Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Back To The Playground We Go

Alright Krista, you tagged me. Now I have to write a post with 8 facts/habits/things about me, and apparently someone is going to appreciate my list. I'm sorry but I'll have to play this game of tag like that annoying anal kid at school who refuses to follow the rules. I will abide to the 8 things about myself, but I'm not gonna tag anyone else because I still want people to like me enough to give me their pudding at recess. Here it goes, 8 things you may or may not know about me, and you better enjoy this Krista...

1. I'm a real hypochondriac. Yes it can be funny, sometimes it gets me out of tight situations, but mostly it sucks. I plan on going to therapy so that I can be slightly normal, but mostly so that I can say trendy pretentious statements that go something along the lines of "...and so my therapist said that..." People will envy how crazy I am.

2. I want to be a writer. I hate feeling naive, and a lot of the time I do, but it seems to be the one constant aspiration in my life.

3. I will never work in an Italian deli again. When I leave the pasta, the olives, and the god damned cured ham in my dust, I hope to never reacquaint myself with it in the future. The other day at work, as I was scrubbing the boss's microwave that I've never used, I had a decrepit epiphany. Through my vile haze of angst I assumed a bit of responsibility for my unhappiness. I'm gonna have to be more ambitious if I want to enjoy my time, and this scares the shit out of me.

4. I'm looking forward to going back to school for the first time in my life. I actually appreciate the opportunity, and feel certain that the time and the place are right for me. I accept that university won't prepare me for a career, but the basic experience of going is important to me and I will finish this degree if only for that.

5. I will never try to save my life by getting an emo boy hair cut again. I felt like maybe it would be a cathartic and symbolic experience; turns out it just depressed me.

6. I hate dill, it's an odious herb.

7. My neighbours think I'm a drug dealer. Rather than try to clean up the rumours I just let them go on thinking that I'm a horrible human being that snorts rails off the hood of my car at the 3 in the morning with my friends. I have no idea why this is the neighbourhood opinion of me, but oh well, I'm faux hard core.

8. I can lick my elbow. And yes Shaun, that's admirable whether you want to acknowledge it or not. My sister called Guinness Book of World Records once to inform them of my impossible skill and they told her they get about ten identical calls a day. I still maintain that I'm special.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

We Were Doing Zippers, Jalepeno Poppers, You Name It

Sorry about my general absence on the blog lately, I've been in Hawaii saving turtles on an important expedition. I feel like I've really made a difference, and I think I'm growing as a person. Alright no, that's all a lie, but my friend did use that as an excuse to quit her job at Home Depot...

I've been busy looking for apartments and the like so that I can live closer to my school. It's such a frustrating process being a saleswoman for yourself. Hey Renters! I'm so awesome, I like cleaning, and being quiet, but also being fun, and I enjoy every hobby that you do! Did I mention that I periodically save lives? Of small children? Sometimes my hot girlfriends come over and we have rowdy pillow fights! I can also make origami samurai hats! How could you not want to live with me?!

It's exhausting, and ofcourse I'd never say that I'm a psychopathic hypochondriac because that isn't the most alluring character trait (even if it's the predominant one). Somehow that doesn't exude the charisma I'm going for...

My brother is in a similar place, trying to find a roomate for the vacant room at his house, and he's seen too many people in the last week to count. I know what you're thinking right now, that my brother and I should live together but c'mon, would you actually live with a sibling? I can just see it now, I'd wake up and be eating my cereal, keeping to myself when it hits me, HEY WHERE'S MY SPECIAL EDITION METALLIC NINJA TURTLE?! Oh right, my brother stole it. No way, jose, not going through those battles for a second time. And plus, the levels of ketchup that kid consumes traumatizes me in an irreversible manner.

My brother interviewed one guy for the place, a seemingly normal person in his early 20's, and thought that he might be a suitable match. He was a bit put off by the guys strong affinity for nintendo, explanations of how you might turn yourself into a fireball, etc. but didn't think that was a real problem. As the interview was drawing to an end along with the extensive discussions of nintendo, the guy had something to add, something that may or may not be of interest to a roomate.

"So I just wanted to let you know," the guy said, "That if I get the place, I like to go to gothic bars. I like to dress up in black latex, and dresses, and I just wanted to make that clear."

My brother said he wasn't sure if it was a joke or not, but he waited an adequate amount of time before deciding that it was most likely the truth. He didn't know what to say, how to respond to the black latex comment, but he's a quick boy, he could sell a ketchup popsicle to a woman in white gloves, so he responded the only way he knew how. Nothing to invasive, offensive, or extensive, just something to fill the awkward silence.

"So," I could picture my brother pooling together all his strength to keep a straight face, to avoid making this gothic loving man feel completely embarrassed, "Are there a lot of gothic bars in Vancouver?"

As you may have guessed, my brother didn't offer the place to him, and was more than relieved to see him go, but not before gothic man could throw out one last enticing proposition. And this is my favourite part by far.

