since when in the adult world did mean girls get to run a company? Hopefully, when I find a new career, I’ll be able to look back and view the firing as a gift, but all I can feel right now is total humiliation.
Tamara actually showed up last night and decided I needed to be consoled with a visit to Death by Chocolate. She ordered the Heavenly Dilemma and I had the Devil in Disguise, our own good versus evil feast. I drifted more toward “heaven” when Tamara pointed out that my supersized chocolate cake with the dollops on either side looked phallic. She proceeded to devour it while rhapsodizing about the sex she was having with Andy, her muscled black boyfriend. “The dessert doesn’t do him justice,” she cooed. (I guess we’d moved on from consoling, but the diversion was welcome.) The visit was much like the food: highly anticipated, but ultimately a letdown.
“So does this mean we can go back to our get-togethers a couple times a week?” I asked on the way back to my apartment.
Something snapped in Tamara. “Christ, Laura! Can’t you see how happy I am with Andy? I’ve been single for so long, can’t you try to be supportive? I swear, you’d be doing cartwheels if we broke up!”
“That’s not true. Cartwheels hurt my wrists.”
“Fuck you.” And she stormed off the other direction. Typical Tamara. She’d have to turn around sometime to retrieve her car, but it looked like she had a 10K race-walk in her first. I’d only tried to keep it light. Should’ve known I’d piss her off. She’d completely surrendered her life to Andy. Why do so many women do that?
I walked the final blocks to my place solo. Had to console myself. Job gone, friend gone (for the next three months at least). Hey, but it’s the weekend. Oh, joy.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via Blackberry):
GOTTA HIT THE GYM W/MARTY THIS MORNING. HE CALLED & PUSHED IT BACK TO 11:00. STILL GOT A GIRL OVER & SHE’S INSISTING ON MAKING HIM CINNAMON TOAST. HOPE SHE CUTS OFF THE CRUSTS AND CUTS IT INTO A HEART. THAT’LL FREAK HIM OUT.
I’M LOOKING AT KNOCKING OFF TWENTY POUNDS BY THE END OF MARCH. I COULD BLAME MY GUT ON THE BREAKUP, BUT IT HAD BEEN GROWING FOR YRS WHILE W/CLARA. BECAME COMPLACENT I GUESS. AND FOOD STARTED STICKING AROUND ONCE I HIT MY THIRTIES. I LIKE THAT COMMERCIAL: NEVER FORGET IT’S NOT YOU. IT’S YOUR METABOLISM. WHO THEY KIDDING?! BOTTOM LINE: MY METABOLISM IS STILL ME. GOTTA WORK OFF THE GUT. HOPEFULLY I CAN DO IT W/O GIVING UP BEER. SIPPING CARROT JUICE WHILE WATCHING THE CANUCKS JUST WON’T CUT IT.
I’M STILL A FREE MAN. MY THERAPIST DIDN’T HAVE ME COMMITTED YESTERDAY. ACTUALLY CRIED IN THE SESSION. I’M SUCH A WUSS! HE DID SAY, “WE’RE MAKING PROGRESS” WHICH IS BUSINESS-SPEAK FOR COME ON BACK AGAIN NEXT WEEK & DROP ME ANOTHER CHECK. GOT ME A NASTY CAR PAYMENT TO THINK ABOUT. MAYBE I SHLD LOOK FOR A SELF-HELP BOOK. WHO AM I KIDDING? WHEN DID I LAST EVEN OPEN A BOOK?
‘NUCKS THIS AFTERNOON. HOPE THEY TKO TORONTO!
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): You are closer than ever to your goal. Stick with it. It’s almost in your hands.
Laura’s Log:
I don’t know what to think of today’s horoscope. I’ve never really been a goal person. When someone asks me what my five-year plan is, I know that’s a person to avoid—for at least the next five years. Setting goals assumes you have control over things. With me, things always just happen. Like my firing. I suppose I should’ve seen it coming since Ann-Marie and the girls had officially shunned me, but since when in the adult world did mean girls get to run a company? Hopefully, when I find a new career, I’ll be able to look back and view the firing as a gift, but all I can feel right now is total humiliation.
Tamara actually showed up last night and decided I needed to be consoled with a visit to Death by Chocolate. She ordered the Heavenly Dilemma and I had the Devil in Disguise, our own good versus evil feast. I drifted more toward “heaven” when Tamara pointed out that my supersized chocolate cake with the dollops on either side looked phallic. She proceeded to devour it while rhapsodizing about the sex she was having with Andy, her muscled black boyfriend. “The dessert doesn’t do him justice,” she cooed. (I guess we’d moved on from consoling, but the diversion was welcome.) The visit was much like the food: highly anticipated, but ultimately a letdown.
“So does this mean we can go back to our get-togethers a couple times a week?” I asked on the way back to my apartment.
Something snapped in Tamara. “Christ, Laura! Can’t you see how happy I am with Andy? I’ve been single for so long, can’t you try to be supportive? I swear, you’d be doing cartwheels if we broke up!”
“That’s not true. Cartwheels hurt my wrists.”
“Fuck you.” And she stormed off the other direction. Typical Tamara. She’d have to turn around sometime to retrieve her car, but it looked like she had a 10K race-walk in her first. I’d only tried to keep it light. Should’ve known I’d piss her off. She’d completely surrendered her life to Andy. Why do so many women do that?
I walked the final blocks to my place solo. Had to console myself. Job gone, friend gone (for the next three months at least). Hey, but it’s the weekend. Oh, joy.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via Blackberry):
GOTTA HIT THE GYM W/MARTY THIS MORNING. HE CALLED & PUSHED IT BACK TO 11:00. STILL GOT A GIRL OVER & SHE’S INSISTING ON MAKING HIM CINNAMON TOAST. HOPE SHE CUTS OFF THE CRUSTS AND CUTS IT INTO A HEART. THAT’LL FREAK HIM OUT.
I’M LOOKING AT KNOCKING OFF TWENTY POUNDS BY THE END OF MARCH. I COULD BLAME MY GUT ON THE BREAKUP, BUT IT HAD BEEN GROWING FOR YRS WHILE W/CLARA. BECAME COMPLACENT I GUESS. AND FOOD STARTED STICKING AROUND ONCE I HIT MY THIRTIES. I LIKE THAT COMMERCIAL: NEVER FORGET IT’S NOT YOU. IT’S YOUR METABOLISM. WHO THEY KIDDING?! BOTTOM LINE: MY METABOLISM IS STILL ME. GOTTA WORK OFF THE GUT. HOPEFULLY I CAN DO IT W/O GIVING UP BEER. SIPPING CARROT JUICE WHILE WATCHING THE CANUCKS JUST WON’T CUT IT.
I’M STILL A FREE MAN. MY THERAPIST DIDN’T HAVE ME COMMITTED YESTERDAY. ACTUALLY CRIED IN THE SESSION. I’M SUCH A WUSS! HE DID SAY, “WE’RE MAKING PROGRESS” WHICH IS BUSINESS-SPEAK FOR COME ON BACK AGAIN NEXT WEEK & DROP ME ANOTHER CHECK. GOT ME A NASTY CAR PAYMENT TO THINK ABOUT. MAYBE I SHLD LOOK FOR A SELF-HELP BOOK. WHO AM I KIDDING? WHEN DID I LAST EVEN OPEN A BOOK?
‘NUCKS THIS AFTERNOON. HOPE THEY TKO TORONTO!
Friday, January 29, 2010
IF YOU LOOK TOO CLOSE, YOU MIGHT NOT LIKE WHAT YOU SEE
January 29, 2010
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): You’ve been using a magnifying glass, when what you need is a microscope.
Laura’s Log:
Hmm. Magnifying glass? Microscope? What I really need is a bottle of sleeping pills. Oh, relax. I’m not thinking of an overdose. Sure, getting fired sucks but, truth is, my job wasn’t going to lead me anywhere. It was a dead end position and I needed a kick to get me thinking about a career rather than a job. (Just wish the kick hadn’t come with bionic force from steel-toed boots.) That said, I’m not sleeping well without a little assistance. After hours of tossing and thoroughly confusing Tupper, I got up at three in the morning and took some Nyquil. That put me out of commission, STAT, but then I awakened at 6:30, sweating profusely in soaking wet sheets. I always think that THIS TIME Nyquil won’t give me the nighttime sweats, but it always does. Three plus hours of sleep…it’s a step.
I’m going to take the magnifying glass/microscope advice as a nudge that I need to use technology to assist me in my career search. I certainly don’t want or need to more closely examine my getting the axe or that toxic work environment with Ernesto and the girls. Will not just comb the classifieds in The Vancouver Sun today. I’ll go online. Not sure where to look, but I’m ready for the journey. (Might wander over to an entertainment website or two—you know, for a break. Heard on the radio that Bradley Cooper is getting engaged to Renee Zellweger. The woman goes through engagements like Liz Taylor goes through marriages. Don’t care, but methinks it’s an opportunity to drool over a few more posted pics of his amazing abs.)
Had dinner with Lucy and Carl(a) last night. Carl(a) went with “Carla” for the entire evening so that made things less awkward than usual. Still not thrilled with their incessant PDAs. A hug is fine, but it gets embarrassing when the waiter has to wait for them to get their tongues back in their own mouths. Naturally, it was a vegetarian joint, The Foundation, since the two of them seem to think they’re accomplices to murder if there is meat on the menu. (Still can’t block that ugly incident last time when they walked out of Stepho’s because there was lamb on the menu. A Greek restaurant serving lamb…shocking!)
Lucy, of course, thinks I should sue Hunter Keene’s ass. Carla volunteered to send Ann-Marie a package with a mysterious white substance just to freak her out. As if a terrorist would ever target Ann-Marie. She IS the terror-or, not the terror-ee.
Lucy and Carla then switched gears and tried to persuade me to join their anti-Olympic protests “since you’ve got extra time on your hands”. Yes, a stint in jail would make my résumé stand out from the rest, I suppose. Still, I don’t think it will help me jump from “job” to “career”. I realize there are career criminals, but I feel bad even when I find someone’s quarter in the coin return tray of a vending machine. Somewhere someone has to downsize from a venti to a grande.
Besides, I’d like to see Canada finally win a gold medal at home. And if has to be in luge, I’ll have no problem pretending luge matters.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via Blackberry):
BOOKED ANOTHER SESSION WITH MY THERAPIST AFTER WORK. I DON’T KNOW THAT IT DOES ANY GOOD, BUT I DON’T SEEM ABLE TO WORK THROUGH MY CLARA ISSUES ON MY OWN AND I’VE BEEN LEANING ON SARA AN AWFUL LOT. SHE DOESN’T SAY IT, BUT I FEEL AS THOUGH I’VE BECOME HER FIFTH KID. SHE’S GOT HER HANDS FULL AS IT IS WITH JERRY OUT OF TOWN MORE THAN OFTEN THAN NOT.
PAYING TO VENT IS PATHETIC, BUT—REALITY CHECK—I HAVE BECOME THE PATHETIC SORT. SOME OF MY GUY FRIENDS, LIKE MARTY, DON’T GET MY SUDDEN EEYORE PERSONA. OF COURSE, WHAT DOES MARTY KNOW ABOUT A RELATIONSHIP? I THINK HIS LONGEST WAS A WEEK & THAT WAS JUST B/C SHE TOOK HIM ON A CRUISE SHE’D WON. SUPPOSE HE COULD HAVE JUMPED SHIP BUT MARTY SAID THE FOOD MADE UP FOR HAVING TO BE COMMITTED FOR SO LONG.
“WHAT’S THE BIG DEAL?” JACKY ASKED AT WORK YESTERDAY. “IT’S NOT LIKE YOU WERE MARRIED.” EIGHT YEARS. I ALWAYS SAID WE DIDN’T NEED A FREAKIN’ MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE. AND EVENTUALLY CLARA GOT HER HEAD AROUND THAT. WHEN SHE LEFT, SHE WAS ALL SMILES AND “HAVE A NICE LIFE.” I’M THE ONE WHO FEELS LIKE I’M MUDDLING THRU A DIVORCE. DIDN’T SEE THAT ONE COMING, BUT THEN I DIDN’T SEE HER LEAVING.
MAYBE IT’S GOOD THAT NO ONE’S NIPPING @ MY WORM ON PLENTYOFFISH.COM. MAYBE I AM NOT READY TO MOVE ON. ALL I KNOW IS, I GOTTA STOP THINKING ABOUT CLARA. WLDN’T BE SURPRISED IF MY SHRINK HAS ME COMMITTED. WLDN’T BE SO BAD…AS LONG AS I CAN CATCH THE CANUCKS ON TV.
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): You’ve been using a magnifying glass, when what you need is a microscope.
