Showing posts with label Interactions With People. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Interactions With People. Show all posts
Friday, January 23, 2015
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Embers.
In rougher times, a long while ago, My Crunchy Lovelies, I used to display an impressive array of self-defense mechanisms, sobbing episodes taking place at completely inappropriate times, and a plethora of other self-deprecating, worrisome behavior. I whined about wanting to be "free". I was unsatisfied. I wanted easy, fast, light and satisfying solutions to big problems. I was hurt, and could not emerge from my cloud of self-deprecation. I was held back. I was not in control. Thank the Pixies, there were no voices in my head (unlike today, mind you, ahem), and I was not under any kind of psychiatric supervision (nor am I today, ahem).
And now? Well! I realized something today at lunch, while eating. Lots of thing happen while you eat. I usually think. If I'm not eating alone, I attempt some form of thinking process, but listen in on my lunchmates' conversations, occasionally pitching in just to interact and be polite. It usually works. Anyway, I realized something today. It seems small, maybe, but it's a really happy realization: I am happier now!
Not to sound corny or anything, but good things DO happen. I doubted that for the longest time. I now sit in my fluffy pink cloud of freedom which smells of vanilla and feels like cotton candy, and make projects which, I hope, will come to fruition. In retrospect, a seemingly unexpected move was the best thing I've ever done. For myself. Don't get me wrong: there are still some not-so-good days, and - yes - tears sometimes, but they weigh the normal weight of emotion: not the amplified, exagerated emotional pattern I used to relish in.
So, I declare to you, oh my Tender Fluffy Numerous Readers: mission accomplished! And here the crowd roars with pleasure, happiness, has goosebumps, and claps energetically.
Thank you. *bow*
And now? Well! I realized something today at lunch, while eating. Lots of thing happen while you eat. I usually think. If I'm not eating alone, I attempt some form of thinking process, but listen in on my lunchmates' conversations, occasionally pitching in just to interact and be polite. It usually works. Anyway, I realized something today. It seems small, maybe, but it's a really happy realization: I am happier now!
Not to sound corny or anything, but good things DO happen. I doubted that for the longest time. I now sit in my fluffy pink cloud of freedom which smells of vanilla and feels like cotton candy, and make projects which, I hope, will come to fruition. In retrospect, a seemingly unexpected move was the best thing I've ever done. For myself. Don't get me wrong: there are still some not-so-good days, and - yes - tears sometimes, but they weigh the normal weight of emotion: not the amplified, exagerated emotional pattern I used to relish in.
So, I declare to you, oh my Tender Fluffy Numerous Readers: mission accomplished! And here the crowd roars with pleasure, happiness, has goosebumps, and claps energetically.
Thank you. *bow*
Monday, October 24, 2011
On Wondering Why.
I have been around the block too many times, at 35, to expect
anything. I should know by now that when you have expectations, they are
usually shattered. Not to be pessimistic, or anything.
But this time, I am hoping things will be different. I am
trying to be free, to be happy, and to accept that not everybody is at the
exact same spot in ‘Being’ as I am. It still hurts, though, when the person you
thought was rocking your world is apparently not doing that intently or with
purpose at all. What they are doing, though, is carelessly wafting through
life. They have chosen (by their own admittance) to not make choices in life. They
have chosen not to commit. You like their bohemian lifestyle, their
carelessness. You like that they get up to go get chocolatines on Saturday
morning, that they make chocolate coffee for you when you are still in bed and
that their restaurant-owning neighbours have soup delivered to your door for
lunch.
Your choice (and between the lines, mine, oh My Loverly
Loverlings): to play along or to be stuck once again expecting something you
feel you won’t be getting soon? Argh. To
be 20 again, and to not care about these things.
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
The Cool Feature & The Great Bookscape, Official Uncensored Second Edition.
Dearest Loverlings of My Heart,
Dear Blah,
Mademoiselle has just published a new post on Elucubrations (whoop-deee-doo, really), and so, you know, whatever, check it out if you want. If you're not in the mood, we think reruns of either Frasier or The Golden Girls are on. Or you can try bouncing a ball on your nose, although don't make the ball too big, it may hurt a bit. Let us know how it turns out. No, no...not really.
