March 7, 2010
OSCARS, I’M A GROUCH
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): Your brainpower is sparking new ideas today, so you should be able to get yourself in the right mode for almost anything. Share what you've got with those around you and move forward together.
Laura’s Log:
Whose Oscars are they anyway? Tamara, Nadia and I watched “District 9” last night and couldn’t wait for it to be over. Felt like it should have been a short. After the first ten minutes, it was really nothing more than a sci-fi shoot ’em up flick for boys, with a few teary eyed phone calls thrown in. I am having a hard time accepting the fact that “District 9” and “The Hurt Locker” got nominated over “A Single Man” and “(500) Days of Summer”. I’d be pissed if I were Tom Ford. (Apparently they really don’t like you.) Even the only halfway successful “Julie and Julia” would’ve been a better candidate. Too bad they didn’t edit the title to “Julia”. (Worked for Vanessa Redgrave et al. in the ’70s.)
Maybe I was in a bit of a snit after our foray to the Salsa Festival was a bust. We thought there’d be hour-long workshops, but no. Full day salsa immersion. Sorry, but apparently I have commitment issues after all. Should’ve checked the website. We wanted to see some of the pros rehearsing but we were denied. I was trying to convince an official to let us in, but then Nadia got lippy. Tossed to the curb. We never even got a glimpse of the male-male salsa pair, Eli and Yen. A YouTube clip is just not the same.
It may have been just the movie, but by the time “District 9” was over, Tamara, Nadia and I had had enough of each other. Katherine’s back from Puerto Vallarta and is hosting an Oscar party so I’ll head over there for a new social experience. (Katherine hates—or at least strongly dislikes—Nadia and Tamara so I’ll be forced to mingle.) Aside from my Oscar predictions, I’m betting Katherine will be dressed in something simple, yet elegant in white to highlight her new fab tan. What can I wear to minimize my year-round pasty look? Will there be any single guys in attendance? Desirable ones? How about her cousin Gabriel? He was off the market for much of last year, but then there was that unfortunate breakup just before Christmas. So sad. He’s cleared the Rebound period, hasn’t he? I just hope he’s not a “District 9” fan. Or a “Hurt Locker” gusher. Or an “Avatar” advocate.
Suddenly it’s looking grim that I could meet a guy at the party. Damn you, Oscar!
KEN’S JOURNAL:
OSCARS, SCHMOSCARS. “THE HANGOVER” WAS ROBBED! YEP, I’M WATCHING THE CANUCKS INSTEAD. HERE’S HOPING LOU BOUNCES BACK IN NET. AND HENRIK REDISCOVERS HIS SCORING TOUCH.
REAL ESTATE SHOPPING YESTERDAY WAS A BUST. A SPACE IN A STRIP MALL IN PITT MEADOWS AIN’T GONNA CUT IT. I’M STARTING TO REALIZE THAT WE’RE GOING TO BUILD UP A MASSIVE DEBT B/F WE EVEN OPEN OUR DOORS. SUDDENLY EXCITING HAS TAKEN A BACKSEAT TO FRIGHTENING. WHAT R THE SIGNS OF AN ULCER ANYWAY?
MAY NOT BE SUCH A BAD THING THAT RAJ IS WAFFLING ON JOINING US. I DON’T THINK I CAN GO AROUND HOLDING HIS HAND WHEN MY PALMS R GETTING SO SWEATY.
I COMPLETELY REREAD OUR BUSINESS PLAN THIS MORNING. IT ROCKS. WE ROCK. GAWD, I NEEDED THAT REMINDER.
IT’LL ALL BE GREAT. AFTER THE FIRST 3 YRS OR SO. HEY, I LOVED KRAFT MAC & CHEESE IN UNIVERSITY. I CAN LUV IT AGAIN. ONLY NOW IT’LL COME IN A GENERIC YELLOW BOX W/BLACK PRINT. SAME THING,…RIGHT?
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Saturday, March 6, 2010
TEAMING UP
March 6, 2010
TEAMING UP
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): Stick with what you know best today. It's not the best time to take on new projects, though if you do choose to do so, make sure you have no doubts whatsoever. There's no time to dither!
Laura’s Log:
Went for The Hurt Blocker last night as Tamara, Nadia and I rented “The Hurt Locker” last night. It was part of Operation Edmonton Spoilers as Tamara’s now ex, Andy, moves to Alberta this weekend, in a move reminiscent of Ali on “The Bachelor”. Work over love. Maybe it’s because I’ve never had a great job, but I can’t imagine work ever being the victor. No wonder Tamara is so bruised.
Yes, a movie about defusing bombs in Iraq did the trick as far as not thinking about lost love, but that’s about all it did. Oscar contender? Really?! I know Kathryn Bigelow was going for tension, but I was bored with watching Men Play with Wires. The spacesuit didn’t help, not when it’s covering up guys like Guy Pearce and Jeremy Renner. For a movie similar in tone, “Children of Men” is far superior yet was largely ignored by the Academy a few years ago. I’m sure wishing for a major upset come Sunday when Men with Wires dukes it out with the Smurfs. “Up in the Air” anyone? Or just “Up”? Really, anything else.