Laura’s Log:
Hmm. Magnifying glass? Microscope? What I really need is a bottle of sleeping pills. Oh, relax. I’m not thinking of an overdose. Sure, getting fired sucks but, truth is, my job wasn’t going to lead me anywhere. It was a dead end position and I needed a kick to get me thinking about a career rather than a job. (Just wish the kick hadn’t come with bionic force from steel-toed boots.) That said, I’m not sleeping well without a little assistance. After hours of tossing and thoroughly confusing Tupper, I got up at three in the morning and took some Nyquil. That put me out of commission, STAT, but then I awakened at 6:30, sweating profusely in soaking wet sheets. I always think that THIS TIME Nyquil won’t give me the nighttime sweats, but it always does. Three plus hours of sleep…it’s a step.
I’m going to take the magnifying glass/microscope advice as a nudge that I need to use technology to assist me in my career search. I certainly don’t want or need to more closely examine my getting the axe or that toxic work environment with Ernesto and the girls. Will not just comb the classifieds in The Vancouver Sun today. I’ll go online. Not sure where to look, but I’m ready for the journey. (Might wander over to an entertainment website or two—you know, for a break. Heard on the radio that Bradley Cooper is getting engaged to Renee Zellweger. The woman goes through engagements like Liz Taylor goes through marriages. Don’t care, but methinks it’s an opportunity to drool over a few more posted pics of his amazing abs.)
Had dinner with Lucy and Carl(a) last night. Carl(a) went with “Carla” for the entire evening so that made things less awkward than usual. Still not thrilled with their incessant PDAs. A hug is fine, but it gets embarrassing when the waiter has to wait for them to get their tongues back in their own mouths. Naturally, it was a vegetarian joint, The Foundation, since the two of them seem to think they’re accomplices to murder if there is meat on the menu. (Still can’t block that ugly incident last time when they walked out of Stepho’s because there was lamb on the menu. A Greek restaurant serving lamb…shocking!)
Lucy, of course, thinks I should sue Hunter Keene’s ass. Carla volunteered to send Ann-Marie a package with a mysterious white substance just to freak her out. As if a terrorist would ever target Ann-Marie. She IS the terror-or, not the terror-ee.
Lucy and Carla then switched gears and tried to persuade me to join their anti-Olympic protests “since you’ve got extra time on your hands”. Yes, a stint in jail would make my résumé stand out from the rest, I suppose. Still, I don’t think it will help me jump from “job” to “career”. I realize there are career criminals, but I feel bad even when I find someone’s quarter in the coin return tray of a vending machine. Somewhere someone has to downsize from a venti to a grande.
Besides, I’d like to see Canada finally win a gold medal at home. And if has to be in luge, I’ll have no problem pretending luge matters.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via Blackberry):
BOOKED ANOTHER SESSION WITH MY THERAPIST AFTER WORK. I DON’T KNOW THAT IT DOES ANY GOOD, BUT I DON’T SEEM ABLE TO WORK THROUGH MY CLARA ISSUES ON MY OWN AND I’VE BEEN LEANING ON SARA AN AWFUL LOT. SHE DOESN’T SAY IT, BUT I FEEL AS THOUGH I’VE BECOME HER FIFTH KID. SHE’S GOT HER HANDS FULL AS IT IS WITH JERRY OUT OF TOWN MORE THAN OFTEN THAN NOT.
PAYING TO VENT IS PATHETIC, BUT—REALITY CHECK—I HAVE BECOME THE PATHETIC SORT. SOME OF MY GUY FRIENDS, LIKE MARTY, DON’T GET MY SUDDEN EEYORE PERSONA. OF COURSE, WHAT DOES MARTY KNOW ABOUT A RELATIONSHIP? I THINK HIS LONGEST WAS A WEEK & THAT WAS JUST B/C SHE TOOK HIM ON A CRUISE SHE’D WON. SUPPOSE HE COULD HAVE JUMPED SHIP BUT MARTY SAID THE FOOD MADE UP FOR HAVING TO BE COMMITTED FOR SO LONG.
“WHAT’S THE BIG DEAL?” JACKY ASKED AT WORK YESTERDAY. “IT’S NOT LIKE YOU WERE MARRIED.” EIGHT YEARS. I ALWAYS SAID WE DIDN’T NEED A FREAKIN’ MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE. AND EVENTUALLY CLARA GOT HER HEAD AROUND THAT. WHEN SHE LEFT, SHE WAS ALL SMILES AND “HAVE A NICE LIFE.” I’M THE ONE WHO FEELS LIKE I’M MUDDLING THRU A DIVORCE. DIDN’T SEE THAT ONE COMING, BUT THEN I DIDN’T SEE HER LEAVING.
MAYBE IT’S GOOD THAT NO ONE’S NIPPING @ MY WORM ON PLENTYOFFISH.COM. MAYBE I AM NOT READY TO MOVE ON. ALL I KNOW IS, I GOTTA STOP THINKING ABOUT CLARA. WLDN’T BE SURPRISED IF MY SHRINK HAS ME COMMITTED. WLDN’T BE SO BAD…AS LONG AS I CAN CATCH THE CANUCKS ON TV.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
MIRED IN A MENACING MINDSET
January 28, 2010
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): Don’t give up on your current project. A bit of determination will see it through.
Laura’s Log:
Well, now is the time to be desperate. And, yes, I’m going to be counting on my daily horoscope to give me a little guidance. Everything in my brain is too fuzzy at the moment. There’s a little demon floating somewhere over my right shoulder. She has Ann-Marie’s voice (even though Hunter Keene fired the shot) and she has only one thing to say: Fired. Over and over. Succinct, but brutal.
I walked right out of the office after the meeting with Hunter and Sue. That cliché about going to your desk and clearing your things? Are you kidding me?! Not with Ann-Marie and the girls enjoying the show. Of course, the damn elevator took its sweet time swooping up and saving me. With tears running down my face, I kept my eyes fixed on the elevator door. Laverne spoke to me for the first time in a week. “Laura, hon, what’s wrong?”
I blurted, “My grandmother died” and then fled through the stairwell. OK, Grandma Newton died seven years ago. True, she always had bad gas and claimed it was me every time, not her—my sisters called me Stinky for years—but I missed her sometimes. Never cried at her funeral. Seven years later? Not a chance. But Laverne would spread the news and, by day’s end, Hunter Keene would look like a prick for firing someone right after her beloved grandmother died.
I went straight home and cocooned in a ball on my bed. Tupper whined for me to lift him up and then he nuzzled up against me as I coated two pillowcases with a river of tears. Fired. By the afternoon, the air seemed to be sucked out of my apartment and I was literally gasping to take in a breath. I decided to reward my faithful companion with an off-leash outing at the beach in Kits near the Maritime Museum. All labs and other large breeds, but Tupper is a Shih-Tzu that thinks he’s a Great Dane. Suddenly, my fourteen-year-old pooch had the pep of a pup. I actually managed a laugh as I watched him try to sniff a few butts that towered over him.
A stunning man with a shaved head—normally, not a fan of baldness, but the look highlighted his strongly chiseled facial features—joined me on my chosen log and made idle conversation with me as his Rottweiler waded in the water, begging for a stick, a ball, a rock to be thrown his way. We might have had a connection, but it was definitely not the right time to be looking for a date. Exchanged dog names—Rolph the Rottie—and parted ways as Tupper tuckered out and Roloph seemed to be swimming for Vancouver Island.
Back to my horoscope. I’m supposed to focus on my current project. I’d say it’s wallowing and I’d say I’m doing it quite well, thank you very much. Yes, I guess I need to think about rebounding and finding some other employment, but, come on, things are still too raw.
Fired.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via iPhone):
MARTY SCORED TICKETS TO THE CANUCKS GAME LAST NIGHT. FUN GAME ALTHOUGH I WANTED BURR TO EXTEND HIS POINT STREAK AND IT WLD HAVE BEEN NICE TO SEE MORE SEDIN MAGIC. STILL, A PARTY ATMOSPHERE @ GM PLACE. LAST HOME GAME IN AGES.
WENT FOR BEERS AFTER THE GAME & MARTY SCORED AGAIN. SOME 25 YEAR OLD W/A COLOSSAL BOOB JOB REACHED FOR THE LAST PRETZEL AT THE SAME TIME AS MARTY SO THEY DECIDED TO SHARE IT. FROM THEN ON, I WAS STUCK WATCHING THE AUSSIE OPEN ON THE BIGSCREEN. WALKED HOME SCRATCHING MY HEAD OVER WHAT THE WOMEN ALWAYS SEE IN MARTY. MAYBE I SHOULD GET SOME PLASTIC SURGERY OF MY OWN, GET ME A CHIN DIMPLE LIKE MARTY’S.
NO MSGES ON PLENTYOFFISH. SAD. I’M THE NEW KID IN TOWN, RIGHT? IS THE GUY SUPPOSED TO INITIATE? COME ON, IT’S 2010 & IT’S THE INTERNET. STEP UP, LADIES.
GUESS I’LL HAVE TO GROW A PAIR & SEND OUT MY OWN MSGES. HEART NOT IN IT TONITE THOUGH. CAME ACROSS CLARA’S PEPPERMINT TEA IN THE CUPBOARD WHEN I WAS GONNA MAKE ME A HOT CHOCOLATE. TURFED THE TEA BUT CALLED IT A NITE RIGHT AFTER.
CLARA LEFT MONTHS AGO BUT SHE STILL HASN’T GONE.
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): Don’t give up on your current project. A bit of determination will see it through.
Laura’s Log:
Well, now is the time to be desperate. And, yes, I’m going to be counting on my daily horoscope to give me a little guidance. Everything in my brain is too fuzzy at the moment. There’s a little demon floating somewhere over my right shoulder. She has Ann-Marie’s voice (even though Hunter Keene fired the shot) and she has only one thing to say: Fired. Over and over. Succinct, but brutal.
I walked right out of the office after the meeting with Hunter and Sue. That cliché about going to your desk and clearing your things? Are you kidding me?! Not with Ann-Marie and the girls enjoying the show. Of course, the damn elevator took its sweet time swooping up and saving me. With tears running down my face, I kept my eyes fixed on the elevator door. Laverne spoke to me for the first time in a week. “Laura, hon, what’s wrong?”
I blurted, “My grandmother died” and then fled through the stairwell. OK, Grandma Newton died seven years ago. True, she always had bad gas and claimed it was me every time, not her—my sisters called me Stinky for years—but I missed her sometimes. Never cried at her funeral. Seven years later? Not a chance. But Laverne would spread the news and, by day’s end, Hunter Keene would look like a prick for firing someone right after her beloved grandmother died.
I went straight home and cocooned in a ball on my bed. Tupper whined for me to lift him up and then he nuzzled up against me as I coated two pillowcases with a river of tears. Fired. By the afternoon, the air seemed to be sucked out of my apartment and I was literally gasping to take in a breath. I decided to reward my faithful companion with an off-leash outing at the beach in Kits near the Maritime Museum. All labs and other large breeds, but Tupper is a Shih-Tzu that thinks he’s a Great Dane. Suddenly, my fourteen-year-old pooch had the pep of a pup. I actually managed a laugh as I watched him try to sniff a few butts that towered over him.
A stunning man with a shaved head—normally, not a fan of baldness, but the look highlighted his strongly chiseled facial features—joined me on my chosen log and made idle conversation with me as his Rottweiler waded in the water, begging for a stick, a ball, a rock to be thrown his way. We might have had a connection, but it was definitely not the right time to be looking for a date. Exchanged dog names—Rolph the Rottie—and parted ways as Tupper tuckered out and Roloph seemed to be swimming for Vancouver Island.
Back to my horoscope. I’m supposed to focus on my current project. I’d say it’s wallowing and I’d say I’m doing it quite well, thank you very much. Yes, I guess I need to think about rebounding and finding some other employment, but, come on, things are still too raw.
Fired.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via iPhone):
MARTY SCORED TICKETS TO THE CANUCKS GAME LAST NIGHT. FUN GAME ALTHOUGH I WANTED BURR TO EXTEND HIS POINT STREAK AND IT WLD HAVE BEEN NICE TO SEE MORE SEDIN MAGIC. STILL, A PARTY ATMOSPHERE @ GM PLACE. LAST HOME GAME IN AGES.
WENT FOR BEERS AFTER THE GAME & MARTY SCORED AGAIN. SOME 25 YEAR OLD W/A COLOSSAL BOOB JOB REACHED FOR THE LAST PRETZEL AT THE SAME TIME AS MARTY SO THEY DECIDED TO SHARE IT. FROM THEN ON, I WAS STUCK WATCHING THE AUSSIE OPEN ON THE BIGSCREEN. WALKED HOME SCRATCHING MY HEAD OVER WHAT THE WOMEN ALWAYS SEE IN MARTY. MAYBE I SHOULD GET SOME PLASTIC SURGERY OF MY OWN, GET ME A CHIN DIMPLE LIKE MARTY’S.
