LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): It’s perfectly okay for you to deal with your own emotions and needs first today — everyone else is! If you feel selfish, remember that you have to take care of yourself if you want to help others.
Laura’s Log:
I woke up in a funk. I’d gone to bed feeling worried about Dad losing his job at the end of the week, wondering what it would take to get Lucy and Estelle to talk again and thinking that sex-crazed and single Millie might be me in another forty years. Have to admit the last thought bothered me the most. Does that mean I’m self-absorbed?
When I walked Tupper, I stopped in at a Starbucks, figuring I needed my latté fix earlier than usual. Unfortunately, there was a twentysomething couple in front of me and they couldn’t stop fondling and kissing. I tried to dismiss it as a one night stand that would flicker out once they managed to separate themselves. The negative thought wasn’t much comfort.
At lunch, I was on my own and, walking through downtown, I seemed to keep getting behind hand-holding couples. Unfair! This is the corporate world! Everyone’s supposed to be power walking and power talking. No warmth allowed!
And then as I walked home, a woman thrust a flyer in my hand as I started across the Granville Street Bridge. I’d said, “No thank you”, but her arm was extended like a security gate, forcing me to take the unwanted piece of paper before gaining passage. Vancouver Executive Dating Service. Was she being that forceful with every pedestrian or did she just know that I was in dire need?
Back in my apartment, I was in more depressed than when the day began. I told myself I didn’t need anyone. I had Tupper. I had my dysfunctional family. I had my friends (when they weren’t dated obnoxious men). Dammit, my booster talk wasn’t working. In my vulnerable state, I took out the napkin from the drawer with all the plastic bags and I called him.
KEN’S JOURNAL:
SHE CALLED! DON’T KNOW HOW IT HAPPENED. MAYBE HORNY OLD MILLIE THREATENED TO TAKE HER ALONG TO SINGLES NIGHT AT THE SENIORS CENTER. MAYBE HER LAST BOYFRIEND HAD CONVINCED HER THAT SHE COULD ONLY BE WITH DWEEBS LIKE ME. MAYBE PIGS HAD FINALLY TAKEN FLIGHT ON A FARM IN ABBOTSFORD.
“HI. IT’S LAURA.” IT’S A GOOD THING THEY BANNED USING CELL PHONES WHEN DRIVING BECAUSE I THINK I WOULD’VE CRASHED MY VEHICLE HAD I NOT PULLED OVER. WE CHATTED BRIEFLY, COMPARING NOTES ABOUT OUR STRANGE VISITS WITH MILLIE IN THE HOSPITAL. AND THEN SHE SAID, “WELL, I OWE YOU A DRINK. HOW ABOUT TOMORROW?”
OK, SHE WAS REALLY PLAYING DOWN THE ATTRACTION TO ME. A DEBT TO REPAY. A TWO-TON OBLIGATION THAT SHE NEEDED TO GET OFF HER BACK. I’VE LEARNED TO TAKE THINGS HOWEVER THEY COME. A DRINK WITH A PRETTY LADY? ABSOLUTELY!
TOMORROW NIGHT. 7 P.M. CAN’T COME SOON ENUF.
Showing posts with label Starbucks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Starbucks. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Monday, April 26, 2010
RUNNING FOR COCOA
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): You’re more concerned with beauty than with so-called ‘real life’ today — and that should work out quite well for you! Your amazing energy helps you hit the sweet spot and reel in some new friends too.
Laura’s Log:
For some reason, a morning jog in April feels colder than one in February. I think it’s because this is the time of year when Mother Nature likes to tease us. Little pockets of warmth given, then taken away. In truth, I’ve felt cold all day. Seems I never recovered from the start of the day.
Still, I’m glad I ran. Felt like I’d gained five pounds yesterday. I needed comfort after seeing Derrick at the beach. And, while I know it’s the wrong option, there is no comfort like that which comes in high (sugary) calories. I scarfed down a brownie, a lemon bar and a crème brulée. Damn you, Meinhardt! Having overloaded my sweet tooth, I balanced things by caving to my salty and spicy urges as I emptied a bag of Miss Vickie’s Jalapeño Potato Chips while watching the Canucks leave most of the work to Luongo for the first half of the Canucks game.
As I jogged past the Kits Pool, I noticed an elderly woman lying on the grass. Not the time of day for tanning. I stopped to see if she was all right. Turns out she wasn’t. She’d taken the grass instead of the paved walk as a shortcut down to the seawall and lost her balance on an uneven patch. She couldn’t get up and winced in pain when I tried to assist. I called 911 on my cell and sat on the ground trying to warm Millie who was shaking from cold and perhaps a bit of shock. Another runner stopped and I asked if he could grab Millie a coffee from the Starbucks across the street. “Cocoa,” Millie said. “It’s a cocoa kind of morn.”
“Yes, Millie. Cocoa sounds lovely.” (Obviously my sweet tooth was on the rebound.) The fellow with the drink order was back and stayed with us. He mentioned the Canucks game and Millie perked up. The shivers dissipated. Paramedics were on the scene within ten minutes. I backed away to let them do their thing.
“You really don’t recognize me, do you?” I looked at the Cocoa Canuck and was startled. What was his name? The guy I’d met with Lucy and Carl(a). The guy I spilled beer on last week.
“Of course I do. I’m sorry. I was so concerned about Millie I didn’t notice.”
“How are you, Laura?”
“Good. Well, a bit cold, but good. Yeah. Good.” I was stumbling because I hoped he wouldn’t ask…
“Do you remember my name?”
He asked. Damn. No idea. Frank? Fred? Started with F, didn’t it?
“It’s Ken.” Okay, so K isn’t that far down the alphabet from F. They’re practically neighbors.
As they wheeled Millie off, Ken and I ran alongside her. “You’re going to be fine, Millie,” I said, knowing nothing of the sort. “They’re taking you to VGH. I’ll come visit if they admit you. What’s your last name?”
“Morgan,” she replied, raising her hand in a slight wave as they loaded her in the ambulance. “Thanks, dears.”
“I’m betting you’re not going to remember that,” Ken said. “Just judging from experience.”
Ouch. It wouldn’t be prudent to argue the point. I remembered everyone’s name. Except his.
“How about we call it a day for jogging? Get you a pen so you can write down her name and I’d say we both deserve a hot chocolate.” My entire being said no. Just keep jogging. And then that damned sweet tooth caved. Which tooth was it anyway? Might be worth an extraction.
KEN’S JOURNAL:
I’D WATCHED THE ENTIRE CANUCKS GAME LAST NIGHT GNAWING ON CARROT STICKS. THAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ENOUGH. BUT I SET THE ALARM FOR AN EARLY JOG ANYWAY. 13 LBS LOST. PEOPLE WERE STARTING TO NOTICE. NO TIME TO LET UP. DON’T PUT IT OFF. BE A CANUCK. DO IT NOW INSTEAD OF IN A GAME 7.
I’VE GOTTEN A BIT BORED WITH THE TREK ALONG DAVID LAM AND OVER TO SCIENCE WORLD SO I OPTED FOR THE BURRARD STREET BRIDGE AND KITSILANO. AND THEN AN ODD SIGHT. A FEMALE JOGGER GROPING AN OLD LADY IN THE GRASS. IT WAS LAURA—AGAIN. TURNED OUT THE OLDER WOMAN HAD FALLEN. I WAS SENT ON A COCOA MISSION. B/C EVERYONE KNOWS THAT’S THE BEST MEDICINE FOR A BROKEN HIP.
OF COURSE, LAURA DIDN’T RECOGNIZE ME YET AGAIN. I SHOULD JUST TELL HER MY NAME IS JOE. JOE AVERAGE.
AFTER THE LADY WENT OFF IN THE AMBULANCE, I INVITED LAURA TO JOIN ME FOR A DRINK AT STARBUCKS AND SHE ACCEPTED. GUESS EXCUSES DON’T COME THAT QUICKLY THAT EARLY. IN LINE, I JOKED, “YOU SHOULD BE PAYING FOR THIS, YOU KNOW. AFTER WASTING MY BEER.”
“YOU’RE RIGHT. BUT I DIDN’T BRING ANY MONEY. IT WAS JUST SUPPOSED TO BE A RUN.”