I’m so glad Nadia’s shoulder shrug of a boyfriend is off to Kelowna this weekend. It’s like a Spice Girls reunion as Tamara, Nadia and I have brunch, a salsa festival and another movie on tap for today and Red Carpet gawking as the main attraction tomorrow. Old times. Good times.
KEN’S JOURNAL:
SO PSYCHED! BARELY SLEPT. IT’S THE START OF A WHOLE NEW PART OF MY LIFE AS MARTY & I BEGIN TO LOOK FOR A SPACE TO HOUSE OUR REAL ESTATE BIZ. RISKY? ABSOLUTELY. BUT I’LL—WE’LL—FINALLY BE ABLE TO CALL THE SHOTS. NO FREAKIN’ MORON BOSS (AND GOLF TROPHIES) TO DODGE. IT’S ALL GOOD.
TEAMING UP
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): Stick with what you know best today. It's not the best time to take on new projects, though if you do choose to do so, make sure you have no doubts whatsoever. There's no time to dither!
Laura’s Log:
Went for The Hurt Blocker last night as Tamara, Nadia and I rented “The Hurt Locker” last night. It was part of Operation Edmonton Spoilers as Tamara’s now ex, Andy, moves to Alberta this weekend, in a move reminiscent of Ali on “The Bachelor”. Work over love. Maybe it’s because I’ve never had a great job, but I can’t imagine work ever being the victor. No wonder Tamara is so bruised.
Yes, a movie about defusing bombs in Iraq did the trick as far as not thinking about lost love, but that’s about all it did. Oscar contender? Really?! I know Kathryn Bigelow was going for tension, but I was bored with watching Men Play with Wires. The spacesuit didn’t help, not when it’s covering up guys like Guy Pearce and Jeremy Renner. For a movie similar in tone, “Children of Men” is far superior yet was largely ignored by the Academy a few years ago. I’m sure wishing for a major upset come Sunday when Men with Wires dukes it out with the Smurfs. “Up in the Air” anyone? Or just “Up”? Really, anything else.
I’m so glad Nadia’s shoulder shrug of a boyfriend is off to Kelowna this weekend. It’s like a Spice Girls reunion as Tamara, Nadia and I have brunch, a salsa festival and another movie on tap for today and Red Carpet gawking as the main attraction tomorrow. Old times. Good times.
KEN’S JOURNAL:
SO PSYCHED! BARELY SLEPT. IT’S THE START OF A WHOLE NEW PART OF MY LIFE AS MARTY & I BEGIN TO LOOK FOR A SPACE TO HOUSE OUR REAL ESTATE BIZ. RISKY? ABSOLUTELY. BUT I’LL—WE’LL—FINALLY BE ABLE TO CALL THE SHOTS. NO FREAKIN’ MORON BOSS (AND GOLF TROPHIES) TO DODGE. IT’S ALL GOOD.
Friday, March 5, 2010
PREPARING THE WALKING PAPERS
March 5, 2010
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): Your head for business is screwed on perfectly straight right now, so get down into the details and make something big happen! Even if you're not on the clock right now, you can make a difference.
Laura’s Log:
I have the day off. Apparently the funeral biz is slow. People just aren’t dying right now.
Naturally, I felt the urge to console myself with a shopping spree. And yet, as I started to drive toward Robson, I realized I couldn’t really afford the parking meter, much less the new shoes I’d hoped to purchase. I pulled over and called Dad. I knew he’d answer as Mom’s at the salon on Fridays. Gorgeous day. How about a stroll around Trout Lake?
I dashed back home to fetch Tupper as he always perks up in off-leash zones. Grabbed a couple coffees to-go and picked up Dad. He seemed down and, when I asked him, he attributed it to the post-Olympics blahs. I didn’t buy it. The Canucks were back on the ice and Dad doesn’t really care where he gets his hockey. The blahs don’t come until June.
As Tupper and a schnauzer sniffed butts, Dad blurted, “They want me to retire.” And there it was. The dark cloud. Two years ago, after a heart attack, he’d reluctantly cut down to four days a week. For almost a year afterward, he was the walking wounded, his pride as an indispensable part of the fruit distribution business punctured. If people were trying to show him the door, it would be devastating.
I’ve always worried about what will happen when Dad retires. You hear about guys who die less than a year after the For He’s the Jolly Good Fellow party. Some people aren’t meant for eighteen holes on the golf course. And, worse, Dad isn’t suited for spending mornings with Mom, listening to what Regis and Kelly have to say about that cute Bieber kid. He’ll die or demand a divorce. Either option will rip the family apart. Mom is enough to handle as it is. A divorced Mom? God help us all.