NO MSGES ON PLENTYOFFISH. SAD. I’M THE NEW KID IN TOWN, RIGHT? IS THE GUY SUPPOSED TO INITIATE? COME ON, IT’S 2010 & IT’S THE INTERNET. STEP UP, LADIES.
GUESS I’LL HAVE TO GROW A PAIR & SEND OUT MY OWN MSGES. HEART NOT IN IT TONITE THOUGH. CAME ACROSS CLARA’S PEPPERMINT TEA IN THE CUPBOARD WHEN I WAS GONNA MAKE ME A HOT CHOCOLATE. TURFED THE TEA BUT CALLED IT A NITE RIGHT AFTER.
CLARA LEFT MONTHS AGO BUT SHE STILL HASN’T GONE.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
BLIND-SIDED
January 27, 2010
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): Your extra-good energy may be derailed by a disruption. Stay flexible.
Laura’s Log:
“Extra-good” energy? Really?! Had to double check and make sure I hadn’t clicked on the Aries horoscope by accident. (It’s right above Libra on the web page I read.) I don’t think I have any extra-good energy at the moment. Perhaps it’s a sign from Cher: “Snap out of it!” (Ooh, I love “Moonstruck”. Might be worth a rental this weekend.) Should I even attempt to drum up some positive energy if it’s only going to be disrupted? OK, sure. What the hell. (See, I think that’s me being flexible.)
Morning did start out well. Tupper wasted no time doing his business. (That is a major positive. Lately, he’s been circling spots for a full minute and then failing to leave a parting gift. Over and over he spins round and round.) No discernible stains on my work clothes. Yep, another positive. Almost felt like whistling. (But then, I never really learned how. It’s up there with blowing bubbles with gum as one of life’s failures. Oops, don’t go there…focus on the EXTRA-GOOD energy.)
Starbucks stop. Sugar was at the till. Ugh. But, wait! Just as I stepped up, Dodger appeared from nowhere and took over the barista bar. My latté was in his hands! Decided to order it with extra foam. (Ew, sounded sleazy, not flirty. Reconsidered. Not big on the foam anyway.) “No spittle on your shirt today,” Sugar chirped/sniped. I cut her off, immediately blurting my order. Too bad she couldn’t take a hint. “Say,” she continued as she fished for my change. “I didn’t know shoulder pads were back in vogue.” Grr. “They’re not,” I replied through clenched teeth. “And these aren’t.” Humiliated and totally self conscious, I accepted my drink order with a hard-fought smile. Dodger never looked up. Guess he’d been raised not to stare at the freakish Bearded Lady or her cousin, Built-in Shoulder Pad Woman.
Got stuck riding the elevator up with Jeremy Welles. He said, “Hello.” I ignored him and kept my head up, focused intently on the floors lighting up. Ninth floor. My exit. Gosh, that went well.
Didn’t even get my jacket off as Sue from HR was standing at my desk upon arrival. Extra-good energy, extra-good energy. Maybe I’d made a careless error on my timesheet last week. Maybe I was finally getting that raise. “Morning, Laura. I need you to come with me.” Awfully stoic. Best not to let on to the others I was getting a promotion until all the papers were signed. Tickety-boo. Funny word, bouncy even. Flashed to mind from all that super energy.
The door to Ernesto’s office was shut. Lights out. He was usually in at least a half hour before us. Vaguely aware of Ann-Marie at her desk. I blocked her out as she was most definitely an energy zapper. We waltzed into Hunter Keene’s office. Hunter Keene, CEO. He was just sitting and waiting, hands clasped together in front of him atop his stately cherry desk. “Please have a seat, Laura.” I managed a cheery “Good morning”; he just cleared his throat. Sue took the chair beside me, but pulled it away slightly before sitting. She always was the type who was hard to warm up to.
“Ernesto is no longer with the company,” Sue informed. The girls had done it! The tyrant ousted!
Keene jumped in. “We’re doing a little restructuring. I’m afraid your job has been rendered surplus. We’re going to have to let you go.”
My gaze Ping-Ponged from Mr. Keene to Sue. Neither flinched. I’d never been fired. Saw “Up in the Air” two weeks ago. At the time, I’d joked to Katherine that, if it ever happened, I wanted George Clooney to do the deed. Instead, I got to hear it from pot-bellied, crooked-tied, fifty-one going on eighty, master of the comb-over Hunter Keene.
Fired. I’d say that was more than a “disruption”.
KEN’S JOURNAL:
LOADED A DIGITAL SHOT OF ME AT THE ENTRANCE TO YALETOWN BREWERY LAST NIGHT AND WHEN I CHECKED THIS A.M. A DOZEN WOMEN HAD ALREADY VIEWED ME! NO MSGES. BUT ONE, KITSKISSER, ADDED ME AS A FAVOURITE. FROM HER PHOTOS, I’D RATHER FLY TO NEWFOUNDLAND AND KISS THE COD, BUT IT’S A START. GOTTA STAY POSITIVE.
SARA SAID SHE’S GOT A NEW CLIENT, RECENTLY DIVORCED, WHO’S LOOKING TO START OVER. ATTRACTIVE, TOO. SHE’S GOING TO TRY TO SET SOMETHING UP. IS IT CREEPY TO HAVE MY SIS PIMPIN’ ME? I’LL TAKE WHAT I CAN GET.
RAN INTO ALEXIA WHITBURN OVER LUNCH BREAK TODAY. AWKWARD. CLARA & I WERE AT HER PLACE FOR A DINNER PARTY EIGHT MONTHS AGO & NEVER OFFERED AN INVITATION IN RETURN. COURSE, THAT’S WHEN EVERYTHING WAS UNRAVELING, BUT ALEXIA DIDN’T KNOW. SHE KEPT ASKING ABOUT US. FINALLY HAD TO SPILL IT: CLARA & I WERE OVER. THAT DIDN’T STOP HER. HAD TO ASK THE WHEN, THE WHY, THE HOW…
HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO MOVE ON WHEN I KEEP BEING HIT IN THE HEAD WITH THE PAST?
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): Your extra-good energy may be derailed by a disruption. Stay flexible.
Laura’s Log:
“Extra-good” energy? Really?! Had to double check and make sure I hadn’t clicked on the Aries horoscope by accident. (It’s right above Libra on the web page I read.) I don’t think I have any extra-good energy at the moment. Perhaps it’s a sign from Cher: “Snap out of it!” (Ooh, I love “Moonstruck”. Might be worth a rental this weekend.) Should I even attempt to drum up some positive energy if it’s only going to be disrupted? OK, sure. What the hell. (See, I think that’s me being flexible.)
Morning did start out well. Tupper wasted no time doing his business. (That is a major positive. Lately, he’s been circling spots for a full minute and then failing to leave a parting gift. Over and over he spins round and round.) No discernible stains on my work clothes. Yep, another positive. Almost felt like whistling. (But then, I never really learned how. It’s up there with blowing bubbles with gum as one of life’s failures. Oops, don’t go there…focus on the EXTRA-GOOD energy.)
Starbucks stop. Sugar was at the till. Ugh. But, wait! Just as I stepped up, Dodger appeared from nowhere and took over the barista bar. My latté was in his hands! Decided to order it with extra foam. (Ew, sounded sleazy, not flirty. Reconsidered. Not big on the foam anyway.) “No spittle on your shirt today,” Sugar chirped/sniped. I cut her off, immediately blurting my order. Too bad she couldn’t take a hint. “Say,” she continued as she fished for my change. “I didn’t know shoulder pads were back in vogue.” Grr. “They’re not,” I replied through clenched teeth. “And these aren’t.” Humiliated and totally self conscious, I accepted my drink order with a hard-fought smile. Dodger never looked up. Guess he’d been raised not to stare at the freakish Bearded Lady or her cousin, Built-in Shoulder Pad Woman.
Got stuck riding the elevator up with Jeremy Welles. He said, “Hello.” I ignored him and kept my head up, focused intently on the floors lighting up. Ninth floor. My exit. Gosh, that went well.
Didn’t even get my jacket off as Sue from HR was standing at my desk upon arrival. Extra-good energy, extra-good energy. Maybe I’d made a careless error on my timesheet last week. Maybe I was finally getting that raise. “Morning, Laura. I need you to come with me.” Awfully stoic. Best not to let on to the others I was getting a promotion until all the papers were signed. Tickety-boo. Funny word, bouncy even. Flashed to mind from all that super energy.
The door to Ernesto’s office was shut. Lights out. He was usually in at least a half hour before us. Vaguely aware of Ann-Marie at her desk. I blocked her out as she was most definitely an energy zapper. We waltzed into Hunter Keene’s office. Hunter Keene, CEO. He was just sitting and waiting, hands clasped together in front of him atop his stately cherry desk. “Please have a seat, Laura.” I managed a cheery “Good morning”; he just cleared his throat. Sue took the chair beside me, but pulled it away slightly before sitting. She always was the type who was hard to warm up to.
“Ernesto is no longer with the company,” Sue informed. The girls had done it! The tyrant ousted!
Keene jumped in. “We’re doing a little restructuring. I’m afraid your job has been rendered surplus. We’re going to have to let you go.”
My gaze Ping-Ponged from Mr. Keene to Sue. Neither flinched. I’d never been fired. Saw “Up in the Air” two weeks ago. At the time, I’d joked to Katherine that, if it ever happened, I wanted George Clooney to do the deed. Instead, I got to hear it from pot-bellied, crooked-tied, fifty-one going on eighty, master of the comb-over Hunter Keene.
Fired. I’d say that was more than a “disruption”.
KEN’S JOURNAL:
LOADED A DIGITAL SHOT OF ME AT THE ENTRANCE TO YALETOWN BREWERY LAST NIGHT AND WHEN I CHECKED THIS A.M. A DOZEN WOMEN HAD ALREADY VIEWED ME! NO MSGES. BUT ONE, KITSKISSER, ADDED ME AS A FAVOURITE. FROM HER PHOTOS, I’D RATHER FLY TO NEWFOUNDLAND AND KISS THE COD, BUT IT’S A START. GOTTA STAY POSITIVE.
SARA SAID SHE’S GOT A NEW CLIENT, RECENTLY DIVORCED, WHO’S LOOKING TO START OVER. ATTRACTIVE, TOO. SHE’S GOING TO TRY TO SET SOMETHING UP. IS IT CREEPY TO HAVE MY SIS PIMPIN’ ME? I’LL TAKE WHAT I CAN GET.
RAN INTO ALEXIA WHITBURN OVER LUNCH BREAK TODAY. AWKWARD. CLARA & I WERE AT HER PLACE FOR A DINNER PARTY EIGHT MONTHS AGO & NEVER OFFERED AN INVITATION IN RETURN. COURSE, THAT’S WHEN EVERYTHING WAS UNRAVELING, BUT ALEXIA DIDN’T KNOW. SHE KEPT ASKING ABOUT US. FINALLY HAD TO SPILL IT: CLARA & I WERE OVER. THAT DIDN’T STOP HER. HAD TO ASK THE WHEN, THE WHY, THE HOW…
HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO MOVE ON WHEN I KEEP BEING HIT IN THE HEAD WITH THE PAST?
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
DON’T STRESS, ANDY RICHTER! IT’S NOT WORTH THE WRINKLES.
January 26, 2010
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): The roadblocks have fallen away, and you’re finally making up for lost time.
Laura’s Log:
Roadblocks. I suppose they’re all around me at work. I can’t connect with any of my coworkers. They’ve all judged me, wrongly of course, but judgment ultimately comes from within and I can’t change their minds. They don’t want to be changed. Ernesto is, with good reason, the tyrannical, ranting boss who must go. When you nix a talk show, you don’t just axe the host; the sidekick must go, too. I’m the Andy Richter.
All I can do is focus on my work, plop what I’ve finished on people’s desks or into their email accounts and move on. I can work around them. I have no choice. Had that epiphany yesterday at 1:08 as the girls sauntered en masse back into the office after lunch. They were loud, even obnoxious, sounding like a drunken posse, whooping it up for the sake of solidarity, daring Ernesto to lay into any of them about punctuality. To see me crumble in front of them would only be a bonus.
Reminded me of sixth grade when Lanie Robinson decided my shoes were an embarrassment to the group and, just like that, I no longer existed to her, Meredith, Melanie or Grace. We never spoke again—except when clueless Mr. Gates forced us together for the occasional group assignment. Back then, it nearly killed me. I’m not going back to sixth grade at my thirty-two. My current desk and chair are way more comfy.
