staff party hardy

This weekend was our staff Christmas party. It was at the Pan Pacific at Canada Place (fancy schmancy). There was a buffet style dinner with the best prawns and beef tenderloin I've ever had in my life. I ate a plate as big as my face, then discovered there were bigger plates on a different table so I returned the smaller and stocked a second larger plate full. Later, while Allie-San and I were dancing to the less than mediocre wedding dj (she was more like a 3rd marriage wedding dj), we both confessed that our stomachs were cramping, impeding our ability to dance to our full capacity. This definitely didn't stop us from cutting a rug though, being the only ones on the dance floor for a few numbers.

All in all the party was less than stellar, we were only given two drink tickets each and any additional were nine bucks a pop, and they had a magician (magic makes me uneasy), and some annoying "dancing heads" game that only had about three songs to choose from, so we had "Jingle Bells" and "Barbie Girl" echoing around the dining room all night. It wasn't a total bust though, as they managed to somewhat redeem themselves by renting out a photo booth (only the best for Stantec employees). I also managed to look almost fabulous by breaking the bank a bit and buying a new dress and wearing red lipstick and heels(something I've been doing a lot more over the past year, making me feel and sound like a lady).

Here's what the photobooth spat out of myself, the rest of the Riley's crew, and my "date" (Tara Hare's little bro Dill).

It's still too early for me to say Merry Christmas...but tomorrow is December first so...happy holidays...I suppose.

Wednesday, February 16, 2005

It's the inside that counts

I remember when I was 12, I noticed that in the corner of the shower, where the glass tiles met ceramic, there was a mushroom. It had bunkered down in the grout on the side of the tub and began to grow. I showed it to my mum and she responded with the same "Oh" as when I noticed the Maple seedling beginning to grow through the vent on the hood of our Volvo station wagon. Maybe it was the hippy in my mum rearing up, not wanting to take the life away from something that was so alive, or maybe it was her just being lazy, but it, like the maple tree, stayed there. I don't remember the day it went away, I don't think I even noticed. I don't know if my mum finally got around to cleaning the spot in the tiles that it had come to call home, or if it finally drowned in the water from the excessive showers I had come accustomed to taking, but after time, it like the seedling, dissapeared. Gone.

I had a shower this morning, as I do every morning. I always have my best moments in the shower. I write poetry. I come up with stories. Always when there isn't a pen and paper. Just like when I first wake up. Always my best moments. I have now come to keeping a journal right by my pillow, so when I wake up, I can jot down my thoughts before they escape. I can't do that in the shower. As soon as I step out, they go down the drain with the bath water. To the sewer for the rats to enjoy. I stood there this morning, under the water, watching as it fell over my body, creating streams down my breasts and stomach. Letting it wash over my head. Cupping my hands in the classic commerical shower pose, and splashing my face. It was in this cliched position that I remembered the mushroom, and I looked into the corner, now empty. I then began my usual habit of counting the tiles. I used to as a kid, and sometimes still do, group them into clusters of five in my head, then six. But mostly fives. I've always liked five. It seems such a happy number. I was doing this when I realised that in the time I have been away from home, somebody had cleaned the grout. The grout has been bleached and is now so white that no mushroom would reside in this shower. Somebody has scrubbed even down into the tightest corner. Probably with a toothbrush. Probably my mother. And that got me to thinking about the other things that have changed since I left home. The little things. The new coat of paint in my parents room and the bathroom. The new pictures hanging on the walls. The new spatula in the kitchen. The new toilet seat. Then that got me thinking, if this house, this solid building that does not grow or shrink with age can change so much in such a short period of time, have I changed? Am I a different person than the one my parents said goodbye to at the Vancouver International Airport last May? I don't look different on the outside minus the new peircings and tattoo. But then neither does the house, minus a new tree out front. So maybe I've changed on the inside. Like this house.I can't pinpoint it but I think I have. Gotten older and I like to think a little wiser...and maybe lost some weight? But the physical stuff doesn't matter anymore. I've almost grown out of that. Matured a bit...maybe...nah...But, like I've always been told...It's what's on the inside that counts

urban dictionary

Ashley Windsor: "What is it with guys from Victoria always taking duffle bags on the ferry?"

Me: "I can't say I've ever noticed?"

Ashley Windsor: "Well, now the next time you go to Victoria, you will. It's really weird."

Me: "They probably carry their girlfriends in them."

Ashley Windsor: "Gives a whole new meaning to the term 'slut bag'."