WE TALKED FOR ABOUT TEN MINUTES. I WROTE DOWN THE OLD LADY’S NAME ON A NAPKIN SINCE I’D JOKED THAT LAURA HAD A TERRIBLE MEMORY FOR NAMES. JOTTED DOWN MINE TOO, ALONG W/MY NUMBER. “THE WAY I SEE IT, YOU NOW OWE ME TWO DRINKS. BUT I’LL SETTLE FOR ONE.”
SHE SMILED POLITELY. SHE’D NEVER CALL. FOR SOME REASON, I’D JUST NEEDED ONE MORE OPPORTUNITY TO PUT MYSELF OUT THERE AS A LOSER.
Laura’s Log:
For some reason, a morning jog in April feels colder than one in February. I think it’s because this is the time of year when Mother Nature likes to tease us. Little pockets of warmth given, then taken away. In truth, I’ve felt cold all day. Seems I never recovered from the start of the day.
Still, I’m glad I ran. Felt like I’d gained five pounds yesterday. I needed comfort after seeing Derrick at the beach. And, while I know it’s the wrong option, there is no comfort like that which comes in high (sugary) calories. I scarfed down a brownie, a lemon bar and a crème brulée. Damn you, Meinhardt! Having overloaded my sweet tooth, I balanced things by caving to my salty and spicy urges as I emptied a bag of Miss Vickie’s Jalapeño Potato Chips while watching the Canucks leave most of the work to Luongo for the first half of the Canucks game.
As I jogged past the Kits Pool, I noticed an elderly woman lying on the grass. Not the time of day for tanning. I stopped to see if she was all right. Turns out she wasn’t. She’d taken the grass instead of the paved walk as a shortcut down to the seawall and lost her balance on an uneven patch. She couldn’t get up and winced in pain when I tried to assist. I called 911 on my cell and sat on the ground trying to warm Millie who was shaking from cold and perhaps a bit of shock. Another runner stopped and I asked if he could grab Millie a coffee from the Starbucks across the street. “Cocoa,” Millie said. “It’s a cocoa kind of morn.”
“Yes, Millie. Cocoa sounds lovely.” (Obviously my sweet tooth was on the rebound.) The fellow with the drink order was back and stayed with us. He mentioned the Canucks game and Millie perked up. The shivers dissipated. Paramedics were on the scene within ten minutes. I backed away to let them do their thing.
“You really don’t recognize me, do you?” I looked at the Cocoa Canuck and was startled. What was his name? The guy I’d met with Lucy and Carl(a). The guy I spilled beer on last week.
“Of course I do. I’m sorry. I was so concerned about Millie I didn’t notice.”
“How are you, Laura?”
“Good. Well, a bit cold, but good. Yeah. Good.” I was stumbling because I hoped he wouldn’t ask…
“Do you remember my name?”
He asked. Damn. No idea. Frank? Fred? Started with F, didn’t it?
“It’s Ken.” Okay, so K isn’t that far down the alphabet from F. They’re practically neighbors.
As they wheeled Millie off, Ken and I ran alongside her. “You’re going to be fine, Millie,” I said, knowing nothing of the sort. “They’re taking you to VGH. I’ll come visit if they admit you. What’s your last name?”
“Morgan,” she replied, raising her hand in a slight wave as they loaded her in the ambulance. “Thanks, dears.”
“I’m betting you’re not going to remember that,” Ken said. “Just judging from experience.”
Ouch. It wouldn’t be prudent to argue the point. I remembered everyone’s name. Except his.
“How about we call it a day for jogging? Get you a pen so you can write down her name and I’d say we both deserve a hot chocolate.” My entire being said no. Just keep jogging. And then that damned sweet tooth caved. Which tooth was it anyway? Might be worth an extraction.
KEN’S JOURNAL:
I’D WATCHED THE ENTIRE CANUCKS GAME LAST NIGHT GNAWING ON CARROT STICKS. THAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ENOUGH. BUT I SET THE ALARM FOR AN EARLY JOG ANYWAY. 13 LBS LOST. PEOPLE WERE STARTING TO NOTICE. NO TIME TO LET UP. DON’T PUT IT OFF. BE A CANUCK. DO IT NOW INSTEAD OF IN A GAME 7.
I’VE GOTTEN A BIT BORED WITH THE TREK ALONG DAVID LAM AND OVER TO SCIENCE WORLD SO I OPTED FOR THE BURRARD STREET BRIDGE AND KITSILANO. AND THEN AN ODD SIGHT. A FEMALE JOGGER GROPING AN OLD LADY IN THE GRASS. IT WAS LAURA—AGAIN. TURNED OUT THE OLDER WOMAN HAD FALLEN. I WAS SENT ON A COCOA MISSION. B/C EVERYONE KNOWS THAT’S THE BEST MEDICINE FOR A BROKEN HIP.
OF COURSE, LAURA DIDN’T RECOGNIZE ME YET AGAIN. I SHOULD JUST TELL HER MY NAME IS JOE. JOE AVERAGE.
AFTER THE LADY WENT OFF IN THE AMBULANCE, I INVITED LAURA TO JOIN ME FOR A DRINK AT STARBUCKS AND SHE ACCEPTED. GUESS EXCUSES DON’T COME THAT QUICKLY THAT EARLY. IN LINE, I JOKED, “YOU SHOULD BE PAYING FOR THIS, YOU KNOW. AFTER WASTING MY BEER.”
“YOU’RE RIGHT. BUT I DIDN’T BRING ANY MONEY. IT WAS JUST SUPPOSED TO BE A RUN.”
WE TALKED FOR ABOUT TEN MINUTES. I WROTE DOWN THE OLD LADY’S NAME ON A NAPKIN SINCE I’D JOKED THAT LAURA HAD A TERRIBLE MEMORY FOR NAMES. JOTTED DOWN MINE TOO, ALONG W/MY NUMBER. “THE WAY I SEE IT, YOU NOW OWE ME TWO DRINKS. BUT I’LL SETTLE FOR ONE.”
SHE SMILED POLITELY. SHE’D NEVER CALL. FOR SOME REASON, I’D JUST NEEDED ONE MORE OPPORTUNITY TO PUT MYSELF OUT THERE AS A LOSER.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
A WARMING TREND
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): Your sweet nature shows up in a big way today and helps you forgive someone who does feel some measure of contrition. In fact, the two of you may move quickly from enemies to close allies.
Laura’s Log:
After a family brunch in which I was the only daughter to show (Lucy and Estelle still not talking, Marella had some sort of work deadline), I took Tupper for a long walk down to Kitsilano. I grabbed a latté at Starbucks and picked out a log to sit against on Kits Beach. Although I let Tupper off his leash, he was too pooped to wander—just laid beside me and soon nodded off.
The logs plopped down on the beach are pretty massive, providing a windbreaker and a bit of privacy. Unfortunately, they don’t completely block out all things unwanted. “Uh, hi Laura.” I looked up, squinted as the sun beamed down and standing only inches away was Derrick. What would he do? Berate me in front of all the logs? Blame me for his involuntary leave of absence? Kick sand in my face?
I wasn’t in the mood to have any sort of conversation with him so I said, “Isn’t there an injunction or something to forbid you from communicating with me?”
He didn’t become enraged, didn’t crack a smile…just kept a blank look on his face and said, “I am sorry for what I put you through at work. I crossed a line.” So monotone. What kind of meds was he on? Based on the apparently heavy dosage, I hoped he was forbidden from driving.
Still, I wasn’t feeling conciliatory. “Crossed a line? You THINK?!” I put Tupper’s leash back on and rose to leave.
“No, stay. Enjoy your day. I don’t mean to interrupt—or ruin—it. Just know that I’m sorry. Really.” And he walked off.
Not the Derrick I knew. Not really any sort of person. Meds? Maybe they’d brought back the lobotomy just for extreme cases like him. Would have been nice to settle back down and enjoy the sunshine, but Tupper was ready to renew his sniffing expedition and I was feeling completely unsettled.
KEN’S JOURNAL:
DROPPED OFF NEW LIGHT FIXTURES AT THE OFFICE THIS MORNING. I FIGURED SUNDAY MORNING WOULD BE A GOOD TIME TO GET IN AND GET OUT WITHOUT DEALING WITH CARL(A) AND HER ACCUSATIONS ABOUT ME HATING WOMEN AND BUTCH WOMEN IN PARTICULAR. UNFORTUNATELY, CARL(A) WAS THERE, PUTTING IN SOME CROWN MOLDINGS. AND I KNEW THINGS WEREN’T GOING TO GO WELL BECAUSE SHE HAD ON AN IGINLA JERSEY.