Cheerio and best regards and sincerely and all that,
- The Guys at Blogger.
So, I have no idea. I've put three of you on the list so far (lucky bastards!), let me know how it turns out.
Also, I forgot to tell you this: I am doing something which I've already done, but which I really, really want to do again. Are you reading a book these days? ANY book counts. (Yes, even a do-it-yourself fix-your-car book.) Oh - sorry, the Little Person Living Inside My Head had returned from a very, very long vacation, and is attempting to squeeze herself in here. Gimme a minute. Sorry. Look the other way, if you want. This happens in written form.
ME: Hello, Little Person Living Inside My Head. What's up? Oh - nice loincloth, once again.
Little Person Living Inside My Head: Hi. Thanks. So my fix-your-car book works? I'm trying to blend in and participate. You know, with your Throng of Readers and all.
[Editorial Note: Since writing "Little Person Living Inside My Head" very often is a bit tedious, I will shuffle the letters and give it a name. Hang on. *shuffle, shuffle, shuffle*. Ah - very nice. Little Person Inside My Head will henceforth be known as Limpy. Simple. Efficient. Editorial Note over.]ME: Nice. You disappear all this time and hop back in here like - I don't know, like you are welcome.
Limpy: I am welcome. I am an extension of you. Plus I'm funny. So, suck it, right?
ME: Right. *sigh* What do you want?
Limpy: I want to be a part of your thing. So my fix-the-car book is okay? You sure?
ME: Yes.
Okay - we're back. Where were we? Yes. Being Readers. I suspect most of you are Readers, even if it's for business. Get your book: I'll wait...seriously. Go. It's on the nightstand/living room table/dryer/backseat/the roof.
Got it? Good. Those of you who have been following since 2006, good for you. Do it again.
- Grab the nearest book.
- Open the book to page 123.
- Find the fifth sentence.
- Post the text of the next 4 sentences as a comment to this blog.
- Don't you dare dig for that "cool" or "intellectual" book in your closet! I know you were thinking about it! Just pick up whatever is closest. Even if it's up on the roof. Weirdo.
Monday, June 07, 2010
Antipodes.
Last Friday started off very brutally and ended with a happy surprise. Now you get the title of this post. You don’t need to read this if you don’t want to, it gets graphic and I just need some sort of outlet. Warning: there are no Little Pixies that Rule the World in this post, nor are there references to Boo, my awesome Cat who talks like James Mason.
Early in the morning, I heard noises in the entrance hall and staircase of my building. People going up, people coming down. Stamping their feet. Running. Then I heard an engine running outside my bedroom window. Newspaper Guy comes around 5 a.m. It wasn’t him. So I looked out the window and saw an ambulance, a cop car and a fire engine. I instantly freaked out. About 5 minutes later, one of the firemen took out the gurney from the ambulance and laid a blanket and pillow on it. By this time, I had gathered something had happened to my upstairs neighbor, as he had undergone surgery a few weeks back. I thought he wasn’t feeling well, and that he needed to go back to the hospital. I just did not expect to see him like this. The ambulance tech was practically jumping up and down on him, trying to revive him. He was not responding, and I’m guessing they had been trying upstairs too. He was grey, he was dead, and I lost it.
Why did I stay at the window? I couldn’t look away: I’ve known this guy almost 4 years. We spoke 3 days before in the garage. He was my neighbor. With all my might, I was willing him to open one eye: to turn his head away from me, to breathe, damn it, breathe! He was not my best friend or a member of my family, but his death hurt me deeply. And the image of him, dead on a gurney outside my bedroom window, will haunt me for a long time to come.
