Last night was all kinds of hilarious fun. After a day of hanging out in PJs, watching The Sopranos, and going to what turned out to be a super exciting Blue Jays game, I set off to meet up with Treava, who was visiting from Victoria, and a few other Hitched gals. And though only Debbie and I showed up (damn the rest of you!), we showed her some good times.
Thus I present: A Toronto Hitched Photo Montage!
Our dear guest, looking saucy early on in the evening. I actually found her at the top of the stairs coming in, conveniently enough.
We waited for a table for no more than two minutes when we discovered that Debbie had already arrived and was holding one for us. Kickass! FYI: Debbie had a great outfit on and her new haircut ruled.
I was pleased as punch to be hanging out with such fun gals. You can tell by the fact that I'm doing a virtual pirate eye with hair.
In any case, the night went on! We talked endlessly, snacked (somehow avoiding nachos), had a few drinks -- all was well. Debbie had to leave around midnight as she had to take transit to get home. Treava and I decided to finish our drinks. And that's when all hell broke loose.
A strange boy sat at the table next to us and asked: Ladies, can you talk to me for a minute? Are you in love?
Treava quipped: Well, yes. But not with each other.
The boy continued to blather on. He raged against the machine as follows: I think I'm in love but she's no good for me. You know how you always want to marry rich?
We looked at each other, snickered, and responded that, no, we didn't.
At this point he confessed that his beloved was "poorer than a churchmouse", thus his conundrum. How gauche. He also pointed out to us that every girl at the bar was just looking to marry money, so why was it wrong that he wanted that too? We shook our heads.
He kept unbuttoning his shirt to ask: Am I burned? Am I burned? Am I burned?
I think we both threw up in our mouths a little at one of these points.
Then he began his diatribe about how he was a poet, and that he hated Hart House because his alliterative masterpiece didn't win a poetry award of some sort. Then he recited said poem to us. As a non-poet, I can't tell you if it was indeed a masterpiece, but man was it entertaining.
We forgot to take pictures of this fiasco.
Next up was meeting the friend contingent. Two girls came and sat with us -- we don't know if they knew the hairy poet, or if they were just exceptionally drunk, but man they had a lot of talking to do.
Are you really married? What's it like? I'll never find a good guy! Are you really married?
They were young and silly but we liked them just the same.
Suddenly, it was 3AM and the place was closing up. The bartender made us leave. We were terribly sad. But then it occurred to us -- we could continue the silliness at an eating establishment!
Our initial thought was to get pizza, so we jumped in a cab to head for some bad food when it suddenly occured to me that Chinatown was open 'til 5AM.
Oh yes. That's right. We did Excellent. We did scandal in style.
The best thing about this place is the multi-level layered plastic on the tables.
Here's our valiant attempt to eat a good mixture of their treats.
And here's our sad result. Please note that there's very little gone from any plates. Har. Luckily, Treava is staying at a B&B with a fridge, so she is set for the week in terms of snackery.
Thus our night was over. We watched the waiter turn our tablecloth into a plastic bag full of napkins, dishes, and utensils.
I threw Treava in a cab (here's hoping she got home okay!) and threw myself in the one behind it. I have not stayed out that late in a year, I'm sure.
It ruled. We had way more fun than was reasonable for what looked like it should've been a pretty quiet Saturday night.
So I've talked forever and a day about this weird woman at my work who once thrived on shrieking "Carrie Fuckin' Bradshaw!" and continues to love asking very young boys how old they think she is ("He totally thought I was 25, he couldn't believe it when I said I was 41!") and talking in circles relent-lent-lent-lessly. She dresses in skintight capris and strappy shoes and beachy tops. She wears different shades of brightly coloured eyeshadow to match her outfits and hot pink lipstick. I'm pretty sure she shops at le chateau despite being old enough to know better. She walks around the office repeating the same story at every single door 'til her tragic listener emails a coworker demanding an "urgent phone call". She carries her lunch every single day in a Holt Renfew bag because she shopped there once. You're getting where I'm going with this: she's a bit of a weirdy. Anyway, she's now taken it a step too far.