I SHOULD’VE KEPT MY MOUTH SHUT, BUT WEARING A FLAMES SHIRT IN VANCOUVER WHEN IGINLA ET AL. WERE HONING THEIR GOLF GAME WAS ASKING FOR IT. “NICE SHIRT,” I SAID. “JUST SO YOU KNOW, THE FLAMES DIDN’T MAKE THE PLAYOFFS.”
“AND I COULDN’T BE HAPPIER ABOUT THAT,” CARL(A) SAID. “MY BROTHER LIVES IN CALGARY. THIS WAS MY FRIGGIN’ CHRISTMAS PRESENT. I LIKE TO WEAR IT WHEN I’M DOING MESSIER WORK. I’M PAINTING THE BATHROOM RIGHT AFTER THIS. YOU NEED A TIRE CHANGED OR AN OIL CHANGE TODAY?”
I LAUGHED, SHE LAUGHED. HELL HAD FROZEN. FOR THE NEXT TEN MINUTES, WE WENT HEAD TO HEAD WITH OUR TAKES ON WHAT IT WOULD TAKE FOR THE CANUCKS TO FINISH THE SERIES TONITE. SHE WAS PUTTING MORE FAITH IN BURROWS THAN I FELT WAS REASONABLE AND SHE HOWLED WHEN I SUGGESTED GRABNER MIGHT HAVE ANOTHER BREAKOUT NITE, BUT THINGS NEVER GOT INTENSE. AFTER ALL, WE WERE ON THE SAME TEAM.
YEP, SPORTS COULD BRING PEOPLE TOGETHER. IT COULD HELP TWO STUBBORN ASSES BURY THE HATCHET. JUST ANOTHER REASON THE CANUCKS HAD TO GO FAR IN THE PLAYOFFS. GET US THROUGH THESE RENOS!
“HOW ’BOUT A STARBUCKS?” I ASKED. SHE NODDED. “I’LL PICK IT UP AND BRING IT BACK. NO WAY I’M GONNA BE SEEN WALKING DOWN THE STREET WITH IGINLA.”
Laura’s Log:
After a family brunch in which I was the only daughter to show (Lucy and Estelle still not talking, Marella had some sort of work deadline), I took Tupper for a long walk down to Kitsilano. I grabbed a latté at Starbucks and picked out a log to sit against on Kits Beach. Although I let Tupper off his leash, he was too pooped to wander—just laid beside me and soon nodded off.
The logs plopped down on the beach are pretty massive, providing a windbreaker and a bit of privacy. Unfortunately, they don’t completely block out all things unwanted. “Uh, hi Laura.” I looked up, squinted as the sun beamed down and standing only inches away was Derrick. What would he do? Berate me in front of all the logs? Blame me for his involuntary leave of absence? Kick sand in my face?
I wasn’t in the mood to have any sort of conversation with him so I said, “Isn’t there an injunction or something to forbid you from communicating with me?”
He didn’t become enraged, didn’t crack a smile…just kept a blank look on his face and said, “I am sorry for what I put you through at work. I crossed a line.” So monotone. What kind of meds was he on? Based on the apparently heavy dosage, I hoped he was forbidden from driving.
Still, I wasn’t feeling conciliatory. “Crossed a line? You THINK?!” I put Tupper’s leash back on and rose to leave.
“No, stay. Enjoy your day. I don’t mean to interrupt—or ruin—it. Just know that I’m sorry. Really.” And he walked off.
Not the Derrick I knew. Not really any sort of person. Meds? Maybe they’d brought back the lobotomy just for extreme cases like him. Would have been nice to settle back down and enjoy the sunshine, but Tupper was ready to renew his sniffing expedition and I was feeling completely unsettled.
KEN’S JOURNAL:
DROPPED OFF NEW LIGHT FIXTURES AT THE OFFICE THIS MORNING. I FIGURED SUNDAY MORNING WOULD BE A GOOD TIME TO GET IN AND GET OUT WITHOUT DEALING WITH CARL(A) AND HER ACCUSATIONS ABOUT ME HATING WOMEN AND BUTCH WOMEN IN PARTICULAR. UNFORTUNATELY, CARL(A) WAS THERE, PUTTING IN SOME CROWN MOLDINGS. AND I KNEW THINGS WEREN’T GOING TO GO WELL BECAUSE SHE HAD ON AN IGINLA JERSEY.
I SHOULD’VE KEPT MY MOUTH SHUT, BUT WEARING A FLAMES SHIRT IN VANCOUVER WHEN IGINLA ET AL. WERE HONING THEIR GOLF GAME WAS ASKING FOR IT. “NICE SHIRT,” I SAID. “JUST SO YOU KNOW, THE FLAMES DIDN’T MAKE THE PLAYOFFS.”
“AND I COULDN’T BE HAPPIER ABOUT THAT,” CARL(A) SAID. “MY BROTHER LIVES IN CALGARY. THIS WAS MY FRIGGIN’ CHRISTMAS PRESENT. I LIKE TO WEAR IT WHEN I’M DOING MESSIER WORK. I’M PAINTING THE BATHROOM RIGHT AFTER THIS. YOU NEED A TIRE CHANGED OR AN OIL CHANGE TODAY?”
I LAUGHED, SHE LAUGHED. HELL HAD FROZEN. FOR THE NEXT TEN MINUTES, WE WENT HEAD TO HEAD WITH OUR TAKES ON WHAT IT WOULD TAKE FOR THE CANUCKS TO FINISH THE SERIES TONITE. SHE WAS PUTTING MORE FAITH IN BURROWS THAN I FELT WAS REASONABLE AND SHE HOWLED WHEN I SUGGESTED GRABNER MIGHT HAVE ANOTHER BREAKOUT NITE, BUT THINGS NEVER GOT INTENSE. AFTER ALL, WE WERE ON THE SAME TEAM.
YEP, SPORTS COULD BRING PEOPLE TOGETHER. IT COULD HELP TWO STUBBORN ASSES BURY THE HATCHET. JUST ANOTHER REASON THE CANUCKS HAD TO GO FAR IN THE PLAYOFFS. GET US THROUGH THESE RENOS!
“HOW ’BOUT A STARBUCKS?” I ASKED. SHE NODDED. “I’LL PICK IT UP AND BRING IT BACK. NO WAY I’M GONNA BE SEEN WALKING DOWN THE STREET WITH IGINLA.”
Monday, April 5, 2010
HISTORICAL FICTION
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): You’re focusing more on your past than you would like, possibly because of a visitor or off memory. It’s a good time for you to just chill out and let yourself go a little, or you might become obsessed!
Laura’s Log:
Nice to have a long weekend, even if it comes just after starting a new job. Wouldn’t say I’m worn out from work, but it is stressful trying to adjust to a new job environment, learn the ropes, figure out everyone’s quirks, dodge Derrick at all costs.
How weird is it to have a flashback to my job from hell? No one told me my local Starbucks would turn into a triage area where old wounds would be slashed open. As I stood in line, I heard my name called from behind. I knew that voice. Instant shivers. Ernesto.
I offered a polite, yet dismissive wave which he mistook as a signal to butt in line beside me. “I got this,” he said. “It’s the least I can do.” You have to understand how cheap Ernesto is to realize the magnitude of his gesture. Kind of like Perez Hilton inviting the Black Eyed Peas for a slumber party. I suppose I was in a state of shock when I agreed to sit with him.
“You live around here?” he asked. I nodded. “Terrific! I just moved to a place near Fir and 13th.” He said it like we were going to become best pals just because we were both in walking distance from the deli counter at Meinhardt. Too many close encounters and I was going to have to start driving to East Van for groceries.
“Had to downsize,” he explained. “That’s one of the unfortunate circumstances of being fired. Still looking. How ’bout you?” No surprise he was still out of work. No doubt he wasn’t given a glowing job reference from Hunter Keene. I vaguely spoke of my new job as an assistant in a firm. Fortunately, Ernesto was too self-absorbed to probe further. He went on: “I’m suing them, you know.”
“For what?!” I didn’t mean to blurt it or to sound so astounded, but didn’t Ernesto, as thick as he is, have at least one self-reflective bone in his body?
“They totally screwed me over. My work record was impeccable.”