Brought my iPod to work today. Adele and Duffy are rockin’ workmates.
KEN’S JOURNAL (sent via iPhone):
OLYMPICS LESS THAN 3 WKS AWAY. STREET CLOSURES ARE POPPING UP, BUT NOT MUCH OF AN INCONVENIENCE YET. TIRED OF ALL THE PEOPLE WHINING TO THE PRESS. IT’S THE OLYMPICS, PEOPLE. ONCE IN A LIFETIME. CAN YOU CHILL?
OUR NEW DEVELOPMENT IN BURNABY SEEMS TO FINALLY BE A GO. CLEARED THE BIGGEST HURDLES @ CITY HALL YESTERDAY. STILL MORE RED TAPE, BUT I THINK CONSTRUCTION WILL BEGIN IN APRIL. THIS ONE IS MY BABY. WON’T MAKE ME SET FOR LIFE, BUT I’LL BE A HOT REAL ESTATE DEVELOPMENT COMMODITY FOR YEARS TO COME. IT’S FREAKIN’ EXCITING!
WISH MY PERSONAL LIFE WERE LOOKING AS PROMISING. SET UP AN ONLINE PROFILE LAST NIGHT ON PLENTY OF FISH. PROBLEM IS I DON’T HAVE ANY PICS OF MYSELF TO POST. CLARA’S IN THEM ALL AND CROPPING HER OUT DIDN’T HELP. THAT MYSTERIOUS ARM AROUND ME CAN’T PASS FOR A SCARF. TRIED TO TAKE SNAPS OF MYSELF BUT THEY MADE ME LOOK LIKE A DORK…WITH A TON OF WRINKLES ON THE FOREHEAD. HOW’D THEY GET THERE ANYWAY?!
I’M TAKING SARA OUT FOR DINNER TONITE. SHE’S NOT BAD W/THE CAMERA. I NEED HER TO WORK A LITTLE MAGIC. FIRST IMPRESSIONS COUNT, RIGHT?
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): The roadblocks have fallen away, and you’re finally making up for lost time.
Laura’s Log:
Roadblocks. I suppose they’re all around me at work. I can’t connect with any of my coworkers. They’ve all judged me, wrongly of course, but judgment ultimately comes from within and I can’t change their minds. They don’t want to be changed. Ernesto is, with good reason, the tyrannical, ranting boss who must go. When you nix a talk show, you don’t just axe the host; the sidekick must go, too. I’m the Andy Richter.
All I can do is focus on my work, plop what I’ve finished on people’s desks or into their email accounts and move on. I can work around them. I have no choice. Had that epiphany yesterday at 1:08 as the girls sauntered en masse back into the office after lunch. They were loud, even obnoxious, sounding like a drunken posse, whooping it up for the sake of solidarity, daring Ernesto to lay into any of them about punctuality. To see me crumble in front of them would only be a bonus.
Reminded me of sixth grade when Lanie Robinson decided my shoes were an embarrassment to the group and, just like that, I no longer existed to her, Meredith, Melanie or Grace. We never spoke again—except when clueless Mr. Gates forced us together for the occasional group assignment. Back then, it nearly killed me. I’m not going back to sixth grade at my thirty-two. My current desk and chair are way more comfy.
Brought my iPod to work today. Adele and Duffy are rockin’ workmates.
KEN’S JOURNAL (sent via iPhone):
OLYMPICS LESS THAN 3 WKS AWAY. STREET CLOSURES ARE POPPING UP, BUT NOT MUCH OF AN INCONVENIENCE YET. TIRED OF ALL THE PEOPLE WHINING TO THE PRESS. IT’S THE OLYMPICS, PEOPLE. ONCE IN A LIFETIME. CAN YOU CHILL?
OUR NEW DEVELOPMENT IN BURNABY SEEMS TO FINALLY BE A GO. CLEARED THE BIGGEST HURDLES @ CITY HALL YESTERDAY. STILL MORE RED TAPE, BUT I THINK CONSTRUCTION WILL BEGIN IN APRIL. THIS ONE IS MY BABY. WON’T MAKE ME SET FOR LIFE, BUT I’LL BE A HOT REAL ESTATE DEVELOPMENT COMMODITY FOR YEARS TO COME. IT’S FREAKIN’ EXCITING!
WISH MY PERSONAL LIFE WERE LOOKING AS PROMISING. SET UP AN ONLINE PROFILE LAST NIGHT ON PLENTY OF FISH. PROBLEM IS I DON’T HAVE ANY PICS OF MYSELF TO POST. CLARA’S IN THEM ALL AND CROPPING HER OUT DIDN’T HELP. THAT MYSTERIOUS ARM AROUND ME CAN’T PASS FOR A SCARF. TRIED TO TAKE SNAPS OF MYSELF BUT THEY MADE ME LOOK LIKE A DORK…WITH A TON OF WRINKLES ON THE FOREHEAD. HOW’D THEY GET THERE ANYWAY?!
I’M TAKING SARA OUT FOR DINNER TONITE. SHE’S NOT BAD W/THE CAMERA. I NEED HER TO WORK A LITTLE MAGIC. FIRST IMPRESSIONS COUNT, RIGHT?
Monday, January 25, 2010
PLACE SPITTLE HERE
January 25, 2010
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): Sure, it looks obvious on the surface. But look closer. You’re missing something.
Laura’s Log:
In the words of Karen Carpenter, rainy days and Mondays always get me down. And today’s looking like a rainy Monday. How fitting.
It’s always hard to wake up at six in the morning after getting to sleep in until a totally indulgent 7:10 a.m. on weekends. (That’s as long as Tupper can hold out. Walkie calls. Hydrants to mark anew!) Still, last Monday it didn’t seem as hard. What a difference a week makes. I’ve gone from an office peon to the office whore.
Of course, no one calls me that to my face. They call me nothing. They say nothing. I had more stature as a peon. Now I don’t exist, aside from being the object of the Daily Scowl from Ann-Marie and Mrs. Melaney. (Yes, Mrs. Melaney scowls at everyone—even people on the phone—, but mine have gotten more demonic.) The good thing about work used to be that time passed so fast it always felt that lunch and the end of the day snuck up on me by surprise. Now it seems I can hear every tick of the second hand on the institutional clock hanging above the lunch room.
I walked an extra block with Tupper just to delay getting ready. My stomach felt like I’d swallowed a brick. No, a brick with thorns poking out. (OK, I’ve never seen such a thing, but then I’ve never felt this way either. No nausea, just acute AND chronic pain.) Of course, when I got back into the apartment, I was in a frenzy, running late. Oh, how they’d silently chastise me if I strolled in even a minute after 8:30!
Wouldn’t you know it, my blouse still a trace of that curry stain I’d pointed out to the dry cleaner, but I didn’t notice until I was grabbing my keys and tossing Tupper an extra biscuit. No time to change. Surely with no one paying a bit of attention to me, the stain would go unnoticed. Gotta search for the perks, right?
Yep, Mondays suck. Dodger was working, but didn’t even notice me. He was grinding pound after pound of coffee and someone named Sugar took my latté order. She leaned forward like she was going to kiss me. I pulled back and conked the gentleman behind me. “Do you have a baby, ma’am?” Sugar asked. I don’t know what startled me more, the baby comment or “ma’am”. I couldn’t respond. Didn’t matter; she elaborated: “Seems you’ve got some spittle on your shirt.”
Sugar,…such a sweet thing. Tuesday—no, Saturday—can’t come soon enough.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via iPhone):
WENT AHEAD AND LEFT A MSG W/DEE DEE YESTERDAY AFTERNOON, SAYING I HAD A GREAT TIME AND ALL. NO DOUBT, SHE WAS SCREENING. NO SURPRISE, SHE DIDN’T CALL BACK. WHAT THE HELL. FIRST WEEKEND IN A LONG TIME I DIDN’T COMPLETELY OBSESS OVER CLARA DUMPING ME. FRESH ROUND OF REJECTION PROVED GOOD FOR SOMETHING.
SARA KEEPS SAYING I NEED TO TRY ONLINE DATING. GAVE ME A WHOLE LIST OF SITES A FEW WEEKS AGO. STUFFED IT IN A DRAWER SOMEWHERE. THOSE EHARMONY ADS ON TV LOOK CREEPY. TOO PERFECT. LIKE THE GIRL FROM THE OLD IVORY SOAP COMMERCIALS MTG THE GUY FROM THE IRISH SPRING ADS. WHAT ABOUT THE REST OF US?
GLAD I DIDN’T GET MY BACK WAXED B/F DATE W/DEE DEE. WASN’T THAT OPTIMISTIC. (CLARA MADE ME DO IT ONCE. WORSE THAN WHEN I HAD MY WISDOM TEETH YANKED W/O A SEDATIVE.)
LOTS OF SINGLE WOMEN IN VANCOUVER, RIGHT? WHERE ARE THEY? ALL I SEEM TO RUN INTO IS RICH OLD WOMEN WHO PAINT ON GOBS OF LIPSTICK AND THROW ON THEIR ENTIRE JEWELRY COLLECTION JUST TO BUY TUMS @ THE CORNER STORE. OH, AND YOUNG MOMMIES OBSESSED W/STROLLER MARATHONS AND VENTI DECAFS.
WHERE ARE THE REAL WOMEN?
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): Sure, it looks obvious on the surface. But look closer. You’re missing something.
Laura’s Log:
In the words of Karen Carpenter, rainy days and Mondays always get me down. And today’s looking like a rainy Monday. How fitting.
It’s always hard to wake up at six in the morning after getting to sleep in until a totally indulgent 7:10 a.m. on weekends. (That’s as long as Tupper can hold out. Walkie calls. Hydrants to mark anew!) Still, last Monday it didn’t seem as hard. What a difference a week makes. I’ve gone from an office peon to the office whore.
Of course, no one calls me that to my face. They call me nothing. They say nothing. I had more stature as a peon. Now I don’t exist, aside from being the object of the Daily Scowl from Ann-Marie and Mrs. Melaney. (Yes, Mrs. Melaney scowls at everyone—even people on the phone—, but mine have gotten more demonic.) The good thing about work used to be that time passed so fast it always felt that lunch and the end of the day snuck up on me by surprise. Now it seems I can hear every tick of the second hand on the institutional clock hanging above the lunch room.
I walked an extra block with Tupper just to delay getting ready. My stomach felt like I’d swallowed a brick. No, a brick with thorns poking out. (OK, I’ve never seen such a thing, but then I’ve never felt this way either. No nausea, just acute AND chronic pain.) Of course, when I got back into the apartment, I was in a frenzy, running late. Oh, how they’d silently chastise me if I strolled in even a minute after 8:30!
Wouldn’t you know it, my blouse still a trace of that curry stain I’d pointed out to the dry cleaner, but I didn’t notice until I was grabbing my keys and tossing Tupper an extra biscuit. No time to change. Surely with no one paying a bit of attention to me, the stain would go unnoticed. Gotta search for the perks, right?
Yep, Mondays suck. Dodger was working, but didn’t even notice me. He was grinding pound after pound of coffee and someone named Sugar took my latté order. She leaned forward like she was going to kiss me. I pulled back and conked the gentleman behind me. “Do you have a baby, ma’am?” Sugar asked. I don’t know what startled me more, the baby comment or “ma’am”. I couldn’t respond. Didn’t matter; she elaborated: “Seems you’ve got some spittle on your shirt.”
Sugar,…such a sweet thing. Tuesday—no, Saturday—can’t come soon enough.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via iPhone):
WENT AHEAD AND LEFT A MSG W/DEE DEE YESTERDAY AFTERNOON, SAYING I HAD A GREAT TIME AND ALL. NO DOUBT, SHE WAS SCREENING. NO SURPRISE, SHE DIDN’T CALL BACK. WHAT THE HELL. FIRST WEEKEND IN A LONG TIME I DIDN’T COMPLETELY OBSESS OVER CLARA DUMPING ME. FRESH ROUND OF REJECTION PROVED GOOD FOR SOMETHING.
SARA KEEPS SAYING I NEED TO TRY ONLINE DATING. GAVE ME A WHOLE LIST OF SITES A FEW WEEKS AGO. STUFFED IT IN A DRAWER SOMEWHERE. THOSE EHARMONY ADS ON TV LOOK CREEPY. TOO PERFECT. LIKE THE GIRL FROM THE OLD IVORY SOAP COMMERCIALS MTG THE GUY FROM THE IRISH SPRING ADS. WHAT ABOUT THE REST OF US?