I had my day planned out, but couldn’t just carry on as if nothing had happened. I had to leave. I was crying, pacing alone in my living room, wishing I had not seen what I had seen. So I called my friends and left. I spent the day with them. It made me feel better. When I came home, The Man told me he had an errand to run and he’d be back in an hour. When he returned, he asked me to close my eyes and sit on the sofa. He gently placed something in front of me on the floor. When I opened my eyes, there was a black basket with a fabric drawstring top, closed. When I opened it, two little blue eyes were staring at me from the depths of the basket. I closed it again. I started crying. I said to the The Man: “Oh no! Boo is going to kill him!” I looked again, and the two little blue eyes mewed at me. Two little beady blue eyes, in a furry little head with folded ears, the sweetest stripes ever and a spotted belly, and four thumbs on its little paws. We called our new little baby cat Ezio, in honor of the character in Assassin’s Creed, Ezio Auditore da Firenze. The Man had been planning this surprise for over a month with a couple of friends of ours. I had held this little furball when he was two days old, and had fallen in love with him then. But he would never be mine, or so I thought…Now I fall in love with him every time I look at him. I know, it’s corny. But true.
Thanks for putting up with the corniness. When I post pictures of Ezio, you’ll fall under the spell too.
Last Friday started off very brutally and ended with a happy surprise. Last Friday was the first time in my life I cried in panic, in sadness, in surprise and in joy, all within less than twelve hours.
Early in the morning, I heard noises in the entrance hall and staircase of my building. People going up, people coming down. Stamping their feet. Running. Then I heard an engine running outside my bedroom window. Newspaper Guy comes around 5 a.m. It wasn’t him. So I looked out the window and saw an ambulance, a cop car and a fire engine. I instantly freaked out. About 5 minutes later, one of the firemen took out the gurney from the ambulance and laid a blanket and pillow on it. By this time, I had gathered something had happened to my upstairs neighbor, as he had undergone surgery a few weeks back. I thought he wasn’t feeling well, and that he needed to go back to the hospital. I just did not expect to see him like this. The ambulance tech was practically jumping up and down on him, trying to revive him. He was not responding, and I’m guessing they had been trying upstairs too. He was grey, he was dead, and I lost it.
Why did I stay at the window? I couldn’t look away: I’ve known this guy almost 4 years. We spoke 3 days before in the garage. He was my neighbor. With all my might, I was willing him to open one eye: to turn his head away from me, to breathe, damn it, breathe! He was not my best friend or a member of my family, but his death hurt me deeply. And the image of him, dead on a gurney outside my bedroom window, will haunt me for a long time to come.
I had my day planned out, but couldn’t just carry on as if nothing had happened. I had to leave. I was crying, pacing alone in my living room, wishing I had not seen what I had seen. So I called my friends and left. I spent the day with them. It made me feel better. When I came home, The Man told me he had an errand to run and he’d be back in an hour. When he returned, he asked me to close my eyes and sit on the sofa. He gently placed something in front of me on the floor. When I opened my eyes, there was a black basket with a fabric drawstring top, closed. When I opened it, two little blue eyes were staring at me from the depths of the basket. I closed it again. I started crying. I said to the The Man: “Oh no! Boo is going to kill him!” I looked again, and the two little blue eyes mewed at me. Two little beady blue eyes, in a furry little head with folded ears, the sweetest stripes ever and a spotted belly, and four thumbs on its little paws. We called our new little baby cat Ezio, in honor of the character in Assassin’s Creed, Ezio Auditore da Firenze. The Man had been planning this surprise for over a month with a couple of friends of ours. I had held this little furball when he was two days old, and had fallen in love with him then. But he would never be mine, or so I thought…Now I fall in love with him every time I look at him. I know, it’s corny. But true.
Thanks for putting up with the corniness. When I post pictures of Ezio, you’ll fall under the spell too.
Last Friday started off very brutally and ended with a happy surprise. Last Friday was the first time in my life I cried in panic, in sadness, in surprise and in joy, all within less than twelve hours.
Friday, March 26, 2010
The Dream Kitchen Counter.
There are times when I think to myself it would be very, very nice to have a different kitchen counter. Like tonight, for instance. If I had a different kitchen counter, I would be there right now, leaning on my elbows on its ceramic top, deciding what to make for dinner, listening to some cool jazz, and looking out into the dining room. Right now, I can't do that, because there are cupboards in the way. White melamine cupboards. If I lean on my elbows, my forehead leans on the overhead cupboards. Not so sexy.