When the new "WE" nintendo system comes out at christmas time, would my brother perhaps like to go halfsies on it with him? Yeah, he actually said halfsies, as in we each pay half of a fucking nintendo system so that we can share the euphoric joy it will bring while we wear black latex and gothic skirts.

I asked my brother later why he wouldn't want to live with the guy just so that he could brag about what his random roomate was doing that day. You know, he could give updates on his outfits, nintendo quests, or other equally hilarious moments. My brother said he had considered it, for about a second, but knew that the appeal would grow old too quickly.

After a week, I'd just have this weird guy wearing tight black plastic pants sitting on my couch, playing nintendo, and raving about how he was turning himself into a fireball. Nobody really wants that for a roomate.

Note to self: Do not tell tenants about latex, nintendo, or gothic hobbies.

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

Waiting On A Tug Boat

I felt as though the blood test I had last week coupled with the decision to give myself an emo boy haircut wasn't sufficiently traumatizing, so today I went and had a cavity filled. I was tired, I planned on sleeping through most of it, and things were going pretty well until the dentist started moving his mouth and dispensing stress words and medical jargon. I had a Jerry Maguire moment where I had to stop and be like "Alright, so I started seeing dots and feeling puke in my throat at "banana shaped roots"". Oh yeah, and when you went through the universal "tug of war" motions in regards to removing my wisdom teeth, I had to sit down for fear of fainting.

What I find amusing about my dentist is his dense obliviousness. This guy will cringe, bite down on his teeth, cock his head to the side and inhale painfully as he looks at my X-rays. Then he'll look absolutely perplexed when I tell him that I'm ready to vomit.

"What? Oh don't worry, I just have to be honest with you about these sorts of things."

"These sorts of things?" Did you just cast me off into The Canadian Degenerate Leper Teeth Group with that last sentence? I felt slightly embarrassed as I sat down and admitted that I couldn't stand up too well, but I was more embarrassed that he had been doing this dentist thing for god knows how long and never once considered that his detached, blunt deliveries might be slightly upsetting. After a certain point his words were lost on me and the only thing I could focus on was making a barf plan. Yes that's right, a plan for where I would barf if the situation were to...arise.

I left, trying to play down the fact that I can't cope with the most minor of unpleasant situations, and got into my car. I drove home thinking all the while about a theory that someone I know believes in quite adamantly. When things are bad they sometimes get worse, and then a little bit worse, and then worse still, but in the course of things, if the bad has been sticking around for a relatively long while, then some greater power will cut you a break and give your little tug boat a push. It was never clear to me if the push was fueled from pity, was earned, or was just plain coincidence, but I think the point was that it would arrive eventually.

I'm gonna get in my tug boat, try to put on some makeshift seat belt made out of sea weed, and wait for a sailor, a drunk hippie, or maybe even a a topless mermaid to give me a god damn push.

Friday, August 11, 2006

This Just About Made Me Shit My Pants

I Surprised Even Myself

I went and got a blood test today, something which I previously considered to be impossible for myself. I decided to really suck it up and face both my fear of needles and ironically, being healthy. I think as a hypochondriac your greatest fear is being totally ok, as completely irrational as that sounds. I took my number, 98, and I waited in the fluorescently lit room.

After they called my name I walked into a hallway with several stalls and upon realizing that I didn't even have a private room to cry in, said "HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, FUCK THIS" in a very loud voice. I sat down and wanted to tell Mr. Impatient that I needed a second but he seemed pretty eager to drain me.

"Look buddy, I might die in this chair. Like right here, right now, DIE."

"When's the last time you had a blood test?"

"A blood test? NEVER. Do I look like one of those sane normal people that can do this regularly?"

"Flex. Alright, that's a good one," he said as he pointed to a tiny blue line near the inside of my elbow.

I'm sure he says that to everyone, emphasizes the "good" factor, but I secretly relished the fact that my veins were above average, good even.

"Just a little prick...So are you in school? Are you crying?"

"Yes, school."

"You must be smart then?"

"Yeah, I'm a fucking genius."

His small talk was aggravating me but I didn't dare move a muscle for fear that the needle would lodge itself deep into my arm. I was just # 595059 on this guys list and his automated questions were not what I wanted to hear. He finished taking 4 viles of blood from my arm and then asked me how I was feeling.

"So don't lift anything heavy for the rest of the day."

"Ok, I usually do a lot of heavy lifting, as you can see from my huge arms, but I suppose today I'll deviate from my normal routine."

"Do you want something to drink, maybe apple juice or fruit punch?

"How about a gin and tonic?"

He chuckled, "Nope, we don't have that here."

Thursday, August 10, 2006

Renaissance Woman

I was driving in my car today, thinking about what a fun person I'd be with a lifetime prescription of Valium, and trying very hard not to spill greek pita in my lap. I don't think it would even matter if it was my friends taking the Valium or myself, as long as one of us had pink happiness in our system we'd be good as a collective group.