Me: "Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha."

"Sometimes it's like someone took a knife baby
Edgy and dull and cut a six-inch valley
Through the middle of my soul"

Bruce Springsteen

blahblahblah

Something I am highly anticipating is the release of RJD2's new album, "The Colossus", which is set to hit shelves on January 19th of the new year (three days before my 25th birthday, please take note.).
I was reminded of this today and then got wrapped up in listening to a lot of he and rapper Blueprint's collaboration, Soul Position and found myself transported back to 2006 to my time spent in Cuba.
During my three and a half month stint in the socialist empire, I listened to a lot of Soul Position. Their sophomore album, "Things Go Better with RJ and AL" had been released March of that year and while it had held a spot on my Ipod since it's release date, I, for some reason, had neglected to listen to it until either just before, or just after I arrived in Cuba and so it became the soundtrack for much of my stay.
This song in particular brings me back and I've decided someday soon I will do a play list of ridiculous songs and this will top it.

Then I got to listening to a lot of older RJ. A lot of "Deadringer" tracks and then I came across this video for "1976" from "Since We Last Spoke", which I'd never seen before. It, as it turns out, is all shots from Cuba. I feel as though some of them may even be from my town. I think I watched it six times in a row. It's a really great video and not to mention a kick ass track. Short and sweet but straight to the point. It's ironically about Istanbul and sung in German but the video portrays Cuban life beautifully which is why I knew it was Cuba before I knew for sure.

I then got homesick for Cuba. My town. My host family. My friends. So I googled. And I found a blog that is dedicated specifically to Quemado de Guines and the goings on. There are people I knew and locations I recognise. It was really cool.
el guajirigallo is the blog for those of you who speak Spanish or who just want to sift through and check out a few photos of somewhere I've lived.

I appologise for todays post. It was not masterfully crafted but rather just jotted down in a flash. I'm now ending my day at the orifice (office) and am going to PC (Pacific Centre) to look for a dress for Allie-san for the Christmas party next weekend (a little early dontcha think?).
Tonight I have a late night Sushi date with my new friend. I'll need to nap first. And also complete the list of tasks I've left for myself on the kitchen chalk board.

Sorry for being boring.

Oh and we're also getting Kid Cudi tickets today.

Holla for a dolla!

exes and ohs.

When I was 19...

Monday, October 11, 2004

Twitterpated
This last week has been one of confusion and twitterpatory (is that a word??).
This week, I met someone.
Yes, you may be saying to yourself, i do meet people everyday, but this time it was different.
He was different.
I liked him.
A lot.
I met him through friends at the pub.
We went out.
We got drunk.
We conversed.
We found things in common.
We made out.
He said things to me that I would have laughed at coming from any other guy's mouth but from him, were sweet.
(Why is it that sappy things make you want to puke, but then when the right person says them, you want to melt?)
What is it about all this that makes me scared?
When I do find someone that I like, and maybe, just possibly they like me back, I get scared that it's not real.
Scared that it's just a show.
Scared of rejection.
But I did/do really like him.
Then he left.
One day I accidentally stood him up at the movies and two days later he was on a flight back to Australia.
One week.
That was all.
But, one week can do and mean a lot I have learned.
One week can make or break someones life.
One second can do that.
One split second.
One second can do a lot more damage.
But I'd rather one week than one second.
Rather have had the experience than just a glance his way and a quick "He's cute." under my breath.
One week.

So, the Kiwi is in Australia, and Canada is here in England.
One week.
Maybe I'll see him again, maybe I won't.
But that one week was worth it.

need a laugh?

gato

Going to the coast after work today.

Allie and Jeff are also going to come. Party time coastal styleeeez.
But before I leave, here is a picture of a pretty freaky kitty from cute overload in theme with today, freaky friday the 13th.
FELIZ FIN DE SEMANA!!

HOLLA

hello tuesday

Yesterday I got a real bad paper cut.
Right where my thumb joins my hand.

It's red, swollen, and I can't hold a pen.

Maybe I should have got a stitch?

Maybe I'm being mellow dramatic.

Allie says that now I will have to become one of those,
'retarded left handed people'.

I refuse.

Watching lefties write gives me the heebie jeebies.

Today I learned I can do a really great Shakira.
I will be charging $5 an impression.

This could be lucrative.

tonight!

Idolizzzzeeeeee

h1n1 or celiac?

