beautiful day

I woke up after 4 measly hours of sleep and saw that the sun was trying to shine. I got up. I went to the gym. Do not adjust your settings. This abberation in blogland is not a technical error. I actually went to the gym, did gymmy things, hung out naked with ladies getting ready to go to work, and was out and about before the parking meters kicked in. Hm.

Then I went and drank coffee in the sun and read the curious incident of the dog in the nighttime. And had a nap. The only thing that could make this day better would be a cheap matinee. Don't mind of I do.

Let's see, Trevor, if I can handle a challenging one.

achtung! molecules

Our heroine stayed in the den yesterday, only venturing out to rent 'the reckoning' with Paul Bettany. Meh. It was OK. Overacted? Oh GOD noooo - sob - maybe a little. I figured, mostly because Low Voice said so in the trailer, that Bettany's character was supposed to be driven by the need for redemption (One Man. Two Sins. Six Actors. A Rotting Corpse...) But I never actually felt that. He just seemed to be this exceptionally sentitive dude beamed into 1389 from... some magical land of dashing and crazily compassionate men. Why was he so sweet in a plague-riddled world of shit and suffering? Where were the rough edges? I'll tell you, though: it's worth the rental fee for the face-washing scene at the beginning where magnified water droplets roll in slow motion off Bettany's beautifully lit eyelashes. To sum up: if you liked Rosencrantz & G... but have no sense of humour, this movie is probably for you.

Staying in the house was OK, but I don't think I'll make a habit of it. It's just that the world seemed too scary with all its rain and people and molecules and whatnot. Does that ever happen to you? No? Well screw you, Mr. Welladjustedpants.

luck be a chicken tonight

There was some time to kill before the show. We went to O’Shea’s and ordered food with quaint names. All the menu descriptions were like:

Lucky Cheeseburger
O’Shea sings: It’s cheesy and delicious/ and fulfills all of your wishes/ it comes with fries or salad/ this is my burger ballad.

And ridiculous, delightful shit like that. But the hair of the dog wasn’t helping me at all. Trevor pointed out it was the wrong dog, not the one that had bit me the other night at all. I switched to coffee.

About that time a blur on my left side handed me a little slip of paper as he evaporated out the door. It said:

Dean
654-9090
Coffee?

On the other side it said:

Lucky Chicken $7.95

I was ecstatic. My first phone number, ever. And at such a crucial time, too. Let’s face it; if a lady ever needed the affirmation of a Mysterious Dean, it was me, now. I was grateful to MD. But there was nothing to hang onto. Not a mental snapshot of his face or echo of his voice; not a whiff of pheromone. Nothing. Just this humble request to meet/declaration of supper. I decided to keep the number and frame it, sort of the way a greasy spoon displays the first dollar it earns. I could attach a little axe to it with a chain, to bust the glass in case of emergency. But for now, Dean had enjoyed all the lucky chicken he was going to at O’Shea’s.

Except, added Allan, for the one he would be choking at home.

objects in mirror are smarter than they appear 

If I could have moved my digits dextrously enough to type yesterday, the post would have been called:

way too old for this shit

There was rock. That was good. There were friends. That, too, was good. There was a drunk person whom the Lord was merciful enough to spare the knowledge that she was a fucking goof. That was our heroine.

This new phase is going to be a brilliant comedy of errors. Christ.

hip hip

Let's have one more hurrah, shall we? Let's go to the Regina Folk Festival. We'll follow our whims again, from one delight to the next. Hawsley Workman. Booze. The Sadies. Sun. We'll send the suits scurrying into the shadows of Regina's usually-hideous downtown. I'll take pictures with my borrowed canon A1 old school SLR that makes a fantastic kachunk when the shutter is pressed. The she-wolves will smile.

chapter 1 - a bathroom of one's own

In which our heroine discovers the curative powers of housework.

I've just turned a corner in my life and found my inner Mom standing in the middle of the road holding a toilet brush. This is the way to mend a broken heart: with the power of oxy clean. With the fresh citrus scent of fanfuckingtastik.

Oh my god, Self. I've never seen you this way; are you sure you're OK?

Why, sure I am, honey - (peering under the fridge) Say, is that some dust under there?

But Self, you're going through some big changes - don't you think you should take some time to think about what it all means? I mean, who are you now? Aren't you freaking out?

No, silly goose! I know exactly who I am. I'm the lady who makes sure this place is spit spot! I won't stand for any sloth around here.

But it's just you.

OK, you little brat. To your room! Go and listen to your 'rock and roll' music, missy.