OK, apparently not. Apparently snakes are born without the self-reflective bone. He was no longer my boss. He had been the reason I got canned. Guilt by association. I was suddenly peeved to be having coffee with a man who still felt entitled. I decided to be frank. “You seriously need to get a grip. They had dozens, maybe hundreds, of reasons to fire you. Porn on your computer at lunch?! You weren’t even discreet. Had to have the volume turned up to get off on the moans.”
“That’s the best part!” he clarified, sounding indignant that I’d bring up a harmless leisurely lunch pastime.
“Ernesto, you played Scrabble online while the rest of us scrambled with deadlines.”
“A good boss delegates.”
“You asked at least ten of us for our bra sizes.”
“Just making small talk.”
“You subjected all of us to rants about filing systems, Oprah, Stephen Harper and Mike McCardell that were so loud and so long you lost your voice.”
“I’ve always had delicate vocal cords. You can ask my doctor.”
I got up. “Forget it. Sue ’em. Good luck with that.”
“I may contact you as a character witness.”
No ability to assess the situation! Good thing my latté was free. It was utterly tasteless.
KEN’S JOURNAL:
THERE’S THAT STREISAND SONG FROM SOME MOVIE FROM THE ’70s WITH THE LINE “WHAT’S TOO PAINFUL TO REMEMBER, WE SIMPLY CHOOSE TO FORGET.” HOW IS THAT EVEN POSSIBLE?
CHECK OUT MY HOROSCOPE FOR TODAY, MAN. TALK ABOUT COMING @ LEAST 6 MONTHS TOO LATE. “CHILL OUT & LET YOURSELF GO.” YEAH, LIKE THAT’S ALL IT TAKES TO ERASE ALL MEMORY OF CLARA.
SERIOUSLY, HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO TOTALLY WIPE OUT EVERYTHING CLARA W/O SOMEONE TO FILL THE VOID? AREN’T I SUPPOSED TO FIND SOME TRANSITION PERSON? AND, IF I EVER DO FIND ANOTHER WOMAN, IS IT THE HONORABLE THING TO TELL HER UP-FRONT, “HEY, YOU’RE JUST MY IN BETWEENER.”
I THINK WHEN YOU’RE DUMPED YOU DON’T GET OVER THE DUMPER UNLESS YOU DUMP SOMEONE ELSE OR YOU CONVINCE YOUR BRAIN THAT THE DUMPER WAS A TOTAL BITCH. PROBLEM IS, I DON’T GET MY KICKS OUT OF DUMPING PEOPLE & WHAT KIND OF MINDFUCK BS IS IT TO TELL YOURSELF THE WOMAN YOU SPENT YRS W/WAS A BITCH? WHAT’S THAT SAY ABOUT YOU FOR STICKING AROUND ALL THAT TIME?
SO, YEAH, I’M STILL IN THAT OBSESSIVE PHASE. MAYBE THAT MAKES ME PATHETIC. BUT ISN’T THAT BETTER THAN BEING SOME ASSHOLE HURTING ANOTHER WOMAN JUST SO HE CAN MOVE ON? ISN’T IT MORE HONEST THAN RETRO-BITCHIFYING MY EX? THERE’S NOTHING NOBLE IN WHERE I’M AT THESE DAYS BUT @ LEAST THE ONLY 1 I’M HURTING IS MYSELF.
Laura’s Log:
Nice to have a long weekend, even if it comes just after starting a new job. Wouldn’t say I’m worn out from work, but it is stressful trying to adjust to a new job environment, learn the ropes, figure out everyone’s quirks, dodge Derrick at all costs.
How weird is it to have a flashback to my job from hell? No one told me my local Starbucks would turn into a triage area where old wounds would be slashed open. As I stood in line, I heard my name called from behind. I knew that voice. Instant shivers. Ernesto.
I offered a polite, yet dismissive wave which he mistook as a signal to butt in line beside me. “I got this,” he said. “It’s the least I can do.” You have to understand how cheap Ernesto is to realize the magnitude of his gesture. Kind of like Perez Hilton inviting the Black Eyed Peas for a slumber party. I suppose I was in a state of shock when I agreed to sit with him.
“You live around here?” he asked. I nodded. “Terrific! I just moved to a place near Fir and 13th.” He said it like we were going to become best pals just because we were both in walking distance from the deli counter at Meinhardt. Too many close encounters and I was going to have to start driving to East Van for groceries.
“Had to downsize,” he explained. “That’s one of the unfortunate circumstances of being fired. Still looking. How ’bout you?” No surprise he was still out of work. No doubt he wasn’t given a glowing job reference from Hunter Keene. I vaguely spoke of my new job as an assistant in a firm. Fortunately, Ernesto was too self-absorbed to probe further. He went on: “I’m suing them, you know.”
“For what?!” I didn’t mean to blurt it or to sound so astounded, but didn’t Ernesto, as thick as he is, have at least one self-reflective bone in his body?
“They totally screwed me over. My work record was impeccable.”
OK, apparently not. Apparently snakes are born without the self-reflective bone. He was no longer my boss. He had been the reason I got canned. Guilt by association. I was suddenly peeved to be having coffee with a man who still felt entitled. I decided to be frank. “You seriously need to get a grip. They had dozens, maybe hundreds, of reasons to fire you. Porn on your computer at lunch?! You weren’t even discreet. Had to have the volume turned up to get off on the moans.”
“That’s the best part!” he clarified, sounding indignant that I’d bring up a harmless leisurely lunch pastime.
“Ernesto, you played Scrabble online while the rest of us scrambled with deadlines.”
“A good boss delegates.”
“You asked at least ten of us for our bra sizes.”
“Just making small talk.”
“You subjected all of us to rants about filing systems, Oprah, Stephen Harper and Mike McCardell that were so loud and so long you lost your voice.”
“I’ve always had delicate vocal cords. You can ask my doctor.”
I got up. “Forget it. Sue ’em. Good luck with that.”
“I may contact you as a character witness.”
No ability to assess the situation! Good thing my latté was free. It was utterly tasteless.
KEN’S JOURNAL:
THERE’S THAT STREISAND SONG FROM SOME MOVIE FROM THE ’70s WITH THE LINE “WHAT’S TOO PAINFUL TO REMEMBER, WE SIMPLY CHOOSE TO FORGET.” HOW IS THAT EVEN POSSIBLE?
CHECK OUT MY HOROSCOPE FOR TODAY, MAN. TALK ABOUT COMING @ LEAST 6 MONTHS TOO LATE. “CHILL OUT & LET YOURSELF GO.” YEAH, LIKE THAT’S ALL IT TAKES TO ERASE ALL MEMORY OF CLARA.
SERIOUSLY, HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO TOTALLY WIPE OUT EVERYTHING CLARA W/O SOMEONE TO FILL THE VOID? AREN’T I SUPPOSED TO FIND SOME TRANSITION PERSON? AND, IF I EVER DO FIND ANOTHER WOMAN, IS IT THE HONORABLE THING TO TELL HER UP-FRONT, “HEY, YOU’RE JUST MY IN BETWEENER.”
I THINK WHEN YOU’RE DUMPED YOU DON’T GET OVER THE DUMPER UNLESS YOU DUMP SOMEONE ELSE OR YOU CONVINCE YOUR BRAIN THAT THE DUMPER WAS A TOTAL BITCH. PROBLEM IS, I DON’T GET MY KICKS OUT OF DUMPING PEOPLE & WHAT KIND OF MINDFUCK BS IS IT TO TELL YOURSELF THE WOMAN YOU SPENT YRS W/WAS A BITCH? WHAT’S THAT SAY ABOUT YOU FOR STICKING AROUND ALL THAT TIME?
SO, YEAH, I’M STILL IN THAT OBSESSIVE PHASE. MAYBE THAT MAKES ME PATHETIC. BUT ISN’T THAT BETTER THAN BEING SOME ASSHOLE HURTING ANOTHER WOMAN JUST SO HE CAN MOVE ON? ISN’T IT MORE HONEST THAN RETRO-BITCHIFYING MY EX? THERE’S NOTHING NOBLE IN WHERE I’M AT THESE DAYS BUT @ LEAST THE ONLY 1 I’M HURTING IS MYSELF.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
BOXED UP EMOTIONS
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): You don’t usually have a hard time communicating with people — but you might find it hard to reach them today! It’s still worth the effort, especially with those you are already close to.