They are fine, really. They are newish. They are clean. They have nice stainless steel handles. They provide storage space. But - and this is what bugs me - they close off the kitchen. Plus, when I stand at my current kitchen counter, using the sink, all anybody sitting at the dining room table will see is, well, my breast area. I try to work around this slight embarrassment by leaning over and pretending I am ordering a chocolate sundae. People sitting in the dining room do not usually get the joke, so I have to explain. I know. Embarrassing. I actually have to look under the cupboards to look towards the table. Enough complaining. At least I have a) a kitchen and b) a dining room table, let alone a dining room. And breasts. I have breasts, too. I'm a lucky gal.
My dream kitchen counter involves a few things (aside from the fact The Man does not know about my dream kitchen counter):
They are fine, really. They are newish. They are clean. They have nice stainless steel handles. They provide storage space. But - and this is what bugs me - they close off the kitchen. Plus, when I stand at my current kitchen counter, using the sink, all anybody sitting at the dining room table will see is, well, my breast area. I try to work around this slight embarrassment by leaning over and pretending I am ordering a chocolate sundae. People sitting in the dining room do not usually get the joke, so I have to explain. I know. Embarrassing. I actually have to look under the cupboards to look towards the table. Enough complaining. At least I have a) a kitchen and b) a dining room table, let alone a dining room. And breasts. I have breasts, too. I'm a lucky gal.
My dream kitchen counter involves a few things (aside from the fact The Man does not know about my dream kitchen counter):
- A ceramic top. Did I mention that already? The ceramic is, preferably, terracotta. Or something equally cool (I know, it's very 2005, but I like the look);
- Drop-down halogen lighting with nice coloured glass lampshades, preferably elongated hand-blown glass. Red. Or - yellow. Oh no - blue. For a warm look. Not the white, cold neon lighting I have right now.
- A built-in sink. And one of those nifty pull-out hose things. To spray people with.
- On one end, open shelves that go all the way to the ceiling, to put plants on. And eventually, any other knick-knack The Man decides to leave there. He does that.
- On the dining-room side, along three-quarters of the length, a recess so I can have two stools there. For making conversation while making dinner. You know, entertaining. Like this:
"Oh yeah, listen. Super simple. I marinated these scallops overnight in lime juice and I'm just going to sautee them slightly with these shallots and a bit of Pernod. Oh - pass the anchovy paste-filled olives, please? Thanks. Sorry, I drooled. Haha. Yum. Want some wine? So anyway, I'm thinking of painting this big ass landscape with a very defined Italian slash Mediterranean feel to it, and just having these huge cedar-like trees in it. Can you hold this for a second? Thanks. What? The painting's already been done? By whom? Oh. Modigliani. Right. Haha. I'll stick to Squibbits, then. Can you give me that thing you were holding? No - not that one. The other one. Thanks. Oh! DOWN! GET OFF THE COUNTER! NO! BOO! OFF THE COUNTER - you little %!*&# - sorry. That cat loves olives, go figure. Wait - Honey? Can you bring up some chairs? What? You're killing zombies? It's okay, babe, hit the start button, they'll wait for you! Haha. That man loves his zombies. So...tell me all about being a plant. Do you like being a plant? Is it a quiet, peaceful life? Do you panic when your soil is dried up? I'm sorry, I know I only water you - what - once a week? Yeah. Is that OK?
Sunday, August 12, 2007
In Retrospect.
In the process of growing up, I sometimes sat and made a quick mental inventory of things I was pretty sure I'd get to witness along the way to adulthood. At ten years old, this list included living in the same city as my Dad and decorating my future cottage on the seashore. At ten years old, I was convinced I would never live to see the year 2000. Not because I didn't want to live to the year 2000, I just thought it was impossible to live to see the numbers change so drastically. It was an impossible concept to grasp.
At thirteen, my list grew a bit to include the New Kids on the Block and my eventual husband. I think that's when the hormones kicked in.