I had to keep my eye on Tupper as a bulldog tried to hump him. I relaxed when I realized Tupper seemed to like it. “They can’t force you, can they?”
“They can find a way to fire me. That’s what they did to Terrence Shackelton. Forty years of loyalty and the bastards sacked him.”
“You’re sixty-three, Dad. They can’t discriminate based on age. Marella would launch a suit. Terrence only provides more evidence. She’d have them choking on their balls.” I didn’t mean to sound crass but the whole conversation brought out something guttural. Dad deserved better.
“Yeah, Marella would make them pay. No doubt.” He crouched over to pick up a stick. Tossed it and Tupper ignored it. The schnauzer, however, felt he had a new best friend. “I don’t want it to come to that.”
“What do you want then, Dad?”
“I don’t know.” Dad wasn’t the hugging type so I held his hand. He gripped mine tightly in return.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via BlackBerry):
ACCORDING TO GLORIA, THE BOSS ARRANGED TO HAVE SOME OUT OF THE OFFICE MEETINGS AND THEN WAS WORKING FROM HOME FOR THE REST OF THE DAY. DIDN’T HAVE THE GUTS TO SEE ME FACE TO FACE, TO LOOK AT THE BLACK EYE AND APOLOGIZE. NO BALLS. DESPITE ALL HIS GRUFF ANTICS, HE WAS A WUSS. NO WONDER HE YELLED & CHUCKED THINGS. INTIMIDATION WAS HIS ONLY OPTION. RESPECT WLD NEVER COME.
I CALLED MARTY LAST NITE & WE’RE SET TO LOOK @ SOME OFFICE SPACE ON SATURDAY. EVERYTHING’S GOING TO HAPPEN A FEW MONTHS EARLIER THAN PLANNED. I’M CERTAIN I’LL WALK FROM HERE B/F THE END OF THE MONTH. THE NEW BUSINESS WILL BE UP & RUNNING BY MID-APRIL.
CAN’T COME SOON ENUF.
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): Your head for business is screwed on perfectly straight right now, so get down into the details and make something big happen! Even if you're not on the clock right now, you can make a difference.
Laura’s Log:
I have the day off. Apparently the funeral biz is slow. People just aren’t dying right now.
Naturally, I felt the urge to console myself with a shopping spree. And yet, as I started to drive toward Robson, I realized I couldn’t really afford the parking meter, much less the new shoes I’d hoped to purchase. I pulled over and called Dad. I knew he’d answer as Mom’s at the salon on Fridays. Gorgeous day. How about a stroll around Trout Lake?
I dashed back home to fetch Tupper as he always perks up in off-leash zones. Grabbed a couple coffees to-go and picked up Dad. He seemed down and, when I asked him, he attributed it to the post-Olympics blahs. I didn’t buy it. The Canucks were back on the ice and Dad doesn’t really care where he gets his hockey. The blahs don’t come until June.
As Tupper and a schnauzer sniffed butts, Dad blurted, “They want me to retire.” And there it was. The dark cloud. Two years ago, after a heart attack, he’d reluctantly cut down to four days a week. For almost a year afterward, he was the walking wounded, his pride as an indispensable part of the fruit distribution business punctured. If people were trying to show him the door, it would be devastating.
I’ve always worried about what will happen when Dad retires. You hear about guys who die less than a year after the For He’s the Jolly Good Fellow party. Some people aren’t meant for eighteen holes on the golf course. And, worse, Dad isn’t suited for spending mornings with Mom, listening to what Regis and Kelly have to say about that cute Bieber kid. He’ll die or demand a divorce. Either option will rip the family apart. Mom is enough to handle as it is. A divorced Mom? God help us all.
I had to keep my eye on Tupper as a bulldog tried to hump him. I relaxed when I realized Tupper seemed to like it. “They can’t force you, can they?”
“They can find a way to fire me. That’s what they did to Terrence Shackelton. Forty years of loyalty and the bastards sacked him.”
“You’re sixty-three, Dad. They can’t discriminate based on age. Marella would launch a suit. Terrence only provides more evidence. She’d have them choking on their balls.” I didn’t mean to sound crass but the whole conversation brought out something guttural. Dad deserved better.
“Yeah, Marella would make them pay. No doubt.” He crouched over to pick up a stick. Tossed it and Tupper ignored it. The schnauzer, however, felt he had a new best friend. “I don’t want it to come to that.”
“What do you want then, Dad?”
“I don’t know.” Dad wasn’t the hugging type so I held his hand. He gripped mine tightly in return.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via BlackBerry):
ACCORDING TO GLORIA, THE BOSS ARRANGED TO HAVE SOME OUT OF THE OFFICE MEETINGS AND THEN WAS WORKING FROM HOME FOR THE REST OF THE DAY. DIDN’T HAVE THE GUTS TO SEE ME FACE TO FACE, TO LOOK AT THE BLACK EYE AND APOLOGIZE. NO BALLS. DESPITE ALL HIS GRUFF ANTICS, HE WAS A WUSS. NO WONDER HE YELLED & CHUCKED THINGS. INTIMIDATION WAS HIS ONLY OPTION. RESPECT WLD NEVER COME.