Laura’s Log:
While Mom was off “sale-ing” at garage sales, Dad and I had our own garage issues. I showed up just after 9, ready to hit Home Depot. Dad was in the garage, sitting in his lawn chair beside the space heater, reading the Sports section of The Sun.
“Ready?” I asked, feeling chipper and naively hoping to complete the reorganization by noon so I could hit a shoe sale with Nadia after lunch.
He didn’t look up from the paper. “For what?”
And sigh. Should’ve seen it coming. Dad will agree to do something just to get people (usually, Mom) off his back. Then, he just hopes the task will go on the never ending To-Do list, taking its place far behind “take down Christmas lights” (from 2001) and “remove dead rhodo bush” (2003).
I glanced around the garage and noticed the pile of discard tools had disappeared, with the broken shovel and the busted hedge trimmer mixed back in with all the clutter. “Dad.” No answer. No movement.
“Dad!” Hoarder still unresponsive.
“DAAAAD!”
He shuffled the paper to turn to the next page. “Heard you the first time.”
Bigger sigh. “The socially appropriate thing to do is respond when someone calls you.” Oh, gawd. I heard my mother’s voice come out. When Dad goes all ostrich-in-sand, it’s hard not to harp.
And it only got worse. I had to yank the newspaper out of his hand—well, after the tear, he retained the bottom portion of the back page—and take away his coffee mug. With the promise of a stop for real coffee on Commercial, I got him he to grab the keys to his truck. Although I really needed the caffeine soothie ASAP, I insisted we hit Home Depot first. No way was Dad going to get me with a feigned headache right after Café Calabria.
Shopping for storage tubs, Dad was like a five-year-old boy having to try on suits. “How do you like these, Dad?” Shoulder shrug. “What about these?” He never looked up, fiddling with a couple loose screws in the palm of his hand. I stopped consulting Dead Dad Walking and we managed to fill the back of the truck with pegboard, two dozen storage bins, three shiny new aluminum trash cans and a new snow shovel. (Granted, he could go many months without a chance of snow, but I figured it was the only way to get him to part with that stump of a shovel back home.)
Our café stop was quicker and quieter than usual. He couldn’t (or wouldn’t?) concentrate on conversation and kept peeking out to see if anyone was stealing his new (unneeded?) goods from the truck. I grabbed a couple To Go cups and we were on our way.
Back at Ground Zero, Dad stood back as I started trying to sort things. Then I baited him with a question about Luongo and he launched into a tirade about lazy goaltending that got him so riled he couldn’t help but use his hands and join in the sorting. His ire toward Luongo shifted to being irked with me. “Those don’t go together!” he said as he took the used paint rollers out of the tub of paint-splattered old clothes. Five minutes later, I was the spectator.
By 12:30, I announced I was leaving after promising (threatening?) to spend all of Easter Sunday redoing the whole thing—maybe even tossing paint rolls back in with old pairs of jeans—if I showed up for brunch and found the job incomplete. He muttered something which I didn’t ask him to repeat. No need for a “French” lesson from Dear Old Dad.
Once back in my car, I let out one more rattled exhale. Bond with Dad, check! Time to reward myself with a new pair of shoes.
KEN’S JOURNAL:
JERRY BUZZED MY CONDO JUST AFTER 8. I WAS GROGGY, STILL IN BED. IN FACT, I THINK HE INTERRUPTED MY DREAM. I WAS ABOUT TO GRAB MY OWN GRABNER MOMENT, TAKING A PASS FROM WILLIE MITCHELL & LOOKING @ A WIDE OPEN NET TO COMPLETE MY HAT TRICK. THE BLARE OF THE BUZZER RUINED EVERYTHING. IT CAN BE HARSH AWAKENING TO REALITY. I WASN’T A CANUCK &, DAMMIT, WILLIE STILL WASN’T EITHER.
“I GOTTA THROW ON SOME CLOTHES. YOU WANNA COME UP?” I ASKED.
“NO. I’LL WAIT.” HE SOUNDED GRUMPY. YOU’D THINK I’D SPOILED HIS CANUCK DREAMS! COURSE I KNEW WHY HE WAS HERE.
WE WALKED OVER TO STARBUCKS W/A LITTLE HOCKEY TALK—HE WAS A FLAMES FAN, ONLY 1 OF THE MANY REASONS I DIDN’T LIKE HIM. COFFEE IN HAND, HE SPILLED IT: “I NEED TO MAKE THIS CLEAR. YOU FUCKIN’ LEAVE MY KIDS ALONE!”
WHOA. HARSHER THAN WHAT I’D EXPECTED. “UH,…I’M THE UNCLE.”
“EXACTLY! I’M THE FATHER!”
“SO ACT IT.”
FOR A SECOND, IT LOOKED LIKE HE’D TAKE A SWING @ ME. GOOD THING HE THOUGHT BETTER OF IT. I AM, AFTER ALL, FIVE INCHES TALLER & 60 LBS HEAVIER. JERRY WAS NO FIGHTER. MIGHT HAVE BITCH-SLAPPED HIS SISTER ONCE, BUT THAT’S ALL. GUESSIN’ SHE MADE HIM LEARN HIS LESSON.
INSTEAD OF PHYSICAL ACTION, HE CHOSE TO GLARE @ ME. YOU KNOW HOW PARENTS TELL YOU NOT TO MAKE AN UGLY FACE? HOW THE WIND IS GONNA BLOW A CERTAIN WAY & THAT LOOK’S JUST GONNA FREEZE ON YOUR FACE? WELL, I DIDN’T FEEL THE GUST MYSELF, BUT I SWEAR IT SWEPT THRU JERRY. THAT WRINKLY GLARE JUST CONTINUED TO STARE ME DOWN. WHATEVER. I GOT UP AND ORDERED A SCONE. EVEN PITCHED IN FOR AN EXTRA 1 FOR JERRY—JUST TO SEE IF HE COULD MOVE THAT FACE ENUF TO CHEW.
MY TIMEOUT HELPED JERRY RECOVER. IN FACT, ANY BRAVADO WAS GONE. “MY SON’S ON DRUGS.” HIS EYES WELLED UP. “HE DOESN’T TALK TO ME. AT ALL. JUST LOOKS @ ME LIKE I’M THE MOST HATED PERSON ON EARTH.”
“IS THAT WHERE YOU GOT THAT LOOK YOU WERE GIVIN’ ME?” MAYBE I SHOULDN’T HAVE MADE LIGHT OF THINGS, BUT THE GUY WAS GONNA BAWL IN THE MIDDLE OF STARBUCKS. A BITCH-SLAP WLD HAVE BEEN MORE WELCOME.
HE CRACKED A SLIVER OF A SMILE. “SORRY.”
“YEAH, WHATEVER.” AND FOR THE NEXT HOUR WE TALKED ABOUT TRAVIS, ABOUT HIS WORK, EVEN ABOUT SARA THREATENING DIVORCE (NEWS TO ME, BUT NOT NECESSARILY UNWELCOME). I HAD AS FEW ANSWERS AS JERRY. I THINK THAT’S WHAT MADE HIM OPEN UP. SOMETIMES WHEN YOU PUT 2 HEADS TOGETHER, YOU DON’T GET A SOLUTION. YOU JUST GET A COLLECTIVE MIGRAINE. BUT IT’S A START.
Laura’s Log:
While Mom was off “sale-ing” at garage sales, Dad and I had our own garage issues. I showed up just after 9, ready to hit Home Depot. Dad was in the garage, sitting in his lawn chair beside the space heater, reading the Sports section of The Sun.
“Ready?” I asked, feeling chipper and naively hoping to complete the reorganization by noon so I could hit a shoe sale with Nadia after lunch.
He didn’t look up from the paper. “For what?”
And sigh. Should’ve seen it coming. Dad will agree to do something just to get people (usually, Mom) off his back. Then, he just hopes the task will go on the never ending To-Do list, taking its place far behind “take down Christmas lights” (from 2001) and “remove dead rhodo bush” (2003).
I glanced around the garage and noticed the pile of discard tools had disappeared, with the broken shovel and the busted hedge trimmer mixed back in with all the clutter. “Dad.” No answer. No movement.
“Dad!” Hoarder still unresponsive.
“DAAAAD!”
He shuffled the paper to turn to the next page. “Heard you the first time.”
Bigger sigh. “The socially appropriate thing to do is respond when someone calls you.” Oh, gawd. I heard my mother’s voice come out. When Dad goes all ostrich-in-sand, it’s hard not to harp.