At sixteen, I lived in a new city. I had a very strange sense of the universe surrounding me. I felt like I was entrenched in this giant emptiness. It wrapped me like a wet blanket and I felt exactly like my favorite band at the time said, there was no future. It was probably due to a bunch of family-related issues going on, but I felt out of place, like I had mistakenly been dropped in the middle of somewhere I did not belong. Teenage awkwardness, check. This void surrounding me could not be explained rationally, so I decided I was probably doomed and would have to be an outcast my whole life while taking part in society's weird, useless rituals and traditions to please the people I thought were judging me. I wish I could travel back in time and take my younger self's hand and say "Calm the fuck down. Everything is going to be okay. You don't need to write death poems and funeral odes. You'll see, things get a lot better in seven years." My younger self probably would have started crying and run to her bedroom to write yet another dark, abstract, existential poem.
Seven years went by, a crapload of stuff happened, good and bad, sandwiched in between various phases and the evolution of my personal values and aspirations. Things did get better. The wet blanket of weirdness vanished. I did live, not only to see the year 2000, but also to keep dreaming about the seaside cottage. I've found my husband, although technically, we're not married, and the New Kids on the Block are now but a fleeing sweet smell in my past. Life has its share of eighteen-wheeler-sized surprises, and I am now able to make the most of them.
Yesterday, H and I were guests (and responsible for applauding on cue) at the first Lesbian Princess Wedding we've ever been to - tiaras, plastic high-heel shoes, and sparkly dresses included. Oh - and parents arguing about who should pay for the wedding. Two of our neighbors, aged 4, celebrated their wedding in the backyard. Then we had three funerals for the same bride, and one of the brides (the one who expired thrice) hid behind a bush with the other bride's older brother (who happened to be the priest at the wedding). Then we determined the location of spots to pretend to be sick in.
Life is good.
At thirteen, my list grew a bit to include the New Kids on the Block and my eventual husband. I think that's when the hormones kicked in.
At sixteen, I lived in a new city. I had a very strange sense of the universe surrounding me. I felt like I was entrenched in this giant emptiness. It wrapped me like a wet blanket and I felt exactly like my favorite band at the time said, there was no future. It was probably due to a bunch of family-related issues going on, but I felt out of place, like I had mistakenly been dropped in the middle of somewhere I did not belong. Teenage awkwardness, check. This void surrounding me could not be explained rationally, so I decided I was probably doomed and would have to be an outcast my whole life while taking part in society's weird, useless rituals and traditions to please the people I thought were judging me. I wish I could travel back in time and take my younger self's hand and say "Calm the fuck down. Everything is going to be okay. You don't need to write death poems and funeral odes. You'll see, things get a lot better in seven years." My younger self probably would have started crying and run to her bedroom to write yet another dark, abstract, existential poem.
Seven years went by, a crapload of stuff happened, good and bad, sandwiched in between various phases and the evolution of my personal values and aspirations. Things did get better. The wet blanket of weirdness vanished. I did live, not only to see the year 2000, but also to keep dreaming about the seaside cottage. I've found my husband, although technically, we're not married, and the New Kids on the Block are now but a fleeing sweet smell in my past. Life has its share of eighteen-wheeler-sized surprises, and I am now able to make the most of them.
Yesterday, H and I were guests (and responsible for applauding on cue) at the first Lesbian Princess Wedding we've ever been to - tiaras, plastic high-heel shoes, and sparkly dresses included. Oh - and parents arguing about who should pay for the wedding. Two of our neighbors, aged 4, celebrated their wedding in the backyard. Then we had three funerals for the same bride, and one of the brides (the one who expired thrice) hid behind a bush with the other bride's older brother (who happened to be the priest at the wedding). Then we determined the location of spots to pretend to be sick in.
Life is good.
Monday, May 07, 2007
On Obliques and Squares of Light.
So I stuck with the gym thing. Which is good.
It makes me feel good. I even feel a little...firmer.
Mmmm, fiiirm. Oh - sorry.
I actually found my triceps last week. I didn't even know I had them. They were there, but in a lame, outta-the-way fashion. So there they are. I'm beginning to see the shadows of side-abs. They're technically called obliques, but I call them side abs because they are the abs on the side. So. That's why. Enough about the gym. All you need to know is I love it and plan to continue going. I still don't understand how I've developed this urge, suddenly, to hop on the machines and sweat, but I get that urge now.
It's Monday morning and I am at home because I worked almost all of Saturday to have peace and quiet. I wondered why I didn't get much done at work - I still do - so I am currently trying to find ways to improve my concentration. I think I have a very short attention span. If I'm in the middle of doing something and someones walks over to my desk, I'm fucked.