I CALLED MARTY LAST NITE & WE’RE SET TO LOOK @ SOME OFFICE SPACE ON SATURDAY. EVERYTHING’S GOING TO HAPPEN A FEW MONTHS EARLIER THAN PLANNED. I’M CERTAIN I’LL WALK FROM HERE B/F THE END OF THE MONTH. THE NEW BUSINESS WILL BE UP & RUNNING BY MID-APRIL.
CAN’T COME SOON ENUF.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
FOAMING AT THE MOUTH...OR THEREABOUTS
March 4, 2010
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): You need to deal with someone else's needs today -- which is hardly a new thing for you. This time, though, you may have conflicting needs of your own. It's time to make a hard call!
Laura’s Log:
Just got back from my first lesbian date. And, unlike what is apparently happening to Dana Delany on “Desperate Housewives”, I’m not switching teams this late in the game.
While at Lucy’s place a couple of nights ago, I met Isabelle, a talented young artist whose Booby Trap, a photo collage of women’s breast implants, has been hanging over the mantel at Lucy’s apartment for three months. Mom calls the purchase an overreaction to Lucy’s lingering teen trauma over flat-chestedness. (Lucy’s a size bigger than me. Does that mean I should have mannequin breasts mounted on a wall at my place? Come on in, folks. Feel free to rock climb Mount Pamela.) I can go either way on Booby Trap as a work of art. Love the title and the idea, but staring at a hundred exposed breasts is off-putting.
Anyway, Lucy and Carl(a)’s newest art acquisition is one of Isabelle’s oil paintings, Rage, No. 425. It’s an abstract of red and orange swirls superimposed on a pale blue surface. While I don’t necessarily feel a connection to the title, the use of color and the heavy strokes are visually appealing. It led me to a lengthy conversation with Isabelle in the kitchen as another lesbian poet recited a diatribe against men who had unjustly misappropriated bad hair. “Take back the mullet!” she yelled to a few hoots and wild applause. (Really?! It just goes to show how far gay rights have come in Canada. Is this really the last battleground?) As the applause died down, Isabelle and I became so engrossed in our talk that we didn’t realize we’d finished off a large bowl of the surprisingly tasty avocado-based vegan chocolate mousse, much to Lucy’s extreme annoyance (Rage, No. 426).
Isabelle suggested we continue our chat over coffee today so we met up at Prado Café on Commercial. I should have known we were operating under different assumptions as she rattled on about her ex named Chechnya (actually “Tammi”, but changed to increase political awareness) and how Isabelle missed giving someone an erotic full body massage. I naively continued to steer the conversation to mundane subjects like Ellen’s role on “American Idol” and Jessica Simpson’s weight issues. Apparently Isabelle thought I was being coy.
“So,” she said as she mercifully cut me off in the midst of an ill-informed rant about John Mayer’s Twitter addiction, “do you ever sleep with a woman on the first date?”
That’s when the milk foam went down the wrong way, some of it bubbling out my nose. “Do I what?!” I suppose there was a look of horror on my face. I attribute it to the fact my nose was foaming and my corresponding fear that people might euthanize me for fear of a rabies epidemic. Isabelle took it as rejection. She bolted.
And, just like that, the date I did not even know I was on ended. Seems like whichever team I’m playing on, the game ends in defeat.
KEN’S JOURNAL:
THE BOSS WAS RIDING MY ASS FROM THE MOMENT I WALKED IN THIS MORNING. YEAH, I WAS FIVE MINUTES LATE FOR THE MTG BUT MY CALF CRAMPED UP WHILE DRIVING IN. ACTUALLY HAD TO PULL OVER & STRETCH ON THE CURB. IF ONLY I WERE A BETTER SWIMMER, I CLD GIVE UP THE DAMN RUNNING GIG.
ANYWAY, HE CHEWED ME OUT IN FRONT OF THE ENTIRE BURNABY TEAM. THEY WERE AS AGHAST AS I WAS. WAY OVER THE LINE. I WALKED OUT & PROCEEDED W/OTHER MATTERS IN MY OFFICE. FORTY MINUTES LATER, MTG OVER, HE STORMED IN W/A “HOW DARE YOU” DIATRIBE. YEAH, YEAH. EFF EWE. I CONTINUED WRITING AN EMAIL & HE WENT BALLISTIC. CHUCKED MY GOLF TROPHY BOOKEND AT MY HEAD & GAVE ME A BLACK EYE. WLD’VE FIRED ME, BUT HE MUST’VE WIZED UP KNOWING I’LL SUE HIS SORRY ASS.