And it only got worse. I had to yank the newspaper out of his hand—well, after the tear, he retained the bottom portion of the back page—and take away his coffee mug. With the promise of a stop for real coffee on Commercial, I got him he to grab the keys to his truck. Although I really needed the caffeine soothie ASAP, I insisted we hit Home Depot first. No way was Dad going to get me with a feigned headache right after Café Calabria.
Shopping for storage tubs, Dad was like a five-year-old boy having to try on suits. “How do you like these, Dad?” Shoulder shrug. “What about these?” He never looked up, fiddling with a couple loose screws in the palm of his hand. I stopped consulting Dead Dad Walking and we managed to fill the back of the truck with pegboard, two dozen storage bins, three shiny new aluminum trash cans and a new snow shovel. (Granted, he could go many months without a chance of snow, but I figured it was the only way to get him to part with that stump of a shovel back home.)
Our café stop was quicker and quieter than usual. He couldn’t (or wouldn’t?) concentrate on conversation and kept peeking out to see if anyone was stealing his new (unneeded?) goods from the truck. I grabbed a couple To Go cups and we were on our way.
Back at Ground Zero, Dad stood back as I started trying to sort things. Then I baited him with a question about Luongo and he launched into a tirade about lazy goaltending that got him so riled he couldn’t help but use his hands and join in the sorting. His ire toward Luongo shifted to being irked with me. “Those don’t go together!” he said as he took the used paint rollers out of the tub of paint-splattered old clothes. Five minutes later, I was the spectator.
By 12:30, I announced I was leaving after promising (threatening?) to spend all of Easter Sunday redoing the whole thing—maybe even tossing paint rolls back in with old pairs of jeans—if I showed up for brunch and found the job incomplete. He muttered something which I didn’t ask him to repeat. No need for a “French” lesson from Dear Old Dad.
Once back in my car, I let out one more rattled exhale. Bond with Dad, check! Time to reward myself with a new pair of shoes.
KEN’S JOURNAL:
JERRY BUZZED MY CONDO JUST AFTER 8. I WAS GROGGY, STILL IN BED. IN FACT, I THINK HE INTERRUPTED MY DREAM. I WAS ABOUT TO GRAB MY OWN GRABNER MOMENT, TAKING A PASS FROM WILLIE MITCHELL & LOOKING @ A WIDE OPEN NET TO COMPLETE MY HAT TRICK. THE BLARE OF THE BUZZER RUINED EVERYTHING. IT CAN BE HARSH AWAKENING TO REALITY. I WASN’T A CANUCK &, DAMMIT, WILLIE STILL WASN’T EITHER.
“I GOTTA THROW ON SOME CLOTHES. YOU WANNA COME UP?” I ASKED.
“NO. I’LL WAIT.” HE SOUNDED GRUMPY. YOU’D THINK I’D SPOILED HIS CANUCK DREAMS! COURSE I KNEW WHY HE WAS HERE.
WE WALKED OVER TO STARBUCKS W/A LITTLE HOCKEY TALK—HE WAS A FLAMES FAN, ONLY 1 OF THE MANY REASONS I DIDN’T LIKE HIM. COFFEE IN HAND, HE SPILLED IT: “I NEED TO MAKE THIS CLEAR. YOU FUCKIN’ LEAVE MY KIDS ALONE!”
WHOA. HARSHER THAN WHAT I’D EXPECTED. “UH,…I’M THE UNCLE.”
“EXACTLY! I’M THE FATHER!”
“SO ACT IT.”
FOR A SECOND, IT LOOKED LIKE HE’D TAKE A SWING @ ME. GOOD THING HE THOUGHT BETTER OF IT. I AM, AFTER ALL, FIVE INCHES TALLER & 60 LBS HEAVIER. JERRY WAS NO FIGHTER. MIGHT HAVE BITCH-SLAPPED HIS SISTER ONCE, BUT THAT’S ALL. GUESSIN’ SHE MADE HIM LEARN HIS LESSON.
INSTEAD OF PHYSICAL ACTION, HE CHOSE TO GLARE @ ME. YOU KNOW HOW PARENTS TELL YOU NOT TO MAKE AN UGLY FACE? HOW THE WIND IS GONNA BLOW A CERTAIN WAY & THAT LOOK’S JUST GONNA FREEZE ON YOUR FACE? WELL, I DIDN’T FEEL THE GUST MYSELF, BUT I SWEAR IT SWEPT THRU JERRY. THAT WRINKLY GLARE JUST CONTINUED TO STARE ME DOWN. WHATEVER. I GOT UP AND ORDERED A SCONE. EVEN PITCHED IN FOR AN EXTRA 1 FOR JERRY—JUST TO SEE IF HE COULD MOVE THAT FACE ENUF TO CHEW.
MY TIMEOUT HELPED JERRY RECOVER. IN FACT, ANY BRAVADO WAS GONE. “MY SON’S ON DRUGS.” HIS EYES WELLED UP. “HE DOESN’T TALK TO ME. AT ALL. JUST LOOKS @ ME LIKE I’M THE MOST HATED PERSON ON EARTH.”
“IS THAT WHERE YOU GOT THAT LOOK YOU WERE GIVIN’ ME?” MAYBE I SHOULDN’T HAVE MADE LIGHT OF THINGS, BUT THE GUY WAS GONNA BAWL IN THE MIDDLE OF STARBUCKS. A BITCH-SLAP WLD HAVE BEEN MORE WELCOME.
HE CRACKED A SLIVER OF A SMILE. “SORRY.”
“YEAH, WHATEVER.” AND FOR THE NEXT HOUR WE TALKED ABOUT TRAVIS, ABOUT HIS WORK, EVEN ABOUT SARA THREATENING DIVORCE (NEWS TO ME, BUT NOT NECESSARILY UNWELCOME). I HAD AS FEW ANSWERS AS JERRY. I THINK THAT’S WHAT MADE HIM OPEN UP. SOMETIMES WHEN YOU PUT 2 HEADS TOGETHER, YOU DON’T GET A SOLUTION. YOU JUST GET A COLLECTIVE MIGRAINE. BUT IT’S A START.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
V-DAY ATTACK ON THE HORIZON
February 11, 2010
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): You're a bit moony over something or someone from your past, but it's not good for you to dwell on stuff like that right now. You may want to stay in touch with your closest friends and family now.
Laura’s Log:
Forget all the hype in Vancouver over the Olympics. Everything I stumbled on television involved the V-Day invasion. Make it go away!
This year I will be strong. I will not buy myself half a dozen boxes of pity chocolate. I will not visualize mutant aphids devouring every red rose petal in the city in the wee hours of the 14th and I will refrain from carrying a pin with me if I near any florist, gift shop or grocery store. (My pop the balloon rampage last year was exhilarating, but expensive. I don’t have the funds this time around.)
Yes, V-Day makes me crazy. The Haves gloat with abandon. The Have Nots relive that salt-in-the-wound sensation, heads bowed. If we’re lucky we might find a nickel on the sidewalk.
Had to channel all my resentment of flaunting Haves into something positive. Decided to attempt to refocus my energy by going for a run through False Creek and Kitsilano. I was actually pleased it was raining. Made the path less crowded. Ran as far as Jericho before turning back. Stopped in my tracks by the Kits Pool as I spotted a most disturbing sight. Heading toward me was Harvey Burns. No time to hide in the bushes or go for a belated polar bear swim. No choice but to smile and say, “Hi Harvey” while starting to run in place. Thought that would be a sign that I needed to get on with the run.
Harvey never was good at reading signs. And, in truth, I wasn’t that great at speaking my mind. “How ’bout a coffee?” he asked, nodding toward the spot across the street. It was one of those times I wished Vancouver didn’t actually have a Starbucks on every corner. Maybe it was the rain, maybe it was lingering frustration over V-Day that I hadn’t managed to burn off, maybe it was the fact that, due to my bleak employment picture, I had been depriving myself of Starbucks lattés, but I said, “Sure.” Meant to say something less enthusiastic like “OK” or “Well, at least the coffee will be good.”
While we waited in line, Harvey confessed that his mother found out from Mavis Benson who found out from Mom that I jog through Kits fairly regularly and Harvey’s been jogging over the Burrard Street Bridge for the past two weeks to try to stalk me. Good ol’ Harv—still no filters. “I’ve lost three pounds,” he beamed. Good for something, I suppose.