GLAD I DIDN’T GET MY BACK WAXED B/F DATE W/DEE DEE. WASN’T THAT OPTIMISTIC. (CLARA MADE ME DO IT ONCE. WORSE THAN WHEN I HAD MY WISDOM TEETH YANKED W/O A SEDATIVE.)
LOTS OF SINGLE WOMEN IN VANCOUVER, RIGHT? WHERE ARE THEY? ALL I SEEM TO RUN INTO IS RICH OLD WOMEN WHO PAINT ON GOBS OF LIPSTICK AND THROW ON THEIR ENTIRE JEWELRY COLLECTION JUST TO BUY TUMS @ THE CORNER STORE. OH, AND YOUNG MOMMIES OBSESSED W/STROLLER MARATHONS AND VENTI DECAFS.
WHERE ARE THE REAL WOMEN?
Sunday, January 24, 2010
MUZZLED
January 24, 2010
LIBRA HOROSCOPE: Frustration can be motivating. Don’t give up -- prove the naysayers wrong.
Laura’s Log:
When things seem hopeless and completely out of control, I turn to an impartial source for guidance: my horoscope. Only today I just want to scream after reading it. Frustration can be motivating. Really? I thought frustration can lead to deep despair. Isn’t that why I’m bothering with astrology in the first place? To be honest, I was hoping it would say something helpful like: “Today is the perfect day to go shopping. Updating your wardrobe makes you ready to conquer the world.”
OK, there is that credit issue from excessive shopping in December. Perhaps the next shopping binge should wait a month (or seven). Hate denying myself an opportunity to buy a new blouse. Suppose it’s not so urgent, given my present social circumstances. Tupper would prefer I throw on the same unwashed sweatshirt with old food stains to sniff anew.
I could just make a quick trip to Oakridge and buy a pair of those adorable red Canadian Olympic mitts. Only ten bucks. But then they only take Visa—personally, I think the Olympic sponsors have a stranglehold over all of us—and that would run counter to my need to rediscover something called a zero balance. (Or is that an urban myth?) What goes up must come down,…right? Damn, no mitts it is. I shall deprive myself of blouse, trendy mitts and name brand groceries until I pay down the credit cards. Or make some headway at least. Why do generic labels always look so ugly? Why not package the cheap stuff in calming colors like mint green and cinnamon instead of traffic-light yellow?
Hey, it seems frustration can be motivating. You astrologers are so wise.
But I’m not giving up lattés. Everyone has a weakness, right? For me, it’s lattés. And Dodger.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via Blackberry):
AT LEAST IT WAS AN AWESOME SUNRISE. STILL, WISH I WEREN’T WAKING UP TO IT ALONE. DEE DEE PARTED WAYS WITH ME IMMEDIATELY AFTER DINNER AT VIJ’S. SURE IT TOOK NINETY MINUTES TO GET A TABLE, BUT I THOUGHT WE WERE REALLY CONNECTING. SURE, SHE DOESN’T KNOW A THING ABOUT THE CANUCKS OR REAL ESTATE OR POLITICS. (“PROROGUING? THAT’S SUCH A FUNNY WORD. ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT SOMEONE IN FAVOR OF ROUGHING IT? I REALLY DON’T LIKE CAMPING.”) AND I CAN’T IMAGINE WHY ANY WOMAN (OTHER THAN A NUN) WLD BE SO PASSIONATE ABOUT MAKING STAINED GLASS WINDOWS AS A HOBBY, BUT SHE WAS HOT.
BUT WE FOUND OUR COMMON GROUND. WE BITCHED ENDLESSLY ABOUT PARKING PROBLEMS WITH THE UPCOMING OLYMPICS. (SURE, I HAVE A RESERVED SPACE AT HOME AND WORK, BUT I CAN MUSTER UP SOME EMPATHY EVERY NOW AND THEN.) AND IT WAS CLEAR THAT NEITHER OF US HAD A CLUE ABOUT LUGE. OR BIATHLON. OR SKELETON. STILL, IT WLD BE A PROUD MOMENT IF CANADA MEDALED IN THOSE (OR ANY) EVENTS.
DESPITE ALL THAT AMAZING CONNECTIVITY, SHE GAVE ME A LITTLE WAVE OUTSIDE THE RESTAURANT AND INSISTED ON WALKING TO HER CAR BY HERSELF. I REALLY WANTED TO BE A GENTLEMAN—YEAH, AND AT LEAST GET A GOODNIGHT PECK—BUT SHE BECAME SWEETLY DEFIANT WHEN I PUSHED THE MATTER. SWEETLY DEFIANT,…NOW THAT’S A NEW ONE. THERE MUST BE TWO HUNDRED & FIFTY WAYS TO SAY NO AND I’VE ONLY EXPERIENCED HALF OF THEM SO FAR. I’M NEVER GONNA FIGURE WOMEN OUT.
SHOULD’VE STAYED HOME & WATCHED CANUCKS TROUNCE CHICAGO.
LIBRA HOROSCOPE: Frustration can be motivating. Don’t give up -- prove the naysayers wrong.
Laura’s Log:
When things seem hopeless and completely out of control, I turn to an impartial source for guidance: my horoscope. Only today I just want to scream after reading it. Frustration can be motivating. Really? I thought frustration can lead to deep despair. Isn’t that why I’m bothering with astrology in the first place? To be honest, I was hoping it would say something helpful like: “Today is the perfect day to go shopping. Updating your wardrobe makes you ready to conquer the world.”
OK, there is that credit issue from excessive shopping in December. Perhaps the next shopping binge should wait a month (or seven). Hate denying myself an opportunity to buy a new blouse. Suppose it’s not so urgent, given my present social circumstances. Tupper would prefer I throw on the same unwashed sweatshirt with old food stains to sniff anew.
I could just make a quick trip to Oakridge and buy a pair of those adorable red Canadian Olympic mitts. Only ten bucks. But then they only take Visa—personally, I think the Olympic sponsors have a stranglehold over all of us—and that would run counter to my need to rediscover something called a zero balance. (Or is that an urban myth?) What goes up must come down,…right? Damn, no mitts it is. I shall deprive myself of blouse, trendy mitts and name brand groceries until I pay down the credit cards. Or make some headway at least. Why do generic labels always look so ugly? Why not package the cheap stuff in calming colors like mint green and cinnamon instead of traffic-light yellow?
Hey, it seems frustration can be motivating. You astrologers are so wise.
But I’m not giving up lattés. Everyone has a weakness, right? For me, it’s lattés. And Dodger.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via Blackberry):
AT LEAST IT WAS AN AWESOME SUNRISE. STILL, WISH I WEREN’T WAKING UP TO IT ALONE. DEE DEE PARTED WAYS WITH ME IMMEDIATELY AFTER DINNER AT VIJ’S. SURE IT TOOK NINETY MINUTES TO GET A TABLE, BUT I THOUGHT WE WERE REALLY CONNECTING. SURE, SHE DOESN’T KNOW A THING ABOUT THE CANUCKS OR REAL ESTATE OR POLITICS. (“PROROGUING? THAT’S SUCH A FUNNY WORD. ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT SOMEONE IN FAVOR OF ROUGHING IT? I REALLY DON’T LIKE CAMPING.”) AND I CAN’T IMAGINE WHY ANY WOMAN (OTHER THAN A NUN) WLD BE SO PASSIONATE ABOUT MAKING STAINED GLASS WINDOWS AS A HOBBY, BUT SHE WAS HOT.
BUT WE FOUND OUR COMMON GROUND. WE BITCHED ENDLESSLY ABOUT PARKING PROBLEMS WITH THE UPCOMING OLYMPICS. (SURE, I HAVE A RESERVED SPACE AT HOME AND WORK, BUT I CAN MUSTER UP SOME EMPATHY EVERY NOW AND THEN.) AND IT WAS CLEAR THAT NEITHER OF US HAD A CLUE ABOUT LUGE. OR BIATHLON. OR SKELETON. STILL, IT WLD BE A PROUD MOMENT IF CANADA MEDALED IN THOSE (OR ANY) EVENTS.
DESPITE ALL THAT AMAZING CONNECTIVITY, SHE GAVE ME A LITTLE WAVE OUTSIDE THE RESTAURANT AND INSISTED ON WALKING TO HER CAR BY HERSELF. I REALLY WANTED TO BE A GENTLEMAN—YEAH, AND AT LEAST GET A GOODNIGHT PECK—BUT SHE BECAME SWEETLY DEFIANT WHEN I PUSHED THE MATTER. SWEETLY DEFIANT,…NOW THAT’S A NEW ONE. THERE MUST BE TWO HUNDRED & FIFTY WAYS TO SAY NO AND I’VE ONLY EXPERIENCED HALF OF THEM SO FAR. I’M NEVER GONNA FIGURE WOMEN OUT.
SHOULD’VE STAYED HOME & WATCHED CANUCKS TROUNCE CHICAGO.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
ALL DOLLED UP AND NOWHERE TO GO
January 23, 2010
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): You get it the first time around, but others may not be so speedy. Slow down.
Laura’s Log:
So glad it’s the weekend. The last few haven’t been so great, but anything is better than being in the office—all that military maneuvering as everyone knows all-out war will break out at any moment. Ann-Marie and the girls made a point of talking loudly about the whole gang going for drinks after work Friday. The whole gang except me. Who’s harassing who?
Unfortunately, Ernesto doesn’t seem to get it. He thinks his job is totally safe. Doesn’t have a reflective bone in his body. Can’t seem to recall a single incident that would’ve incited the masses. Lewd looks at the girls’ cleavage? Hey, the eyes gotta go somewhere, right? Two eyes, two breasts…a natural balance. Watching porn in his office over lunch? It’s only the sounds people hear. So discreet. Brushing up against the girls in the break room, repeatedly asking their bra sizes “just as a conversation starter”? To call the man thick would only lead to a detailed description of the girth of a particular body part. The man is toast. Just don’t see how I got dragged into the mess.
Friday night was time to bond with Tupper. After twenty minutes of incessant tummy rub demands, he napped the rest of the evening. Isn’t that how he spent the whole day? Apparently I’m that much of a bore.
It’s been fifteen weeks since my last date, not that I’m counting. (The unfortunate incident last week with Jeremy Welles doesn’t count. Apparently, I was the only one who thought it was a date.) No prospects. Dodger is too young, isn’t he? Who am I kidding? I’d jump at the chance to go out with him—even if it meant an entire evening playing Grand Theft Auto. (Perhaps video violence leads to aggressive foreplay.)
I should be happy that Nadia and Tamara have both passed the one-month marker with their new guys. Yes, I am thrilled. They’re all on safari in the Serengeti, aren’t they? How else to explain the utter lack of communication? You can’t shag 24/7…can you? Fired off bitter emails to each of them on Wednesday, demanding an evening out like old times. Nadia managed to fit in a shagging break to send a curt reply: “How can you be so unsupportive? You just want my relationship with Bradley to fail, don’t you?” Oh, god. Walked right into a minefield with that one. No word at all from Tamara. I’m assuming there could be poor Internet connections on the savannah. How is it that they’ve forgotten how lonely it can be to be single?
Mom is insisting I come over tonight, maybe even drop in early for Knitting Club. “It’s all about connecting, dear. Betty Ng’s son is back from Toronto. Just got laid off AND dumped!” Ooh, now that’s exciting.
I’m out of excuses to avoid an evening spent hearing how my posture, my pores and the three grey hairs I can’t see at the back of my head are the cause for me being hopelessly single. That and all the coffee. Teeth could be so much whiter.
Yes, hurray for the weekend.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via iPhone):
SHE CALLED THE COPS ON ME! FRIDAY NIGHT AND THERE ARE GANGS SHOOTING EACH OTHER UP, HOMELESS FOLKS HUDDLED IN NOOKS AND CRANNIES FARTHER AND FARTHER AWAY FROM OLYMPIC CENTRALE AND THE POLICE HAVE TIME TO COME INVESTIGATE THE CASE OF THE SCALPED BARBIES.
“THOSE DOLLS COST HUNDREDS OF DOLLARS. THEY’RE COLLECTIBLES!” BESS SCREECHED, FIRST TO ME, THEN TO A BEWILDERED, BURLY OFFICER SAUNDERS. “THEY HAVE NO VALUE NOW.”
IF THEY WERE SO IMPORTANT, WHY DID CLARA LEAVE THEM IN MY CONDO FOR THREE MONTHS AFTER DUMPING ME AND RUNNING OFF TO JAKARTA RIGHT AFTER READING THAT INSIPID EAT PRAY LOVE? ONE OF HER MANY PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE STUNTS. LEAVE TWO DOZEN FREAKISHLY WHITE DOLLS TO STARE AT ME AND ANY DATE I CAN CONVINCE TO COME UP FOR COFFEE. WHO’S THE SADISTIC ONE? I SHOULD HAVE PAWNED THE WHOLE SET AND USED THE PROFITS TO BUY A USED GREEN DAY CD.