These days, I am puzzled because I sometimes find myself wishing I was mean. I sometimes wish I could say "shut up and let me work" to people but I can't. Probably because it isn't a very civilized or nice way to deal with other people and my nice personality is stronger than my bitch personality.
I know you're in there, bitch personality! Come on! Come out - it's spring! Come give the finger to annoying assholes! Come invade my brain just long enough for me to walk up to someone and say: "Please keep your stupid, incomprehensible mumbling and off-key, crappy singing to yourself or leave this room." Okay, okay, that's the polite version. I think I am probably already dealing with this the right way and I'm being polite all the time, or so my colleagues tell me. I confuse the little voice in my head and what really happens, sometimes. Maybe I have a split personality problem! Oh, no!
...that would explain the blood on my shirtsleeve, Friday night...just kidding. Haha.
On the Boo front, this little naughty monkey is driving me nuts. I took him outside on Sunday, harness and leash and all, as per the rules. He was completely freaked in the beginning. He would not even stand, he was lying on his side looking at me like I had slapped him. So I checked that I had not done up the straps too tight, scooped him up in my arms and took him outside to the balcony. After two minutes of no movement, I scooped him up again and put him in the stairs leading to the yard. Nothing. Then picked him up and gently lowered him into the grass. Click! Some sort of primal instinct kicked in and he started roaming around, me in tow, nose to the ground, into the bushes and under the stairs. He was pretty scared by the neighbors' kids with their whirring, spinning toys and their screams. So I took him inside and since then, he won't stop meowing in from of the patio door. He is practically pointing at it, going (in his James Mason voice) : "Open this door now, I say! Can't you see I'm supposed to be outside? What are you doing, staring at the square of light? Open it!" And so on, with various levels of insults and debilitating meowing. I swear, the meowing sounds like someone is ripping at his insides.
Enough. I gotta go outside with the cat.
It makes me feel good. I even feel a little...firmer.
Mmmm, fiiirm. Oh - sorry.
I actually found my triceps last week. I didn't even know I had them. They were there, but in a lame, outta-the-way fashion. So there they are. I'm beginning to see the shadows of side-abs. They're technically called obliques, but I call them side abs because they are the abs on the side. So. That's why. Enough about the gym. All you need to know is I love it and plan to continue going. I still don't understand how I've developed this urge, suddenly, to hop on the machines and sweat, but I get that urge now.
It's Monday morning and I am at home because I worked almost all of Saturday to have peace and quiet. I wondered why I didn't get much done at work - I still do - so I am currently trying to find ways to improve my concentration. I think I have a very short attention span. If I'm in the middle of doing something and someones walks over to my desk, I'm fucked.
These days, I am puzzled because I sometimes find myself wishing I was mean. I sometimes wish I could say "shut up and let me work" to people but I can't. Probably because it isn't a very civilized or nice way to deal with other people and my nice personality is stronger than my bitch personality.
I know you're in there, bitch personality! Come on! Come out - it's spring! Come give the finger to annoying assholes! Come invade my brain just long enough for me to walk up to someone and say: "Please keep your stupid, incomprehensible mumbling and off-key, crappy singing to yourself or leave this room." Okay, okay, that's the polite version. I think I am probably already dealing with this the right way and I'm being polite all the time, or so my colleagues tell me. I confuse the little voice in my head and what really happens, sometimes. Maybe I have a split personality problem! Oh, no!
...that would explain the blood on my shirtsleeve, Friday night...just kidding. Haha.
On the Boo front, this little naughty monkey is driving me nuts. I took him outside on Sunday, harness and leash and all, as per the rules. He was completely freaked in the beginning. He would not even stand, he was lying on his side looking at me like I had slapped him. So I checked that I had not done up the straps too tight, scooped him up in my arms and took him outside to the balcony. After two minutes of no movement, I scooped him up again and put him in the stairs leading to the yard. Nothing. Then picked him up and gently lowered him into the grass. Click! Some sort of primal instinct kicked in and he started roaming around, me in tow, nose to the ground, into the bushes and under the stairs. He was pretty scared by the neighbors' kids with their whirring, spinning toys and their screams. So I took him inside and since then, he won't stop meowing in from of the patio door. He is practically pointing at it, going (in his James Mason voice) : "Open this door now, I say! Can't you see I'm supposed to be outside? What are you doing, staring at the square of light? Open it!" And so on, with various levels of insults and debilitating meowing. I swear, the meowing sounds like someone is ripping at his insides.