I LEFT FOR THE MEDICAL CLINIC & SPENT THE REST OF THE DAY WATCHING DAYTIME TV. “THE DOCTORS”, “DR. PHIL”, “DR. OZ”,…WHAT IS ALL THIS SHIT? IF THESE FRIGGIN’ MEDICS ACTUALLY PRACTICED INSTEAD OF MUGGING, I MIGHT NOT HAVE HAD TO SPEND TWO & HALF HRS WAITING FOR AN OVEREDUCATED INTERN TO TELL ME “PUT ICE ON IT.”
FIVE CALLS FROM WORK THIS AFTERNOON. LET VOICEMAIL HEAR THE LAME APOLOGIES. OR, MORE LIKELY, THE NEWEST RANTS. I GOTTA MIND TO SICK JUDGE JUDY ON THE BOSS.
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): You need to deal with someone else's needs today -- which is hardly a new thing for you. This time, though, you may have conflicting needs of your own. It's time to make a hard call!
Laura’s Log:
Just got back from my first lesbian date. And, unlike what is apparently happening to Dana Delany on “Desperate Housewives”, I’m not switching teams this late in the game.
While at Lucy’s place a couple of nights ago, I met Isabelle, a talented young artist whose Booby Trap, a photo collage of women’s breast implants, has been hanging over the mantel at Lucy’s apartment for three months. Mom calls the purchase an overreaction to Lucy’s lingering teen trauma over flat-chestedness. (Lucy’s a size bigger than me. Does that mean I should have mannequin breasts mounted on a wall at my place? Come on in, folks. Feel free to rock climb Mount Pamela.) I can go either way on Booby Trap as a work of art. Love the title and the idea, but staring at a hundred exposed breasts is off-putting.
Anyway, Lucy and Carl(a)’s newest art acquisition is one of Isabelle’s oil paintings, Rage, No. 425. It’s an abstract of red and orange swirls superimposed on a pale blue surface. While I don’t necessarily feel a connection to the title, the use of color and the heavy strokes are visually appealing. It led me to a lengthy conversation with Isabelle in the kitchen as another lesbian poet recited a diatribe against men who had unjustly misappropriated bad hair. “Take back the mullet!” she yelled to a few hoots and wild applause. (Really?! It just goes to show how far gay rights have come in Canada. Is this really the last battleground?) As the applause died down, Isabelle and I became so engrossed in our talk that we didn’t realize we’d finished off a large bowl of the surprisingly tasty avocado-based vegan chocolate mousse, much to Lucy’s extreme annoyance (Rage, No. 426).
Isabelle suggested we continue our chat over coffee today so we met up at Prado Café on Commercial. I should have known we were operating under different assumptions as she rattled on about her ex named Chechnya (actually “Tammi”, but changed to increase political awareness) and how Isabelle missed giving someone an erotic full body massage. I naively continued to steer the conversation to mundane subjects like Ellen’s role on “American Idol” and Jessica Simpson’s weight issues. Apparently Isabelle thought I was being coy.
“So,” she said as she mercifully cut me off in the midst of an ill-informed rant about John Mayer’s Twitter addiction, “do you ever sleep with a woman on the first date?”
That’s when the milk foam went down the wrong way, some of it bubbling out my nose. “Do I what?!” I suppose there was a look of horror on my face. I attribute it to the fact my nose was foaming and my corresponding fear that people might euthanize me for fear of a rabies epidemic. Isabelle took it as rejection. She bolted.
And, just like that, the date I did not even know I was on ended. Seems like whichever team I’m playing on, the game ends in defeat.
KEN’S JOURNAL:
THE BOSS WAS RIDING MY ASS FROM THE MOMENT I WALKED IN THIS MORNING. YEAH, I WAS FIVE MINUTES LATE FOR THE MTG BUT MY CALF CRAMPED UP WHILE DRIVING IN. ACTUALLY HAD TO PULL OVER & STRETCH ON THE CURB. IF ONLY I WERE A BETTER SWIMMER, I CLD GIVE UP THE DAMN RUNNING GIG.
ANYWAY, HE CHEWED ME OUT IN FRONT OF THE ENTIRE BURNABY TEAM. THEY WERE AS AGHAST AS I WAS. WAY OVER THE LINE. I WALKED OUT & PROCEEDED W/OTHER MATTERS IN MY OFFICE. FORTY MINUTES LATER, MTG OVER, HE STORMED IN W/A “HOW DARE YOU” DIATRIBE. YEAH, YEAH. EFF EWE. I CONTINUED WRITING AN EMAIL & HE WENT BALLISTIC. CHUCKED MY GOLF TROPHY BOOKEND AT MY HEAD & GAVE ME A BLACK EYE. WLD’VE FIRED ME, BUT HE MUST’VE WIZED UP KNOWING I’LL SUE HIS SORRY ASS.