OFFICER SAUNDERS WISELY SUGGESTED THIS WLD BE A CIVIL COURT MATTER, IF ANYTHING. AND THE WHOLE THING WLD BE CLARA’S ISSUE, NOT BESS’. IN OTHER WORDS, MYOFB!
BESS REMAINED IN A RAGE. WANTED TO CALL CLARA, BUT GO FIGURE, HAD NO IDEA HOW TO REACH HER. “DON’T YOU GET IT?” I PRODDED. “SHE DIDN’T JUST DUMP ME. SHE DUMPED ALL OF US.” BESS FLASHED ME ONE OF HER PATENTED SNEERS BUT WENT ABOUT THE REST OF THE DE-CLARAFYING PROCESS IN POUTY SILENCE. THANK GOD.
DATE TONITE W/DEE DEE, THE FLORIST. DO YOU BUY A FLORIST FLOWERS OR WILL SHE BE UPSET THAT I GOT THEM FROM A COMPETITOR? WILL SHE READ TOO MUCH (OR TOO LITTLE) INTO THE PARTICULAR FLOWERS? WHAT DO TULIPS MEAN ANYWAY? AH, IT’S A FIRST DATE. I’M PAYING FOR DINNER, THAT’S ENUF.
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): You get it the first time around, but others may not be so speedy. Slow down.
Laura’s Log:
So glad it’s the weekend. The last few haven’t been so great, but anything is better than being in the office—all that military maneuvering as everyone knows all-out war will break out at any moment. Ann-Marie and the girls made a point of talking loudly about the whole gang going for drinks after work Friday. The whole gang except me. Who’s harassing who?
Unfortunately, Ernesto doesn’t seem to get it. He thinks his job is totally safe. Doesn’t have a reflective bone in his body. Can’t seem to recall a single incident that would’ve incited the masses. Lewd looks at the girls’ cleavage? Hey, the eyes gotta go somewhere, right? Two eyes, two breasts…a natural balance. Watching porn in his office over lunch? It’s only the sounds people hear. So discreet. Brushing up against the girls in the break room, repeatedly asking their bra sizes “just as a conversation starter”? To call the man thick would only lead to a detailed description of the girth of a particular body part. The man is toast. Just don’t see how I got dragged into the mess.
Friday night was time to bond with Tupper. After twenty minutes of incessant tummy rub demands, he napped the rest of the evening. Isn’t that how he spent the whole day? Apparently I’m that much of a bore.
It’s been fifteen weeks since my last date, not that I’m counting. (The unfortunate incident last week with Jeremy Welles doesn’t count. Apparently, I was the only one who thought it was a date.) No prospects. Dodger is too young, isn’t he? Who am I kidding? I’d jump at the chance to go out with him—even if it meant an entire evening playing Grand Theft Auto. (Perhaps video violence leads to aggressive foreplay.)
I should be happy that Nadia and Tamara have both passed the one-month marker with their new guys. Yes, I am thrilled. They’re all on safari in the Serengeti, aren’t they? How else to explain the utter lack of communication? You can’t shag 24/7…can you? Fired off bitter emails to each of them on Wednesday, demanding an evening out like old times. Nadia managed to fit in a shagging break to send a curt reply: “How can you be so unsupportive? You just want my relationship with Bradley to fail, don’t you?” Oh, god. Walked right into a minefield with that one. No word at all from Tamara. I’m assuming there could be poor Internet connections on the savannah. How is it that they’ve forgotten how lonely it can be to be single?
Mom is insisting I come over tonight, maybe even drop in early for Knitting Club. “It’s all about connecting, dear. Betty Ng’s son is back from Toronto. Just got laid off AND dumped!” Ooh, now that’s exciting.
I’m out of excuses to avoid an evening spent hearing how my posture, my pores and the three grey hairs I can’t see at the back of my head are the cause for me being hopelessly single. That and all the coffee. Teeth could be so much whiter.
Yes, hurray for the weekend.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via iPhone):
SHE CALLED THE COPS ON ME! FRIDAY NIGHT AND THERE ARE GANGS SHOOTING EACH OTHER UP, HOMELESS FOLKS HUDDLED IN NOOKS AND CRANNIES FARTHER AND FARTHER AWAY FROM OLYMPIC CENTRALE AND THE POLICE HAVE TIME TO COME INVESTIGATE THE CASE OF THE SCALPED BARBIES.
“THOSE DOLLS COST HUNDREDS OF DOLLARS. THEY’RE COLLECTIBLES!” BESS SCREECHED, FIRST TO ME, THEN TO A BEWILDERED, BURLY OFFICER SAUNDERS. “THEY HAVE NO VALUE NOW.”
IF THEY WERE SO IMPORTANT, WHY DID CLARA LEAVE THEM IN MY CONDO FOR THREE MONTHS AFTER DUMPING ME AND RUNNING OFF TO JAKARTA RIGHT AFTER READING THAT INSIPID EAT PRAY LOVE? ONE OF HER MANY PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE STUNTS. LEAVE TWO DOZEN FREAKISHLY WHITE DOLLS TO STARE AT ME AND ANY DATE I CAN CONVINCE TO COME UP FOR COFFEE. WHO’S THE SADISTIC ONE? I SHOULD HAVE PAWNED THE WHOLE SET AND USED THE PROFITS TO BUY A USED GREEN DAY CD.
OFFICER SAUNDERS WISELY SUGGESTED THIS WLD BE A CIVIL COURT MATTER, IF ANYTHING. AND THE WHOLE THING WLD BE CLARA’S ISSUE, NOT BESS’. IN OTHER WORDS, MYOFB!
BESS REMAINED IN A RAGE. WANTED TO CALL CLARA, BUT GO FIGURE, HAD NO IDEA HOW TO REACH HER. “DON’T YOU GET IT?” I PRODDED. “SHE DIDN’T JUST DUMP ME. SHE DUMPED ALL OF US.” BESS FLASHED ME ONE OF HER PATENTED SNEERS BUT WENT ABOUT THE REST OF THE DE-CLARAFYING PROCESS IN POUTY SILENCE. THANK GOD.
DATE TONITE W/DEE DEE, THE FLORIST. DO YOU BUY A FLORIST FLOWERS OR WILL SHE BE UPSET THAT I GOT THEM FROM A COMPETITOR? WILL SHE READ TOO MUCH (OR TOO LITTLE) INTO THE PARTICULAR FLOWERS? WHAT DO TULIPS MEAN ANYWAY? AH, IT’S A FIRST DATE. I’M PAYING FOR DINNER, THAT’S ENUF.
Friday, January 22, 2010
A CHILL IN THE AIR
January 22, 2010
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): Your face is a photograph of your feelings. Vulnerability is your strength.
Laura’s Log:
Cute barista’s name is Dodger. He asked my name for my latté order and I said—get ready to cringe—“I’ll tell you mine, if you tell me yours.” I smiled bravely through the whole exchange as the guy behind me impatiently went through an episode of odd throat clearing noises. (He should really give up smoking or knock it down to just three packs a day.) Dodger. Even the name is adorable. Adopting a cockney accent, he explained, “Me mum got a thing for Dickens.” All I know is I want me some more. Please, sir.
And that’s where the fun stopped. I was welcomed with hideous glares from Ann-Marie and her entire entourage, which seems to be everyone but Ernesto and me. I’m guessing they got together for drinks (arsenic?) after work last night and took a vote. It’s unanimous, then. Laura is sleeping with the boss. She’s going down on him. Bad choice ‘cuz he’s just going down.
“Good morning, Donna.” Grunt.
“Hello, Laverne.” Sneeze?
“How was your daughter’s birthday, Amy?” Dunno. Suddenly urgent need for Amy to turn, grab the phone and reorder toilet paper for the office. I suppose that could be a dire concern.
Poor Hester Prynne. I feel your pain.
9:35 Ernesto summoned me to his office. Closed the door. Thank god it’s a windowless cave. (Looked up to scan for tiny spy camera. Not sure what to look for.) “What’s going on out there?”
Time for me to be the dodger. “Oh, it’s just last minute preparations for the Olympics, I guess. Don’t you like the Royal Bank’s new look?”
“Not outside. In the office. I’m getting a sense something’s about to boil over.”
“Yes. I think you’re right.” I paused. Ernesto wasn’t a good boss. He was crass, lewd, insensitive. But what I couldn’t handle was he was a yeller. If something went out five minutes late or a power outage (like on Monday) meant he couldn’t proceed with online Scrabble, he’d swing into a tirade berating every worker in sight as well as the Harper government, Oprah and everything blue in “Avatar”. (I agreed with respect to “Avatar”, but there were better ways to make one’s point. No?) Katherine once asked, “What’s the matter with your boss? Always seems to be in recovery from laryngitis.” If only.
Ernesto continued to stare at me, waiting for more. Never had a poker face. Clearly, I knew more. I had no feeling of loyalty to anyone. Not to Ernesto. Even at his best, he’d basically poisoned poor Tupper. Not to the girls—gosh, why “the girls” anyway? I was the youngest at 32. When would we be the women? How could I side with them when they’d decided without a shred of evidence that I was a slut? A slut with remarkably bad taste.
And for a second time in the day I heard throat clearing. Spill it, Nebergall. “They’re working to get you fired. Sexual harassment, sir. And they think we’re sleeping together.”
It was the last statement that seemed to horrify him most.
KEN’S JOURNAL (sent via iPhone):
HALF A MILLION?! THAT’S HOW MUCH GIL WANTED ME TO INVEST IN UNTITLED FILM PROJECT THAT MIGHT HAVE MEG RYAN ON BOARD. HALF A FUCKING MILLION! OR MORE. NEARLY CHOKED ON MY STEAK. (THANKFULLY DIDN’T. DAMN THAT PIECE OF MEAT WAS TOO GOOD TO WASTE!) SURE, VANCOUVER REAL ESTATE HADN’T TAKEN THE HIT LIKE IN OTHER AREAS, BUT I DIDN’T HAVE THAT KIND OF CASH EVEN DURING THE BOOM. BALLSY OF GIL TO ASK. BALLSY AND FUCKING STUPID.
CAUGHT END OF CANUCKS GAME. WELLWOOD SCORES! DON’T KNOW WHY, BUT I LIKE YA, MAN. STILL DON’T THINK IT’S ENUF TO KEEP HIM AROUND. HOW YOU LIKE MOOSE, KYLE? AWFUL CHILLY IN MANITOBA.
CLARA’S SISTER WANTS TO COME BY TONITE TO CLEAR OUT THE REST OF CLARA’S THINGS. SEEING BESS ALMOST AS BAD AS SEEING CLARA. BESS WAS POISON TO OUR RELATIONSHIP. “YOU CAN DO BETTER, CLARA.” “WHAT DO YOU SEE IN HIM?” AND, LINE FROM JANET JACKSON, “I KNOW HE USED TO DO NICE STUFF FOR YOU, BUT WHAT HAS HE DONE FOR YOU LATELY?” YEAH, PACK IT UP, YOU VENOMOUS BITCH. AND DON’T GIVE ME NO SHIT ABOUT THE PORCELAIN DOLLS. IT’S JUST CRUEL TO DUMP A GUY AND LEAVE HIM TO STARE @ A FREAKIN DOLL COLLECTION FOR THREE MONTHS. SCALPED, YEAH. CLD’VE BEEN MUCH WORSE. BELIEVE ME.
WON’T GIVE BESS THE SATISFACTION OF SEEING ME EVEN GLARE @ HER. I’LL BE COMPLETELY STOIC. YEAH, TELL CA CLARA I’VE TURNED TO STONE.
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): Your face is a photograph of your feelings. Vulnerability is your strength.
Laura’s Log:
Cute barista’s name is Dodger. He asked my name for my latté order and I said—get ready to cringe—“I’ll tell you mine, if you tell me yours.” I smiled bravely through the whole exchange as the guy behind me impatiently went through an episode of odd throat clearing noises. (He should really give up smoking or knock it down to just three packs a day.) Dodger. Even the name is adorable. Adopting a cockney accent, he explained, “Me mum got a thing for Dickens.” All I know is I want me some more. Please, sir.
And that’s where the fun stopped. I was welcomed with hideous glares from Ann-Marie and her entire entourage, which seems to be everyone but Ernesto and me. I’m guessing they got together for drinks (arsenic?) after work last night and took a vote. It’s unanimous, then. Laura is sleeping with the boss. She’s going down on him. Bad choice ‘cuz he’s just going down.
“Good morning, Donna.” Grunt.