Last night, I went to bed at 7:45pm and I just woke up half and hour ago at 8:45am. I think there is something wrong with me.
I have narrowed it down to two things:
1). Swine flu
2). Celiac Disease

Anyone have any tips for gluten free living?

quirks

married to the sea

tear jerker

I was just the recipient of the saddest email ever received from one's 97 year old grandfather.

Hi Mikhaila , nice to here from you . Brent took me to the doctor's this morning . When I got back I had my lunch and after lunch I was so tired that I lay down for a nap . That is the first time I have ever had an afternoon nap . My brother Verne had an afternoon nap years ago . I still am a bit tired , will probably go to bed early tonight .

Hope you have fun with your friend , good friends are hard to come by .

Happy to hear from you any old time .

Much love , Poppa

I've been left teary eyed and realising that my Poppa is not going to be around for much longer. I've always just assumed he was immortal. But he's not. His brother Verne died during an afternoon nap, and now he fears he too will pass this way. I have to say, it wouldn't be the worst, but I'd rather he be happy than expecting what may be coming. It's going to be really difficult when Poppa passes. It's going to bring up a whole other realm of emotions none of us will have really experienced before. It's going to force us to finally deal with, also, the death of my Grandmother. My Grandma died 8 years ago while retrieving something from the back of her car, when it slipped out of park and knocked her down. I know I, personally, have yet to come to terms with this, and I feel that goes for the rest of my family as well.

Today was a stressful day at the office (the non busy-ness of the rest of the week finally caught up to us) and now with this email, I'm finding it a little bit difficult to feel excited for the weekend even with a visit from Kate Swaney and a possible hang out with a new friend to look forward to. On top of these potentially exciting events, my roommate just left for two weeks to Mexico. I should be screaming from the rafters. I love her, but, it'll be nice to be able to walk around naked. Oh well. As soon as I get home to a cooked meal, I'll be able to process everything.

Tonight I think I'm going to clean my apartment and spend some much needed time by myself (that is unless a certain someone decides that their schedule isn't too busy for me this evening. You know who you are. I think.). Maybe start a new book or watch a movie. Maybe I'll write. Or maybe I'll just sleep. In any case, my next decision is, what to listen to while I tidy?

Happy weekend.

ecology stinks

calgon, take me away!

I'm at work, drinking a tea that takes me back to a million childhood summers. Not because I drank this tea in the summer as a child. I don't even know that, before today, I have ever had this tea. It's called Bushmen's Brew Honeybush (snicker snicker) and it smells just like an alpine meadow, and that is why it is reminiscent.

I spent at least part of the summer every year in an alpine meadow somewhere. Never the same one. A secluded alpine meadow with not another person in sight other than we four. Surrounded by nature. Wildlife was abundant in these meadows. Flies of all kinds buzzing, deer on the edge of the forest, munching, birds twittering, Marmots whistling and the odd bear doing what bears do. There was usually a brook trickling or a stagnant glacial lake somewhere on the edge of said meadow. A breeding ground for swarms of mosquitoes. The air would be heavy with the scent of alpine flowers, low bush, and moss.

That's what this tea smells like and when I drink it, I am instantly transported. I can feel the hot mid July sun on my arms, and the icy breeze (due to the altitude) blowing down my neck. I can feel my ten year old calves burning from the hike I have just taken with my family, and my ears need popping from the uphill drive to the trail head. The ground is crunchy yet cushy with dried moss and flowers. I am eating a sandwich and I feel as though I can fly because I've just taken off my backpack. I can hear trout splashing about in the lake and mosquitoes buzz in my face. I swat. My butt hurts from the rock on which I am perched but I am deeply engrossed in a novel so I don't notice. I am also ignoring my brother. I smell like bug spray and sunscreen.

sigh

It's strange how much a scent can take you back. Way more so than a sound or a sight. It's almost magical. It can induce feelings and emotions, and most of all, nostalgia (was that redundant?). The other day, I was walking across the Georgia Viaduct behind a woman who had recently sprayed herself with Hawaiian Ginger and I was jolted back to the hallways of grade nine. Calgon, take me away!

It's been dead all week at work. I've done a total of six jobs (most of you wouldn't know the difference, but that is not a lot), four of which were yesterday. I have yet to receive one today. We've had warning of a large job coming in, we are just waiting for it to show up. 100 sets of drawings and 80 books (most of you wouldn't know the difference, but that is a lot). I think they want it for Monday. I refuse to come in to the office this weekend. Kate Swaney is going to be here and staying at mine and it's the last time I'll see her for who knows how long. I'm going to miss having her in Canada.