I was listening to The Beatles telling me that money can't buy love and I felt a little better provided that I'm basically one step up from hobo.

I thought back to highschool when I used to worry immensely that the feta they had used in my pita was probably full fat and not light. I sighed. My worries have since moved on from cheese and calorie contents to much more substantial, knock the wind out of you stresses. I think this should bring me some ironic sense of pride, you know, because now my anxiety attacks are so grown up. There is a progression somewhere here that really needs to be acknowledged.

I spilled tzatziki down my chin and tried to wipe it up without smashing into the car infront of me. Mission accomplished.

A fire truck flew by and no one really moved out of the way. There were some half-assed fear induced attempts, but really, I couldn't call them more than attempts. Some people braked a bit, but in a united effort, we all did nothing. I could blame my apathy on the fact that I was concentrating so deeply on my delicious pita, but that would only be half true. I accept partial responsibility for the apocalypse right now. As for everyone else, I'm not sure what they were thinking. Maybe it was something along the lines of "I NEED TO GO GET MY EMO-LATTE AT JJ BEAN!" Starbucks is only for ignorant, corporate supporting, bastards, ugh. Excuse me while I go put these free-range egg shells in my organic compost.

My drive was insignificant in the course of things, my destination hardly important, but amidst all the futility, I was a mother fucking multi tasker. Yeah that's right planet earth, I MULTI TASKED TODAY!

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

I Eat Pieces Of Shit Like You For Breakfast

You eat shit for breakfast? Yes I'm using a Happy Gilmore reference as filler.

I was giving someone their change today at work which, as it turned out, was only 1 cent. Yeah that's right, so insignificant that I can't even find the symbol on my keyboard and am forced to write it out with bulky, inefficient, horribly time consuming letters. The horror. The inevitable situation with pennies is the "Are you a cheap-o or not?". It's always slightly awkward and everyone has a different approach. Like, do you say "Hey do you actually want the 1 cent?" or do you give it to them and have them look back at you with the "Are you kidding me, do I look that cheap?" Either way you seem to lose, and being the fairly apathetic employee that I am I generally just go for the laziest option which is simply handing the customer the penny.

Today I followed suit like always and a woman gave such a disturbingly hearty laugh upon eyeing the change I was returning to her. She looked at me, then the penny, then back up at me while her laugh reverberated off the building walls. The laugh came from such a deep part in her being and it spoke.

"That's the same refuse that litters the bottoms of all my garbage bags and makes them so heavy for Maria to take out. What, do you actually have a use for those little copper tid bits? Look at this eye lift bitch, it didn't come from no good pennies."

And then she actually took the penny.

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

Let's Cut The Shit

How many parents, including your own, do you witness fabricating the most outlandish lies in efforts to shelter and protect their children? The things they come up with to avoid having to answer the most popular childhood question, "why", almost seem like more work than telling the god damn truth. The real reason I needed to go to bed at 8:30 rather than midnight was not because I was tired, it was because my mother would have tried to stick a barbie's arm through her retina otherwise. Those vindictive preschool classmates weren't laughing WITH me when my long hair touched the sand while I was swinging, they were laughing AT me. And why did we just pass McDonalds to turn into the Dentist's parking lot? Essentially childhood is a series of lies that gets you through the first years of your life believing that all people are good, your future is full of potential, and you won't find yourself starving at 4 in the morning in your apartment all alone staring at the banana you just dropped on the floor contemplating whether or not it would be to gross to eat it keeping in mind that no one will know but your pathetic self. If only I could revert back to lies, good ol' comforting lies.

I remember a moment of true honesty that I experienced with my mother while painting one afternoon. I watched her brush strokes intently and tried to recreate the masterpiece she seemed to produce so effortlessly. I let the brush sweep across my page and doing that made me happy. I believed that people got to do what made them happy in life so I told my mother right then that I would grow up to be an artist. I imagined a romantic life of berets, rainbow paints, and somehow amongst it, coming from thin air, income. Right after I told my mother this she looked pained and was silent before uttering something that was seemingly unpleasant.

"You know Carmen, artists just don't make enough money. You should become a baker instead so that I could come by and get free donuts whenever I want."

I decided right then and there that I would become a baker. My mom was probably exhausted, unable to force a smile and let me be naive about my future, but above it all I knew that she really, truly, genuinely and honestly wanted some free donuts. I think it must have been the honesty that really impressed me and simultaneously made me alter my future goals, but it could also have been the allure of sugar. I'm ok with it been either, or a combination of both.

Today I was near a mother and her screaming children in the busy marketplace. The daughter was screeching for mother to just break down and buy her an artisans hand made paper mache cat, and through the unwavering stress, anxiety, and pressure, that poor mother did break down, and she told her daughter the truth.

"Look, mommy's not gonna waste $20 on an ugly chunk of paper," she said in the bitchiest, loudest, most sincere tone.