“Hello, Laverne.” Sneeze?
“How was your daughter’s birthday, Amy?” Dunno. Suddenly urgent need for Amy to turn, grab the phone and reorder toilet paper for the office. I suppose that could be a dire concern.
Poor Hester Prynne. I feel your pain.
9:35 Ernesto summoned me to his office. Closed the door. Thank god it’s a windowless cave. (Looked up to scan for tiny spy camera. Not sure what to look for.) “What’s going on out there?”
Time for me to be the dodger. “Oh, it’s just last minute preparations for the Olympics, I guess. Don’t you like the Royal Bank’s new look?”
“Not outside. In the office. I’m getting a sense something’s about to boil over.”
“Yes. I think you’re right.” I paused. Ernesto wasn’t a good boss. He was crass, lewd, insensitive. But what I couldn’t handle was he was a yeller. If something went out five minutes late or a power outage (like on Monday) meant he couldn’t proceed with online Scrabble, he’d swing into a tirade berating every worker in sight as well as the Harper government, Oprah and everything blue in “Avatar”. (I agreed with respect to “Avatar”, but there were better ways to make one’s point. No?) Katherine once asked, “What’s the matter with your boss? Always seems to be in recovery from laryngitis.” If only.
Ernesto continued to stare at me, waiting for more. Never had a poker face. Clearly, I knew more. I had no feeling of loyalty to anyone. Not to Ernesto. Even at his best, he’d basically poisoned poor Tupper. Not to the girls—gosh, why “the girls” anyway? I was the youngest at 32. When would we be the women? How could I side with them when they’d decided without a shred of evidence that I was a slut? A slut with remarkably bad taste.
And for a second time in the day I heard throat clearing. Spill it, Nebergall. “They’re working to get you fired. Sexual harassment, sir. And they think we’re sleeping together.”
It was the last statement that seemed to horrify him most.
KEN’S JOURNAL (sent via iPhone):
HALF A MILLION?! THAT’S HOW MUCH GIL WANTED ME TO INVEST IN UNTITLED FILM PROJECT THAT MIGHT HAVE MEG RYAN ON BOARD. HALF A FUCKING MILLION! OR MORE. NEARLY CHOKED ON MY STEAK. (THANKFULLY DIDN’T. DAMN THAT PIECE OF MEAT WAS TOO GOOD TO WASTE!) SURE, VANCOUVER REAL ESTATE HADN’T TAKEN THE HIT LIKE IN OTHER AREAS, BUT I DIDN’T HAVE THAT KIND OF CASH EVEN DURING THE BOOM. BALLSY OF GIL TO ASK. BALLSY AND FUCKING STUPID.
CAUGHT END OF CANUCKS GAME. WELLWOOD SCORES! DON’T KNOW WHY, BUT I LIKE YA, MAN. STILL DON’T THINK IT’S ENUF TO KEEP HIM AROUND. HOW YOU LIKE MOOSE, KYLE? AWFUL CHILLY IN MANITOBA.
CLARA’S SISTER WANTS TO COME BY TONITE TO CLEAR OUT THE REST OF CLARA’S THINGS. SEEING BESS ALMOST AS BAD AS SEEING CLARA. BESS WAS POISON TO OUR RELATIONSHIP. “YOU CAN DO BETTER, CLARA.” “WHAT DO YOU SEE IN HIM?” AND, LINE FROM JANET JACKSON, “I KNOW HE USED TO DO NICE STUFF FOR YOU, BUT WHAT HAS HE DONE FOR YOU LATELY?” YEAH, PACK IT UP, YOU VENOMOUS BITCH. AND DON’T GIVE ME NO SHIT ABOUT THE PORCELAIN DOLLS. IT’S JUST CRUEL TO DUMP A GUY AND LEAVE HIM TO STARE @ A FREAKIN DOLL COLLECTION FOR THREE MONTHS. SCALPED, YEAH. CLD’VE BEEN MUCH WORSE. BELIEVE ME.
WON’T GIVE BESS THE SATISFACTION OF SEEING ME EVEN GLARE @ HER. I’LL BE COMPLETELY STOIC. YEAH, TELL CA CLARA I’VE TURNED TO STONE.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
TULIPS AND THE SEDINS MAKE IT ALL GOOD
January 21, 2010
LIBRA HOROSCOPE: Build alliances, both at work and socially. Your network can expand amazingly now.
Laura’s Log:
Tupper’s no worse for wear. Mom wasn’t happy dogsitting yesterday, but I couldn’t leave him alone. “So you’re dropping him off so he’ll barf all over my carpets? I should think it would be good for Tupper to puke repeatedly on that worn down rug in your apartment. That landlord needs to replace the carpeting anyway. There are diseases lurching in the surfaces, you know. Dr. Oz says—”
Normally it’s rude to walk out mid-sentence on someone—especially when they’re caring for your sick dog—but Mom doesn’t pause on the period. You have to create your moment. Brought her a bright batch of tulips when I picked up the dog at day’s end and all was forgiven. “Oh, they’re just lovely, dear. You really shouldn’t have. You should be saving up your money for a condo so that you can get out of that—”
Wonderful to start the day off back in the normal routine. Cute guy was not working at Starbucks again today. Did he quit? Did he get discovered and flown to Hollywood? Two-movie career starring opposite that hot new actress with all the buzz, What’s Her Name, and then back again. I’ll still be ordering my lattés, but hate having to hold off on the eye candy. It’s the simple pleasures…
Ann-Marie approached me first thing at work. “We’re building a case against Ernesto,” she solemnly declared over the whir of the photocopier. “What sexual advances has he made on you?”
“Actually, none.”
“No, seriously,” she persisted. “It’s OK. You can tell. It’s all in confidence right now. HR is creating a file and the company’s lawyers are on it. His sex-dominant reign is going to fall apart in the next week or two.”
“He’s done nothing, I swear.”
“Oh, come on. He hits on everyone.” Hmm, not on me. Should I be insulted that I’m NOT being sexually harassed? “Don’t you get dragged in on weekends?”
“Yes. Most recently, this past Sunday.”
“And you actually worked?”
“Yes. Worked. Ernesto was demanding, but not sexually.”
“You know, it’s not wise to fall for your boss.” And then she stormed off, slightly panicked, feeling as though she’d confided in the boss’ confidante.
It took the rest of the day to try to convince Ann-Marie I wasn’t sleeping with Ernesto. She still thinks I’m the office whore. Turns out everyone thinks I’m screwing the boss. I have this legendary sex life that’s complete fiction.
With Ernesto. Eww.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via Blackberry):
I’M ALIVE. CAN’T BELIEVE NO BARF BAGS ON FLOAT PLANE. STEREOTYPE SHATTERED—NOT ALL FAT PEOPLE ARE JOLLY. ESPECIALLY WHEN YOU TOSS YOUR COOKIES (BANANA MUFFIN, ACTUALLY) ON THE PRECIOUS BABY. APOLOGIZED PROFUSELY, BUT I SWEAR THEY WANTED TO EJECT ME W/O A PARACHUTE.
VICTORIA PLAYED ALOOF DURING MTG. MAYBE LINGERING VOMIT BREATH KEPT HER @ BAY. HAVE TO BE SOME PERKS RIDING IN FLOAT PLANE. AFTERNOON MTG COMPLETE WASTE OF TIME—BUT THEN MOST ARE. @ LEAST DAY ENDED W/CANUCKS WINNING. CAN’T BELIEVE THEY EVEN LET OILERS MAKE A GAME OF IT. TGFS (THANK GOD FOR SEDINS)!
LUNCH W/THE BOSS TODAY. THINKING OF ASKING FOR RAISE. HE TALKS BIG ON RECESSION BUT I STUMBLED ON THE FINANCIALS WHEN POPPED IN ON WEEKEND. (OK, HAD TO PICK THE LOCK ON HIS FILING CABINET.) MORE BOOM THAN BUST. ALWAYS TOUCHY SUBJECT. RUMOR IS THAT WHEN LYDIA ASKED FOR RAISE LAST SUMMER, HE FIRED HER BY END OF THE WEEK.
DINNER TONITE W/GIL @ SALTLIK [SIC]. HE’S PUSHING TO GET ME TO INVEST IN HIS NEXT FILM. SUPPOSEDLY MEG RYAN IS INTERESTED BUT WHEN WAS HER LAST HIT? STILL, IF I GET THE AXE, I MAY NEED ANOTHER CAREER PATH.
LIBRA HOROSCOPE: Build alliances, both at work and socially. Your network can expand amazingly now.
Laura’s Log:
Tupper’s no worse for wear. Mom wasn’t happy dogsitting yesterday, but I couldn’t leave him alone. “So you’re dropping him off so he’ll barf all over my carpets? I should think it would be good for Tupper to puke repeatedly on that worn down rug in your apartment. That landlord needs to replace the carpeting anyway. There are diseases lurching in the surfaces, you know. Dr. Oz says—”
Normally it’s rude to walk out mid-sentence on someone—especially when they’re caring for your sick dog—but Mom doesn’t pause on the period. You have to create your moment. Brought her a bright batch of tulips when I picked up the dog at day’s end and all was forgiven. “Oh, they’re just lovely, dear. You really shouldn’t have. You should be saving up your money for a condo so that you can get out of that—”
Wonderful to start the day off back in the normal routine. Cute guy was not working at Starbucks again today. Did he quit? Did he get discovered and flown to Hollywood? Two-movie career starring opposite that hot new actress with all the buzz, What’s Her Name, and then back again. I’ll still be ordering my lattés, but hate having to hold off on the eye candy. It’s the simple pleasures…
Ann-Marie approached me first thing at work. “We’re building a case against Ernesto,” she solemnly declared over the whir of the photocopier. “What sexual advances has he made on you?”
“Actually, none.”
“No, seriously,” she persisted. “It’s OK. You can tell. It’s all in confidence right now. HR is creating a file and the company’s lawyers are on it. His sex-dominant reign is going to fall apart in the next week or two.”
“He’s done nothing, I swear.”
“Oh, come on. He hits on everyone.” Hmm, not on me. Should I be insulted that I’m NOT being sexually harassed? “Don’t you get dragged in on weekends?”
“Yes. Most recently, this past Sunday.”
“And you actually worked?”
“Yes. Worked. Ernesto was demanding, but not sexually.”
“You know, it’s not wise to fall for your boss.” And then she stormed off, slightly panicked, feeling as though she’d confided in the boss’ confidante.
It took the rest of the day to try to convince Ann-Marie I wasn’t sleeping with Ernesto. She still thinks I’m the office whore. Turns out everyone thinks I’m screwing the boss. I have this legendary sex life that’s complete fiction.
With Ernesto. Eww.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via Blackberry):
I’M ALIVE. CAN’T BELIEVE NO BARF BAGS ON FLOAT PLANE. STEREOTYPE SHATTERED—NOT ALL FAT PEOPLE ARE JOLLY. ESPECIALLY WHEN YOU TOSS YOUR COOKIES (BANANA MUFFIN, ACTUALLY) ON THE PRECIOUS BABY. APOLOGIZED PROFUSELY, BUT I SWEAR THEY WANTED TO EJECT ME W/O A PARACHUTE.
VICTORIA PLAYED ALOOF DURING MTG. MAYBE LINGERING VOMIT BREATH KEPT HER @ BAY. HAVE TO BE SOME PERKS RIDING IN FLOAT PLANE. AFTERNOON MTG COMPLETE WASTE OF TIME—BUT THEN MOST ARE. @ LEAST DAY ENDED W/CANUCKS WINNING. CAN’T BELIEVE THEY EVEN LET OILERS MAKE A GAME OF IT. TGFS (THANK GOD FOR SEDINS)!
LUNCH W/THE BOSS TODAY. THINKING OF ASKING FOR RAISE. HE TALKS BIG ON RECESSION BUT I STUMBLED ON THE FINANCIALS WHEN POPPED IN ON WEEKEND. (OK, HAD TO PICK THE LOCK ON HIS FILING CABINET.) MORE BOOM THAN BUST. ALWAYS TOUCHY SUBJECT. RUMOR IS THAT WHEN LYDIA ASKED FOR RAISE LAST SUMMER, HE FIRED HER BY END OF THE WEEK.
DINNER TONITE W/GIL @ SALTLIK [SIC]. HE’S PUSHING TO GET ME TO INVEST IN HIS NEXT FILM. SUPPOSEDLY MEG RYAN IS INTERESTED BUT WHEN WAS HER LAST HIT? STILL, IF I GET THE AXE, I MAY NEED ANOTHER CAREER PATH.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
CHOCOLATE AND LITTLE ARM FLOATIES
January 20, 2010
LIBRA HOROSCOPE: Your nicely balanced routine goes out the window. Don t stress – it’s temporary.