I LEFT FOR THE MEDICAL CLINIC & SPENT THE REST OF THE DAY WATCHING DAYTIME TV. “THE DOCTORS”, “DR. PHIL”, “DR. OZ”,…WHAT IS ALL THIS SHIT? IF THESE FRIGGIN’ MEDICS ACTUALLY PRACTICED INSTEAD OF MUGGING, I MIGHT NOT HAVE HAD TO SPEND TWO & HALF HRS WAITING FOR AN OVEREDUCATED INTERN TO TELL ME “PUT ICE ON IT.”
FIVE CALLS FROM WORK THIS AFTERNOON. LET VOICEMAIL HEAR THE LAME APOLOGIES. OR, MORE LIKELY, THE NEWEST RANTS. I GOTTA MIND TO SICK JUDGE JUDY ON THE BOSS.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
STRETCH & STRAIN
March 3, 2010
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): There's no sense in hoarding all that great social energy -- it's flowing through you and needs an outlet! Make new friends or find someone who needs a lift, as you can improve any mood.
Laura’s Log:
My role at the funeral home seems vague. I think Theodore just likes the company. I suppose if my life were surrounded by corpses, I’d feel the same way. The service this morning was SRO. Beforehand, people were spilling over into the office, eager to share with anyone—that’s me—an anecdote about Mrs. Millicent Bowry-Jacobs, daughter, wife, sister, teacher, friend booster. Hearing them talk, I wanted so much to have known this woman. And I wanted to be part of the circle of love that she brought out. They were clearly distraught and yet the positive memories seemed to overtake each person I encountered.
Except for the plumber. Yes, Richard stopped by before AND after the service. “You can call me Dick,” he said, attempting to be lewd. At a funeral. Nice. I have a feeling Millicent did everything she could to put Dick in his place.
He asked me out, of course. Down, Dick, down. It was the one time when “no” came out of my mouth with the greatest of ease.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via BlackBerry):
SHOWED UP TO THE FORERUNNERS GROUP & WAS IMMEDIATELY EMBARRASSED. “IS THIS A WOMEN’S GROUP?” I ASKED.
“OH, NO,” SAID A VERY CHEERY FORTY-FIVE-YEAR-OLD FLIGHT ATTENDANT TYPE. “RON USUALLY COMES. BUT LESLIE SAYS HE HAS SHIN SPLINTS.”
“SO I’M IT?” AND THEN, IN MY HEAD: I’M IT! MY GOD! NO COMPETITION! IT WAS LIKE SOMEONE SNUCK ME INTO THE SORORITY HOUSE. OR THE SORORITY MOMS’ HOUSE. INTRODUCTIONS CAME IN A FLURRY. MEG, MARGIE, MADDIE, TWO MELISSAS. WHAT’S W/ALL THE Ms? HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KEEP IT ALL STRAIGHT?
NO NEED FOR CONCERN. ONCE WE STARTED THE RUN, THE LADIES LEFT ME IN THEIR WAKE. EMBARRASSING ONCE AGAIN. MALE EGO CRUSHED. AND A SERIOUS CALF CRAMP.
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): There's no sense in hoarding all that great social energy -- it's flowing through you and needs an outlet! Make new friends or find someone who needs a lift, as you can improve any mood.
Laura’s Log:
My role at the funeral home seems vague. I think Theodore just likes the company. I suppose if my life were surrounded by corpses, I’d feel the same way. The service this morning was SRO. Beforehand, people were spilling over into the office, eager to share with anyone—that’s me—an anecdote about Mrs. Millicent Bowry-Jacobs, daughter, wife, sister, teacher, friend booster. Hearing them talk, I wanted so much to have known this woman. And I wanted to be part of the circle of love that she brought out. They were clearly distraught and yet the positive memories seemed to overtake each person I encountered.
Except for the plumber. Yes, Richard stopped by before AND after the service. “You can call me Dick,” he said, attempting to be lewd. At a funeral. Nice. I have a feeling Millicent did everything she could to put Dick in his place.
He asked me out, of course. Down, Dick, down. It was the one time when “no” came out of my mouth with the greatest of ease.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via BlackBerry):
SHOWED UP TO THE FORERUNNERS GROUP & WAS IMMEDIATELY EMBARRASSED. “IS THIS A WOMEN’S GROUP?” I ASKED.
“OH, NO,” SAID A VERY CHEERY FORTY-FIVE-YEAR-OLD FLIGHT ATTENDANT TYPE. “RON USUALLY COMES. BUT LESLIE SAYS HE HAS SHIN SPLINTS.”
“SO I’M IT?” AND THEN, IN MY HEAD: I’M IT! MY GOD! NO COMPETITION! IT WAS LIKE SOMEONE SNUCK ME INTO THE SORORITY HOUSE. OR THE SORORITY MOMS’ HOUSE. INTRODUCTIONS CAME IN A FLURRY. MEG, MARGIE, MADDIE, TWO MELISSAS. WHAT’S W/ALL THE Ms? HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KEEP IT ALL STRAIGHT?