He kept mentioning things about Us, that entity that imploded eight years ago, and I kept asking about his wife. “We’re getting a divorce,” he noted.
“Ah, ‘getting’. That means you’re still married.” I smiled as if I wasn’t trying to be intentionally hurtful. Just needed his puppy dog eyes to read my signal: Down, boy!
Slowest line EVER at a Starbucks. Some doofus ahead of us had the nerve to order muffins and tubs of coffee for his entire workforce. Didn’t even catch the name of the company. Would have Googled to see if they had any openings. Harvey kept going on and on about the time we went to Hawaii (I burned the first day and spent the rest of the trip shrouded in bathrobes), that weekend we biked the Kettle Valley (I tumbled, broke my leg and had to be helivac-ed to hospital) and the romantic dinner at Stepho’s (when I first learned I was deathly allergic to eggplant). Good ol’ Harv had a way of making me pine for the past.
Decided the chat in line was plenty. I thanked him for the latté and said I had to dash. More work to do on my résumé, you know. Coffee in hand, I walked up to 4th and made the journey home, trying (unsuccessfully) to block out the V-Day displays in the shop windows. The only thing sadder than being a Have Not at this time of year is being a Had. I will not go there, Harvey.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via iPhone):
TURNED ON THE TV LAST NIGHT & SOME CHEF WAS TALKING ABOUT THE PERFECT MEAL FOR YOUR VALENTINE. BLECH. FLIPPED OVER TO SOME SITCOM FOCUSED ON THE SAME FREAKIN’ DAY. GOT IN THE CAR & DROPPED IN ON SARA. GOT TO READ BELLA A BEDTIME STORY ABOUT SOME MOUSE WITH A PLASTIC PURPLE PURSE, THEN READ RUDY A PRETTY GRIPPING CHAPTER ABOUT A LONE BAT BEING PREYED UPON BY A COUPLE OF CANNIBAL BATS. THAT DID IT FOR GETTING LOVE OFF MY MIND.
SARA & I CHATTED AFTER THE KIDS WERE ALL IN BED. LOTS OF TALK ABOUT JERRY NEVER BEING AROUND. LOTS OF WORRY ABOUT TRAVIS WHO SEEMS TO HAVE FOUND THE WRONG CROWD IN 8TH GRADE. CLAIMS THE JOINT SHE FOUND IN HIS POCKET WAS FOR SHOW. SHE’S NOT BUYING IT & NEITHER AM I. WILL SEE IF I CAN GET TRAVIS TO GO TO ROCK CLIMBING AT THE EDGE THIS WEEKEND. WLD BE GOOD FOR BOTH OF US. AND SARA NEEDS A BREAK. IT’S THE LEAST I CAN DO FOR MY BIG SIS.
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): You're a bit moony over something or someone from your past, but it's not good for you to dwell on stuff like that right now. You may want to stay in touch with your closest friends and family now.
Laura’s Log:
Forget all the hype in Vancouver over the Olympics. Everything I stumbled on television involved the V-Day invasion. Make it go away!
This year I will be strong. I will not buy myself half a dozen boxes of pity chocolate. I will not visualize mutant aphids devouring every red rose petal in the city in the wee hours of the 14th and I will refrain from carrying a pin with me if I near any florist, gift shop or grocery store. (My pop the balloon rampage last year was exhilarating, but expensive. I don’t have the funds this time around.)
Yes, V-Day makes me crazy. The Haves gloat with abandon. The Have Nots relive that salt-in-the-wound sensation, heads bowed. If we’re lucky we might find a nickel on the sidewalk.
Had to channel all my resentment of flaunting Haves into something positive. Decided to attempt to refocus my energy by going for a run through False Creek and Kitsilano. I was actually pleased it was raining. Made the path less crowded. Ran as far as Jericho before turning back. Stopped in my tracks by the Kits Pool as I spotted a most disturbing sight. Heading toward me was Harvey Burns. No time to hide in the bushes or go for a belated polar bear swim. No choice but to smile and say, “Hi Harvey” while starting to run in place. Thought that would be a sign that I needed to get on with the run.
Harvey never was good at reading signs. And, in truth, I wasn’t that great at speaking my mind. “How ’bout a coffee?” he asked, nodding toward the spot across the street. It was one of those times I wished Vancouver didn’t actually have a Starbucks on every corner. Maybe it was the rain, maybe it was lingering frustration over V-Day that I hadn’t managed to burn off, maybe it was the fact that, due to my bleak employment picture, I had been depriving myself of Starbucks lattés, but I said, “Sure.” Meant to say something less enthusiastic like “OK” or “Well, at least the coffee will be good.”
While we waited in line, Harvey confessed that his mother found out from Mavis Benson who found out from Mom that I jog through Kits fairly regularly and Harvey’s been jogging over the Burrard Street Bridge for the past two weeks to try to stalk me. Good ol’ Harv—still no filters. “I’ve lost three pounds,” he beamed. Good for something, I suppose.
He kept mentioning things about Us, that entity that imploded eight years ago, and I kept asking about his wife. “We’re getting a divorce,” he noted.
“Ah, ‘getting’. That means you’re still married.” I smiled as if I wasn’t trying to be intentionally hurtful. Just needed his puppy dog eyes to read my signal: Down, boy!
Slowest line EVER at a Starbucks. Some doofus ahead of us had the nerve to order muffins and tubs of coffee for his entire workforce. Didn’t even catch the name of the company. Would have Googled to see if they had any openings. Harvey kept going on and on about the time we went to Hawaii (I burned the first day and spent the rest of the trip shrouded in bathrobes), that weekend we biked the Kettle Valley (I tumbled, broke my leg and had to be helivac-ed to hospital) and the romantic dinner at Stepho’s (when I first learned I was deathly allergic to eggplant). Good ol’ Harv had a way of making me pine for the past.
Decided the chat in line was plenty. I thanked him for the latté and said I had to dash. More work to do on my résumé, you know. Coffee in hand, I walked up to 4th and made the journey home, trying (unsuccessfully) to block out the V-Day displays in the shop windows. The only thing sadder than being a Have Not at this time of year is being a Had. I will not go there, Harvey.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via iPhone):
TURNED ON THE TV LAST NIGHT & SOME CHEF WAS TALKING ABOUT THE PERFECT MEAL FOR YOUR VALENTINE. BLECH. FLIPPED OVER TO SOME SITCOM FOCUSED ON THE SAME FREAKIN’ DAY. GOT IN THE CAR & DROPPED IN ON SARA. GOT TO READ BELLA A BEDTIME STORY ABOUT SOME MOUSE WITH A PLASTIC PURPLE PURSE, THEN READ RUDY A PRETTY GRIPPING CHAPTER ABOUT A LONE BAT BEING PREYED UPON BY A COUPLE OF CANNIBAL BATS. THAT DID IT FOR GETTING LOVE OFF MY MIND.
SARA & I CHATTED AFTER THE KIDS WERE ALL IN BED. LOTS OF TALK ABOUT JERRY NEVER BEING AROUND. LOTS OF WORRY ABOUT TRAVIS WHO SEEMS TO HAVE FOUND THE WRONG CROWD IN 8TH GRADE. CLAIMS THE JOINT SHE FOUND IN HIS POCKET WAS FOR SHOW. SHE’S NOT BUYING IT & NEITHER AM I. WILL SEE IF I CAN GET TRAVIS TO GO TO ROCK CLIMBING AT THE EDGE THIS WEEKEND. WLD BE GOOD FOR BOTH OF US. AND SARA NEEDS A BREAK. IT’S THE LEAST I CAN DO FOR MY BIG SIS.
Friday, February 5, 2010
JENNY FROM THE BOG / THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT MARIBETH
February 5, 2010
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): You need to deal with a financial issue that feels like a speed bump -- but could actually become a major obstacle! Once you see the depth of it, you should know exactly what to do. It takes time, though.
Laura’s Log:
Good to be home. Catching up with Jenny was wonderful, but I missed my flushing toilet. And my own space. Why is it that I always feel like I’m suffocating after only one night sharing the same space? Maybe I’m more like Marella than I realize. We’ll be two spinsters who move into my parents’ house and all the neighborhood kids will say, in hushed tones, that we’re witches. Marella would love that. Buy a black cat for good measure.