Laura’s Log:
If only it had been a dream. I awoke at 3:36 a.m., vomit all over my pajama top. Hmm, not my vomit. Tupper’s! Oh, Tupper what have you done? With a light on, I see that the sheets have taken a hit too. Damn it stinks! I create a trough with the bottom of my top and the goo slides down. Must fight reflex to upchuck, too. I strip in the bathtub and go back to pull the sheets. Sure wish I had a washer/dryer in my apartment.
More heaving sounds. No, Tupper! No! Oh, why did he have to jump on the sofa for the next round? I barricade the little pooch in the kitchen, the fallen chair making him apprehensive. Sofa cushion to the tub. Quick rinse time: fabric, sheets, me.
I finally discover the evidence on the floor beside the dining table: an empty box of Purdy’s chocolates. It was my thank you gift from Ernesto for working all day Sunday—would have preferred a token raise or dinner (not with him, of course). In a remarkable sign of restraint, I only ate one truffle (with Kahlua!) last night. Somehow Tupper, the little dog with weak legs, transformed into mountain goat in the wee hours, apparently climbing a chair and then reaching the treasure at the apex.
Dogs and chocolate. Not good, right? Deadly?!
I toss on a sweatshirt and jeans. Time for another (expensive) trip to the 24-hour emergency animal hospital. Should brush my hair in case it’s that quasi-dreamy Dr. Richard again. (No match for the studs of “Grey’s Anatomy”, but real. And rich, no? I mean, how many other dogs discover chocolate as a midnight snack?)
Alas. It’s Dr. Stella, the lesbian who keeps sneaking glances at me. I could match her up with my sister, if only she’d drop that militant Carl(a).
Apparently the key thing to do with a dog that eats chocolate is induce vomiting. Been there, done that. But good to get the $275 professional take on it. Tupper will be fine. My Visa is another matter. Again, Ernesto, a raise would be so much better than one piddly truffle.
Will show up a half hour late for work this morning. Yeah, mom, I learned that passive aggressiveness from you.
Okay, ten minutes.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via Blackberry):
UP AN HOUR EARLY. HAVE TO FLY TO VICTORIA. WLD RATHER TAKE FERRY, BUT BOSS WANTS ME BACK FOR 1:00 MTG. GOD, I HATE FLOAT PLANES. WLD FEEL BETTER IF WE ALL WORE LIFE JACKETS WHOLE TRIP. WLD FEEL BETTER IF THEY MADE US STRAP ON FLOTATION DEVICES ON ALL FLIGHTS. HAVE THOSE OXYGEN MASKS DOWN AND READY, TOO. BUT, NO, THE HONCHOS ARE TOO BUSY CHECKING OUR SHOES AND CONFISCATING MY HAND CREAM. (NOTE TO SELF: MUST BUY GLOVES. AND NOT THOSE SILLY RED OLYMPIC MITTS THAT LET YOU CLAP LIKE A SEAL.)
MTG IN VICTORIA IS W/VICTORIA. YEAH, VICTORIA IN VICTORIA—NOVELTY HAS WORN OFF. GOOD THAT IT’S AN A.M. THING. DON’T WANT ANOTHER AWKWARD SESSION @ BAR W/HER. MOST AGGRESSIVE FLIRTER EVER. SEXUAL PREDATOR, REALLY. WE’RE NEVER DOING IT AGAIN. IT’S HER MARRIAGE, NOT MINE, BUT FEELS SLEAZY—EVEN TO ME. FIVE TIMES—OR IS IT SIX?—IS ENOUGH.
HEAVYSET COUPLE JOINING ME ON FLIGHT. WILL THAT AFFECT LIFTOFF? THEY HAVE A BABY, TOO. “HE’S COLICKY,” SHE SAYS. GREAT.
BOSS OWES ME. BIG TIME.
LIBRA HOROSCOPE: Your nicely balanced routine goes out the window. Don t stress – it’s temporary.
Laura’s Log:
If only it had been a dream. I awoke at 3:36 a.m., vomit all over my pajama top. Hmm, not my vomit. Tupper’s! Oh, Tupper what have you done? With a light on, I see that the sheets have taken a hit too. Damn it stinks! I create a trough with the bottom of my top and the goo slides down. Must fight reflex to upchuck, too. I strip in the bathtub and go back to pull the sheets. Sure wish I had a washer/dryer in my apartment.
More heaving sounds. No, Tupper! No! Oh, why did he have to jump on the sofa for the next round? I barricade the little pooch in the kitchen, the fallen chair making him apprehensive. Sofa cushion to the tub. Quick rinse time: fabric, sheets, me.
I finally discover the evidence on the floor beside the dining table: an empty box of Purdy’s chocolates. It was my thank you gift from Ernesto for working all day Sunday—would have preferred a token raise or dinner (not with him, of course). In a remarkable sign of restraint, I only ate one truffle (with Kahlua!) last night. Somehow Tupper, the little dog with weak legs, transformed into mountain goat in the wee hours, apparently climbing a chair and then reaching the treasure at the apex.
Dogs and chocolate. Not good, right? Deadly?!
I toss on a sweatshirt and jeans. Time for another (expensive) trip to the 24-hour emergency animal hospital. Should brush my hair in case it’s that quasi-dreamy Dr. Richard again. (No match for the studs of “Grey’s Anatomy”, but real. And rich, no? I mean, how many other dogs discover chocolate as a midnight snack?)
Alas. It’s Dr. Stella, the lesbian who keeps sneaking glances at me. I could match her up with my sister, if only she’d drop that militant Carl(a).
Apparently the key thing to do with a dog that eats chocolate is induce vomiting. Been there, done that. But good to get the $275 professional take on it. Tupper will be fine. My Visa is another matter. Again, Ernesto, a raise would be so much better than one piddly truffle.
Will show up a half hour late for work this morning. Yeah, mom, I learned that passive aggressiveness from you.
Okay, ten minutes.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via Blackberry):
UP AN HOUR EARLY. HAVE TO FLY TO VICTORIA. WLD RATHER TAKE FERRY, BUT BOSS WANTS ME BACK FOR 1:00 MTG. GOD, I HATE FLOAT PLANES. WLD FEEL BETTER IF WE ALL WORE LIFE JACKETS WHOLE TRIP. WLD FEEL BETTER IF THEY MADE US STRAP ON FLOTATION DEVICES ON ALL FLIGHTS. HAVE THOSE OXYGEN MASKS DOWN AND READY, TOO. BUT, NO, THE HONCHOS ARE TOO BUSY CHECKING OUR SHOES AND CONFISCATING MY HAND CREAM. (NOTE TO SELF: MUST BUY GLOVES. AND NOT THOSE SILLY RED OLYMPIC MITTS THAT LET YOU CLAP LIKE A SEAL.)
MTG IN VICTORIA IS W/VICTORIA. YEAH, VICTORIA IN VICTORIA—NOVELTY HAS WORN OFF. GOOD THAT IT’S AN A.M. THING. DON’T WANT ANOTHER AWKWARD SESSION @ BAR W/HER. MOST AGGRESSIVE FLIRTER EVER. SEXUAL PREDATOR, REALLY. WE’RE NEVER DOING IT AGAIN. IT’S HER MARRIAGE, NOT MINE, BUT FEELS SLEAZY—EVEN TO ME. FIVE TIMES—OR IS IT SIX?—IS ENOUGH.
HEAVYSET COUPLE JOINING ME ON FLIGHT. WILL THAT AFFECT LIFTOFF? THEY HAVE A BABY, TOO. “HE’S COLICKY,” SHE SAYS. GREAT.
BOSS OWES ME. BIG TIME.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Romeo & Juliet?
January 19, 2010
LIBRA HOROSCOPE: Go ahead and disrupt your routine if you realize it’s for a certain Romeo or Juliet.
Laura’s Log:
Some horoscope. Romeo and Juliet. They died centuries ago. And they weren’t even real! Why are we still mourning for them?
What is it now, four weeks until that dreaded holiday for The Haves? Balloons, candy boxes, chocolates, roses. Romantic? A frickin’ cliché perpetuated by florists who are tired of spraypainting carnations a hideous blue and greeting card companies that thrive on the sad reality that most men can’t speak for themselves.
OK, I’ll admit to being in a pissy mood. I blame “The Bachelor”. Kicked three brunettes to the curb last night. Is the show sponsored by Loreil?! It’s a house full of blondes.
And the cute new barista wasn’t at Starbucks this morning. To make matters worse, it was the Sumatra blend today. Blech. Liberally sprinkled cinnamon in my new recycled tumbler. Still blech. Better have Italian blend tomorrow. Always a better day when I started by saying, “I’ll have a tall dark Italian, please.”
Almost had an unfortunate ride up the elevator with Jeremy Welles. Pretended to forget something, stepped out and took the stairs. (Calf cramped at fourth floor. I’ll go easier on treadmill tonight.) Bastard still hasn’t acknowledged me after he shot me down with a goodnight hug last week. I hear his company is laying off. Hope he gets the boot. Or a transfer to Edmonton at least. Brr. Brutal winters. Love to picture Jeremy having to shovel it.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via Blackberry):
STARTING JRNAL. THERAPIST INSISTS. NAME IS BRAD AND HE WEARS SUIT BUT CLD BE A WOMAN IN DISGUISE. JRNAL, SCHMRNAL. THINK IT’S JUST B/C I TOLD HIM ABOUT SCALPING CLARA’S PORCELAIN DOLLS. SUPPOSED TO BE FUNNY. JUST SAW INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS. SHE SHOULDN’T HAVE LEFT THEM WITH ME WHEN SHE FLITTED OFF TO INDONESIA. STUPID ELIZABETH GILBERT. NEXT UP, I BURN HER COOKBKS. WILL SAVE ON KINDLING. I CAN SMILE KNOWING I SHALL NEVER EAT A TOFU-STUFFED TOMATO AGAIN.
BEERS TONITE W/GIL. HE’S IN FOR A FEW DAYS FROM L.A. HAVEN’T SEEN IN YRS. 1ST MET ON SET OF “ROMEO MUST DIE”. GOOD TO CATCH UP. AND NOT THINK ABOUT CLARA.
LIBRA HOROSCOPE: Go ahead and disrupt your routine if you realize it’s for a certain Romeo or Juliet.
Laura’s Log:
Some horoscope. Romeo and Juliet. They died centuries ago. And they weren’t even real! Why are we still mourning for them?
What is it now, four weeks until that dreaded holiday for The Haves? Balloons, candy boxes, chocolates, roses. Romantic? A frickin’ cliché perpetuated by florists who are tired of spraypainting carnations a hideous blue and greeting card companies that thrive on the sad reality that most men can’t speak for themselves.
OK, I’ll admit to being in a pissy mood. I blame “The Bachelor”. Kicked three brunettes to the curb last night. Is the show sponsored by Loreil?! It’s a house full of blondes.
And the cute new barista wasn’t at Starbucks this morning. To make matters worse, it was the Sumatra blend today. Blech. Liberally sprinkled cinnamon in my new recycled tumbler. Still blech. Better have Italian blend tomorrow. Always a better day when I started by saying, “I’ll have a tall dark Italian, please.”
Almost had an unfortunate ride up the elevator with Jeremy Welles. Pretended to forget something, stepped out and took the stairs. (Calf cramped at fourth floor. I’ll go easier on treadmill tonight.) Bastard still hasn’t acknowledged me after he shot me down with a goodnight hug last week. I hear his company is laying off. Hope he gets the boot. Or a transfer to Edmonton at least. Brr. Brutal winters. Love to picture Jeremy having to shovel it.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via Blackberry):
STARTING JRNAL. THERAPIST INSISTS. NAME IS BRAD AND HE WEARS SUIT BUT CLD BE A WOMAN IN DISGUISE. JRNAL, SCHMRNAL. THINK IT’S JUST B/C I TOLD HIM ABOUT SCALPING CLARA’S PORCELAIN DOLLS. SUPPOSED TO BE FUNNY. JUST SAW INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS. SHE SHOULDN’T HAVE LEFT THEM WITH ME WHEN SHE FLITTED OFF TO INDONESIA. STUPID ELIZABETH GILBERT. NEXT UP, I BURN HER COOKBKS. WILL SAVE ON KINDLING. I CAN SMILE KNOWING I SHALL NEVER EAT A TOFU-STUFFED TOMATO AGAIN.
BEERS TONITE W/GIL. HE’S IN FOR A FEW DAYS FROM L.A. HAVEN’T SEEN IN YRS. 1ST MET ON SET OF “ROMEO MUST DIE”. GOOD TO CATCH UP. AND NOT THINK ABOUT CLARA.
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