NO NEED FOR CONCERN. ONCE WE STARTED THE RUN, THE LADIES LEFT ME IN THEIR WAKE. EMBARRASSING ONCE AGAIN. MALE EGO CRUSHED. AND A SERIOUS CALF CRAMP.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
A BIT OF A STRETCH
March 2, 2010
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): You're a natural at striking that balance between work and home life -- and now you need to spread yourself out a bit more. It's easy -- and fun -- for you to juggle responsibilities, so go for it!
Laura’s Log:
This temping work has taken my focus off looking for a more permanent position. I need to set a goal of sending out a certain number of résumés each week. Of course, I have to be strategic as well. Mailing out a hundred to companies that aren’t hiring is just a waste of postage…and paper. Wish I had a better idea where to look.
I thought Theodore would be more subdued today for the funeral of Mr. Hauerstrom. Nothing doing. He was the one laughing too loudly in the atrium before the service, joking about Betty White being in no rush for a “Golden Girls” reunion. Guests eyed him warily and decided to warm the pews well in advance of the service’s start time. That left Theodore to pass a few fidgety minutes by giving me a play-by-play of the bodily function and sex jokes from last night’s “Two and a Half Men”, a show which I think should be renamed “Three Boys”.
The viewing this afternoon for the young woman in the weekend car accident was brutal. Even Theodore had to put away his toothy smile. So much grief in the form of all-out wailing. I’m already feeling emotional about the service tomorrow and I never even knew the woman, a grade two teacher. Thankfully, however, there was no sign of the flirty plumber.
I’m heading over to Lucy & Carl(a)’s this evening. Fresh from their stint in the Tent City, they’re hosting a lesbian poetry slam event in their apartment. And I wonder why I’m still single. Lucy tells me she’s serving a vegan chocolate mousse made with avocados. I’m not sure if she shared that to entice me or repel me. She is promising she’ll go easy on the incense this time so I get the feeling I am welcome. Nonetheless, I will load up on Tylenol and Immodium ahead of time.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via BlackBerry):
AFTER A DISMAL MORNING RUN, I DECIDED MISERY LOVES COMPANY. I CALLED FORERUNNERS AND JOINED A WEDNESDAY NIGHT RUNNING CLINIC. I NEED TO STEP IT UP AFTER AN OLYMPIC-SIZED BEER AND SNACK BINGE ON THE WEEKEND, ERASING ANY PROGRESS ON BELLY CONTROL. IT’S TIME TO CREATE SOME SOCIAL PRESSURE. I’M SURE THIS RUNNING GROUP WILL BE FILLED W/THOSE CRAZED RUNNERS W/GAUNT FACES AND BODY-HUGGING LYCRA WORKOUT GEAR. NOTHING WORKS LIKE THE SHAME DIET.
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): You're a natural at striking that balance between work and home life -- and now you need to spread yourself out a bit more. It's easy -- and fun -- for you to juggle responsibilities, so go for it!
Laura’s Log:
This temping work has taken my focus off looking for a more permanent position. I need to set a goal of sending out a certain number of résumés each week. Of course, I have to be strategic as well. Mailing out a hundred to companies that aren’t hiring is just a waste of postage…and paper. Wish I had a better idea where to look.
I thought Theodore would be more subdued today for the funeral of Mr. Hauerstrom. Nothing doing. He was the one laughing too loudly in the atrium before the service, joking about Betty White being in no rush for a “Golden Girls” reunion. Guests eyed him warily and decided to warm the pews well in advance of the service’s start time. That left Theodore to pass a few fidgety minutes by giving me a play-by-play of the bodily function and sex jokes from last night’s “Two and a Half Men”, a show which I think should be renamed “Three Boys”.
The viewing this afternoon for the young woman in the weekend car accident was brutal. Even Theodore had to put away his toothy smile. So much grief in the form of all-out wailing. I’m already feeling emotional about the service tomorrow and I never even knew the woman, a grade two teacher. Thankfully, however, there was no sign of the flirty plumber.
I’m heading over to Lucy & Carl(a)’s this evening. Fresh from their stint in the Tent City, they’re hosting a lesbian poetry slam event in their apartment. And I wonder why I’m still single. Lucy tells me she’s serving a vegan chocolate mousse made with avocados. I’m not sure if she shared that to entice me or repel me. She is promising she’ll go easy on the incense this time so I get the feeling I am welcome. Nonetheless, I will load up on Tylenol and Immodium ahead of time.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via BlackBerry):
AFTER A DISMAL MORNING RUN, I DECIDED MISERY LOVES COMPANY. I CALLED FORERUNNERS AND JOINED A WEDNESDAY NIGHT RUNNING CLINIC. I NEED TO STEP IT UP AFTER AN OLYMPIC-SIZED BEER AND SNACK BINGE ON THE WEEKEND, ERASING ANY PROGRESS ON BELLY CONTROL. IT’S TIME TO CREATE SOME SOCIAL PRESSURE. I’M SURE THIS RUNNING GROUP WILL BE FILLED W/THOSE CRAZED RUNNERS W/GAUNT FACES AND BODY-HUGGING LYCRA WORKOUT GEAR. NOTHING WORKS LIKE THE SHAME DIET.