Missed the torch relay in Roberts Creek. Mid-morning Jenny decided it would be fun to walk in the woods, collect leaves and weave natural placemats—a set for her and a set for me. “That way we’ll be connected even though a ferry stands between us.” (I’m assuming she meant ferry, not faerie, but with Jenny I really can’t be sure.) We gathered reeds while Tupper lifted his leg with wild abandon, christening trees, logs, rocks and once, in a moment of delirium, my leg. (Fortunately, he was all peed out by then, doing the lifts just for show.) After forty-five minutes, we headed home and Jenny said, “We really should let them dry out overnight. How about staying longer?”
Awkward.
And so we wove reeds that weren’t ready to weave. I cut my fingers twice. (Paper cuts are nothing!) “Oh, that’s good for you,” Jenny informed. “Very medicinal.”
After three hours, Jenny had four placemats and I had something that looked like a warped coaster. “You can take mine with you. I can always make more.” All I could think was that Jenny would never be able to visit my apartment again because the first thing she’d ask would be, “Where are those placemats I wove?” and our friendship would die when I told her I turfed them at the ferry terminal. No way was I going to bring home a set of nests harboring aphids and invisible insects.
Of course, with no clocks in the cottage, it wasn’t until I peeked at my cell phone that we realized the Roberts Creek festivities were done. Frankly, my entire Sunshine Coast celebration felt done and I just wanted to catch the ferry, but Jenny rushed us into her VW Bug and we glimpsed the torch in Gibsons. Have to admit I got caught up in the moment. Got closer to the flame than I imagined possible and tried to snap a decent photo, but I mostly got a lot of shots of people’s arms raising their digital cameras over their heads. It’s a safe bet that my new career will not involve photography.
Shouldn’t really indulge myself with a latté this morning, but I need a little pampering after my visit with Jenny from the Bog. Must face reality today and check my bank balance. Have a feeling I have to make the (temporary?) switch from Terra Breads to Wonder bread and from Starbucks to, gasp, Folgers.
Maybe I could’ve sold those damn placemats.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via BlackBerry):
LESSON: A PHOTO CAN BE SO DECEIVING. THAT PICTURE OF MARIBETH SHE POSTED ONLINE THAT I SAID MADE HER LOOK 28, NOT 40? WELL, IT HAD TO HAVE BEEN TAKEN, OH, 20 YRS AGO. TURNS OUT SHE RUNS A TANNING BED BUSINESS. LET’S JUST SAY SHE SHOULDN’T BE IN ANY OF THE ADVERTISING. WASN’T THERE A FREAKISHLY TANNED OLDER LADY IN “THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT MARY”? I KEPT WANTING TO ASK, “WAS THAT YOU?” RIGHT NOW I AM SO TURNED OFF OF LEATHER. MAY HAVE TO DONATE MY SOFA TO GOODWILL.
TO BE HONEST, I DON’T THINK SHE WAS ANY MORE IMPRESSED W/ME. I WAS BUMMED BY THE CANUCKS LOSING TO THE SENATORS—AND BY THE FACT I LOST $500 ON A BET W/MY COUSIN BLAKE IN OTTAWA—AND I THOUGHT SHE COULD COMMISERATE AS A FAN. NO. SHE KEPT GOING ON ABOUT SOME DEAD ACTRESS NAMED BRITTANY SOMEBODY. NOT SPEARS, I LEARNED AS SHE LAUGHED IN MY FACE. SO I’M NOT THAT UP ON ENTERTAINMENT NEWS?! ONLY EVER WATCHED “ET” TO CHECK OUT MARY HART’S LEGS AND NOW THAT SHE’S, WHAT,…70?, IT’S A LITTLE CREEPY TO STILL SNEAK A PEEK.
SAFE TO SAY THERE WASN’T A LOVE CONNECTION B/W US. IT’S ONLY THE 1ST ONLINE ATTEMPT. LIKE THE SITE SAYS, THERE’S PLENTY OF FISH, RIGHT?
WHAT IS THEY’RE ALL CATFISH?
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): You need to deal with a financial issue that feels like a speed bump -- but could actually become a major obstacle! Once you see the depth of it, you should know exactly what to do. It takes time, though.
Laura’s Log:
Good to be home. Catching up with Jenny was wonderful, but I missed my flushing toilet. And my own space. Why is it that I always feel like I’m suffocating after only one night sharing the same space? Maybe I’m more like Marella than I realize. We’ll be two spinsters who move into my parents’ house and all the neighborhood kids will say, in hushed tones, that we’re witches. Marella would love that. Buy a black cat for good measure.
Missed the torch relay in Roberts Creek. Mid-morning Jenny decided it would be fun to walk in the woods, collect leaves and weave natural placemats—a set for her and a set for me. “That way we’ll be connected even though a ferry stands between us.” (I’m assuming she meant ferry, not faerie, but with Jenny I really can’t be sure.) We gathered reeds while Tupper lifted his leg with wild abandon, christening trees, logs, rocks and once, in a moment of delirium, my leg. (Fortunately, he was all peed out by then, doing the lifts just for show.) After forty-five minutes, we headed home and Jenny said, “We really should let them dry out overnight. How about staying longer?”
Awkward.
And so we wove reeds that weren’t ready to weave. I cut my fingers twice. (Paper cuts are nothing!) “Oh, that’s good for you,” Jenny informed. “Very medicinal.”
After three hours, Jenny had four placemats and I had something that looked like a warped coaster. “You can take mine with you. I can always make more.” All I could think was that Jenny would never be able to visit my apartment again because the first thing she’d ask would be, “Where are those placemats I wove?” and our friendship would die when I told her I turfed them at the ferry terminal. No way was I going to bring home a set of nests harboring aphids and invisible insects.
Of course, with no clocks in the cottage, it wasn’t until I peeked at my cell phone that we realized the Roberts Creek festivities were done. Frankly, my entire Sunshine Coast celebration felt done and I just wanted to catch the ferry, but Jenny rushed us into her VW Bug and we glimpsed the torch in Gibsons. Have to admit I got caught up in the moment. Got closer to the flame than I imagined possible and tried to snap a decent photo, but I mostly got a lot of shots of people’s arms raising their digital cameras over their heads. It’s a safe bet that my new career will not involve photography.
Shouldn’t really indulge myself with a latté this morning, but I need a little pampering after my visit with Jenny from the Bog. Must face reality today and check my bank balance. Have a feeling I have to make the (temporary?) switch from Terra Breads to Wonder bread and from Starbucks to, gasp, Folgers.
Maybe I could’ve sold those damn placemats.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via BlackBerry):
LESSON: A PHOTO CAN BE SO DECEIVING. THAT PICTURE OF MARIBETH SHE POSTED ONLINE THAT I SAID MADE HER LOOK 28, NOT 40? WELL, IT HAD TO HAVE BEEN TAKEN, OH, 20 YRS AGO. TURNS OUT SHE RUNS A TANNING BED BUSINESS. LET’S JUST SAY SHE SHOULDN’T BE IN ANY OF THE ADVERTISING. WASN’T THERE A FREAKISHLY TANNED OLDER LADY IN “THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT MARY”? I KEPT WANTING TO ASK, “WAS THAT YOU?” RIGHT NOW I AM SO TURNED OFF OF LEATHER. MAY HAVE TO DONATE MY SOFA TO GOODWILL.
TO BE HONEST, I DON’T THINK SHE WAS ANY MORE IMPRESSED W/ME. I WAS BUMMED BY THE CANUCKS LOSING TO THE SENATORS—AND BY THE FACT I LOST $500 ON A BET W/MY COUSIN BLAKE IN OTTAWA—AND I THOUGHT SHE COULD COMMISERATE AS A FAN. NO. SHE KEPT GOING ON ABOUT SOME DEAD ACTRESS NAMED BRITTANY SOMEBODY. NOT SPEARS, I LEARNED AS SHE LAUGHED IN MY FACE. SO I’M NOT THAT UP ON ENTERTAINMENT NEWS?! ONLY EVER WATCHED “ET” TO CHECK OUT MARY HART’S LEGS AND NOW THAT SHE’S, WHAT,…70?, IT’S A LITTLE CREEPY TO STILL SNEAK A PEEK.
SAFE TO SAY THERE WASN’T A LOVE CONNECTION B/W US. IT’S ONLY THE 1ST ONLINE ATTEMPT. LIKE THE SITE SAYS, THERE’S PLENTY OF FISH, RIGHT?
WHAT IS THEY’RE ALL CATFISH?
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?
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?
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.
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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