Enough. I gotta go outside with the cat.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
On Saturdays and Their Yumminess and on Being a Trucker
Saturdays Rock.
This I already knew, but this particular Saturday was better that a lot of other Saturdays.
Last weekend was pretty fun-filled and busy. Friday I went boogying with my little bro, the next day was my 30th b-day party (what a night...) and then the whole week just took forever to end and was filled with late nights, almost no sleeping, and stress. Rollercoaster of a week. Annual general meeting on Monday. Real b-day on Tuesday. Darts on Wednesday. Work thing Thursday. Drinks on Friday. And today....I got to sleep in. Looking back on the last few sentences, I now realize how I could really have it worse. I could be a heart surgeon, working 80-hour weeks and never seeing my family. I could also be a bus driver and have to do the Quebec-Montreal run every night of the week. Or a trucker. Being a girl trucker would be cool.
I would get to say Roger, Ten-Four on my radio. I think I'd bug the other truck drivers just to be able to say this. Roger would say
Then I'd turn my laptop on, check out my favorite blog, turn off my laptop, pull out my knitting, have herbal tea and kiss my kitty cat.
Damn, Saturdays are cool.
This I already knew, but this particular Saturday was better that a lot of other Saturdays.
Last weekend was pretty fun-filled and busy. Friday I went boogying with my little bro, the next day was my 30th b-day party (what a night...) and then the whole week just took forever to end and was filled with late nights, almost no sleeping, and stress. Rollercoaster of a week. Annual general meeting on Monday. Real b-day on Tuesday. Darts on Wednesday. Work thing Thursday. Drinks on Friday. And today....I got to sleep in. Looking back on the last few sentences, I now realize how I could really have it worse. I could be a heart surgeon, working 80-hour weeks and never seeing my family. I could also be a bus driver and have to do the Quebec-Montreal run every night of the week. Or a trucker. Being a girl trucker would be cool.
I would get to say Roger, Ten-Four on my radio. I think I'd bug the other truck drivers just to be able to say this. Roger would say
'Ok boys, we're meeting at the truck stop off the 40 and staying there overnightThen I would get to say
to sleep in our cabs.'
'Roger, Roger. Ten-Four. SlikChik out.'SlikChik would be my trucker name. Would they let me have a trucker name? They all have trucker names, right? It's lettered on the front of the cabs in italics, usually. Ti-Joe. Le Flo. Bernard 'Tiguidou' Lalancette. So I get to be SlikChik. I can do what I want, I am a girl truck driver. And they would protect me and make sure I did not get shit from other truck drivers from other provinces. We'd be hauling those giant tree trunks from one end of the country to the other and we'd stop in, like, Manitoba, and the Manitoban truckers would be all like,
'Ooooh check it out, Bill, it's SlikChik. Shush, she's coming this way'And I'd walk up to the bar at the trucker's hangout in the middle of Nowhere, Manitoba, and order a glass of red wine. And I'd sit at the table with my crew and all the Manitobans would stare at me because I would be a legend. And my boys would get up and walk over to their tables and tell them off, high-fiving each other on the way back to our table. And I'd be the silent type. Would barely talk. The less words, the better. They would be meaningful words. And I'd have a long cowboy-type coat, all oiled and shit, and I'd have motorcycle boots. Black ones. And leather pants. And after my glass of wine, I'd retire to my truck affter saying 'Later, boys' to my crew, leave the trucker joint and walk through the parking lot, all the way to the other end (parking lots are huge in those truckstop places) climb on up into the back of my cabin and pull all the curtains for privacy.
Then I'd turn my laptop on, check out my favorite blog, turn off my laptop, pull out my knitting, have herbal tea and kiss my kitty cat.
Damn, Saturdays are cool.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)