Monday, March 1, 2010
DON'T LET IT DIE JUST YET
March 1, 2010
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): It's the perfect day for getting out there and showing others what you've got. That could mean speed-dating or it could mean hanging out quietly with friends -- it's totally up to you.
Laura’s Log:
Back to the grind. I am filling in for one week, maybe two, as an administrative assistant for Theodore Plowright, the world’s giddiest funeral director. Frankly, I think I prefer the solemn, pale stereotype. Despite watching the first two seasons of “Six Feet Under”, I still picture morticians as being like Alvin Brickrock on an episode of “The Flintstones”. Poor Ingrid Hauerstrom. As she met to finalize matters for her husband Lars, Theodore kept laughing as he recalled Edgar Bergen routines with his dummy Charlie McCarthy. Freakier than a circus clown if you ask me. I’m sure Ingrid would concur.
Had another strange experience this afternoon, arising from tragic circumstances. A twenty-seven year old man lost his wife to a car accident on the weekend. Distraught, he brought along a buddy to be with him as he met with Theodore. While I’m usually the last to know, I’d swear the friend was flirting with me. Told me I looked like Joannie Rochette, “only prettier”. (I’m thinking he’s still drunk from last night’s Team Canada victory celebration.) Left me his business card on his way out—“In case you ever need a good plumber. I’m great with my snake.” Creepy. And gross. With some people, it’s so clear why they’re single.
Gosh, I wonder if that applies to me in the eyes of others.
If Theodore takes on the personality of a gregarious buffoon, at least I can balance things out at the funeral home with a healthy dose of depressing thoughts.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via BlackBerry):
O CANADA! I MUST HAVE SUNG THE NATIONAL ANTHEM THIRTY TIMES YESTERDAY. I EVEN (SORT OF) MASTERED A FRENCH VERSE, THANKS TO COLLEGE BUD MATTIEU WHO FLEW IN FROM MONTRÉAL TO ENJOY THE LAST WEEKEND OF THE GAMES.
I’M NOT READY TO END THE PARTY. THE MONDAY WORK ROUTINE ONLY PUT A MOMENTARY STOP TO THE CELEBRATION. THE GUYS & I ARE HITTING SOME BARS IN YALETOWN TONITE. LUCKILY, I’LL BE ABLE TO CRAWL HOME. NOT A MOLSON CANADIAN CONNOISSEUR, BUT IT’S THE PERFECT DRINK FOR THE MOMENT.
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): It's the perfect day for getting out there and showing others what you've got. That could mean speed-dating or it could mean hanging out quietly with friends -- it's totally up to you.
Laura’s Log:
Back to the grind. I am filling in for one week, maybe two, as an administrative assistant for Theodore Plowright, the world’s giddiest funeral director. Frankly, I think I prefer the solemn, pale stereotype. Despite watching the first two seasons of “Six Feet Under”, I still picture morticians as being like Alvin Brickrock on an episode of “The Flintstones”. Poor Ingrid Hauerstrom. As she met to finalize matters for her husband Lars, Theodore kept laughing as he recalled Edgar Bergen routines with his dummy Charlie McCarthy. Freakier than a circus clown if you ask me. I’m sure Ingrid would concur.
Had another strange experience this afternoon, arising from tragic circumstances. A twenty-seven year old man lost his wife to a car accident on the weekend. Distraught, he brought along a buddy to be with him as he met with Theodore. While I’m usually the last to know, I’d swear the friend was flirting with me. Told me I looked like Joannie Rochette, “only prettier”. (I’m thinking he’s still drunk from last night’s Team Canada victory celebration.) Left me his business card on his way out—“In case you ever need a good plumber. I’m great with my snake.” Creepy. And gross. With some people, it’s so clear why they’re single.
Gosh, I wonder if that applies to me in the eyes of others.
If Theodore takes on the personality of a gregarious buffoon, at least I can balance things out at the funeral home with a healthy dose of depressing thoughts.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via BlackBerry):
O CANADA! I MUST HAVE SUNG THE NATIONAL ANTHEM THIRTY TIMES YESTERDAY. I EVEN (SORT OF) MASTERED A FRENCH VERSE, THANKS TO COLLEGE BUD MATTIEU WHO FLEW IN FROM MONTRÉAL TO ENJOY THE LAST WEEKEND OF THE GAMES.
I’M NOT READY TO END THE PARTY. THE MONDAY WORK ROUTINE ONLY PUT A MOMENTARY STOP TO THE CELEBRATION. THE GUYS & I ARE HITTING SOME BARS IN YALETOWN TONITE. LUCKILY, I’LL BE ABLE TO CRAWL HOME. NOT A MOLSON CANADIAN CONNOISSEUR, BUT IT’S THE PERFECT DRINK FOR THE MOMENT.
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