I'm also going to be working on a potential new project with Amber. I am not at liberty to say what it is, but it could be pretty cool if it all goes down.

BRING IT ON WEEKEND.

Bring it on.

Here's a cartoon of a renaissance fair pick up artist from
Toothpaste For Dinner

questionable choices

I went for a little walk this evening in support of my new 'non-spending, entertain myself' ways and decided I needed to stop by Super Value to pick up some eggs, peppers and salt and vinegar chips (obviously). I was busily perusing the produce section when who walks in, but my worst decision ever in the world. I avoided eye contact (I'm not sure that he even saw me) but then didn't manage to dodge a second run-in in the rice aisle while he was on a mission for shake 'n' bake (typical), and I, boxed curries. I got to meet the new girlfriend, and dog which he, hilariously, had zipped into the front of his jacket. I walked away feeling dirty and slimy and wondering what kind of a skiddly phase I was going through and what state of mind I was in last summer.

I'm not sure at what point I snapped back to reality and realised I was hanging out on the corner of Princess and Cordova, in a house with no panes in the windows, with a guy who slept on a couch. I somehow got charmed into spending the better part of about 3 weeks there with the formerly mentioned shake 'n' bake eating dude, who said I was a comfort to sleep with, inducing dream filled peaceful snoozing (no, I did not perform any acts with him. Thank god. Sleeping only), and also a guy who had a hard on for me and my ass(ets). This second dude was literally obsessed with me, once threatening to kidnap me and take me to Kellowna. I still receive the odd message from him. There were a couple others who resided in said shack, one, a heroin addict (no kidding) and the other...was dating my friend.

I still shudder at the thought of my time spent there. I don't know why I did it. Maybe it was the attention I received or the free drinks. Who knows, but my confidence level hit the roof in those weeks. Now though, looking back, I realise that this particular group of guys would have been impressed with any "lady" (I use the term loosely) who set foot in their hovel (especially, I learned from over hearing conversations, if she happened to be wearing clear heels). While there, I managed to feel both my best, and my dirtiest. Three weeks I can't get back. I wouldn't do it again for all the tea in China.

The last time I saw Shake 'n' Bake, he was wearing a toque and matching scarf (what finally turned me off. You'd have thought it may have been the overt cocaine abuse to which I chose to turn a blind eye.), and was about to take off to Montreal for the winter (who goes to Montreal for the winter?). Over the next couple of months, I received the odd text message from him, usually saying how he missed BC and his friends (of which he apparently still counted me), and then, more than twice, asking me for money. You can guess how I chose to respond. The last time I heard from him, was at the end of last winter sometime. He sent me a text message saying that he would be back the next month and that if I were still single, he would love to take me out. I restrained from asking if he'd need to borrow money for said 'taking out', and instead answered "I am still single, but I'm not promising anything" with "No fucking chance" written between the lines.

I, thankfully, haven't heard from him since, and though I'd heard, through the grapevine, that he and his newly acquired dog and girlfriend had moved to my neighbourhood, I had, up until tonight, managed to avoid any encounters (other than a spotting on the bus, to which I quickly picked up my phone and dialed a friend so as not to feel obligated to converse, though I'm not sure he saw me).

Tonight, as I was standing in line at the til behind an unquestionably single man (I could tell by his grocery list: 3 cans of Campbell's Chunky soups, a few Sidekicks, a two litre bottle of coke, a 24 pack of pepperoni sticks, and four breaded chicken breasts, which he ran back to grab at the last minute), Shake 'n' Bake, the girl, and the pooch walked out the door, wishing me well on their way. I felt like yelling out, "He smokes crack!" to warn the girlfriend, but I didn't. (It wouldn't be a lie, I only found out about the actual extent of his drug use after I kicked the idea of him to the curb.) Maybe she knows. Maybe they're totally honest with each other. Maybe she hits the pipe too? She didn't look the type. Maybe, I hope, she's keeping him straight. I hope he's at least getting something because we all deserve the chance to get back on track. He seems happy which was, I think, his biggest struggle. So, instead of shouting unnecessary obscenities, I waved goodbye to the couple and their dog, picked up my bag of groceries, walked home and devoured my entire bag of salt and vinegar chips.

Maybe I'm the one who needs help?

a good way to start the day...

...is being stuck on the viaduct walking behind an old man who keeps stopping, every ten steps or so, to scratch his butt good and hard.