The other day as I was driving into our parking garage, I saw her behind me. I ignored her and went in, forgetting about it. Two minutes later, she was making a beeline into my office. She saw my car, she asked if it was new. I said we'd gotten it a while ago and she followed up with the fact that she loved it, it was so cute, she was thinking about getting one. Le sigh. I respond that, oh yeah, that it's a decent car, good on gas, cute, etc. And then she says:
"Well, I like yours. I think I will get the same one! The same colour and everything, I really like that colour! I am going to call this weekend!"
I proceeded to ignore her and type while she continued to go on and on and on in circles. In my head, I am seething. In fact, I'm questioning my own taste. Then I remember that she's done this before -- she consistently acts as if she's discovered bands people have been listening to for years. She got really angry with me for insinuating that Death Cab for Cutie were American, as she started listening to them in LUN-DUN (her pronunciation, not mine) on her 40th birthday. I find my mind wandering around her bevy of annoying traits 'til she exits to visit her next victim.
Anyway, she tells me today that she has her test drive appointment this weekend and "we might have matching cars next week!"
What the eff? I am so bloody irritated. I know that a gazillion people have this car and it's not exactly unique -- in fact, it's altogether trendy. And it's not like I invented the damn thing. What's my issue? Well, that one is mine. You don't see me buying the exact same something as someone else I see daily. I may love something of someone's, ask where they got it, and get something similar -- but it won't be identical. (I indeed did get a fun laptop bag after admiring Jen's, but mine is a different style and colour -- from the same store, from the same designer, but not the same.) Copying someone's exact car is effing weird. And annoying. Times a thousand. Dude, the last thing I ever want to be is your twin.
I swear to god, she's like the really, really jackassed character on some wacky sitcom. If she ever quit, I would truly run out of things to talk about.
I stole this from Treava because I don't have anything productive to say today.
Accent: Not so much, especially when you consider that I'm from Cape Breton. People always ask why I don't have one when I tell them this little fact, and I point out that, even as a child, I was an un-fan of vocal inflections. Instead, I choose to yell-talk. Good times.
Booze: Beer. Preferably red.
Chore I Hate: Mopping floors.
Dog or Cat: Dogs. But I prefer neither for me, I hate the hair on things.
Essential Electronics: Laptop and iPod.
Favorite Cologne: Ick.
Gold or Silver: White gold.
Hometown: From Port Hawkesbury to Fort McMurray to Port Hawkesbury to Antigonish to Halifax. Now setting up shop in adorable Toronto.
Insomnia: Nah.
Job Title: Account director, grad student.
Kids: No thank you.
Living arrangements: I live with a boy in a cute loft downtown.
Most admirable traits: Work ethic, friendliness.
Number of sexual partners: I married the best of the lot.
Overnight hospital stays: Just one, when I had appendicitis this February.
Phobias: Hamface. Birds. [Please note: You can find effing ANYTHING on the internet. How did I google hamface and find the picture to the left? What sicko did this? I have to post it because it's so random and grody.]
Quote: Oh god, I never have anything clever enough for these things. I will update this later.
Religion: My dad told me to never discuss it in mixed company.
Siblings: One little sister.
Time I wake up: 6-6:30AM.
Unusual talent or skill: Convincing people that my ideas are their ideas.
Vegetable I love: Yellow peppers.
Worst habit: Procrastinating.
X-rays: I don't remember ever having any.
Yummy foods I make: I don't make a lot of food. Anything I make is yummy by default of being the closest thing I've got to a miracle.
Zodiac sign: Scorpio.
So now that he's no longer working in the boudoir, I've got one happy husband. Though it's a small-ish room, he finally has a unique space to dedicate to his office-y needs. Given the fact that this is a Foxy-free zone, it was quickly decided that it would be dedicated to more than techie stuff. One corner of it has been crafted into something he's always wanted -- a home recording studio. He's been obsessively and compulsively -- in the words of the Peanut -- "making [his] music". He has all kinds of fun with it, which I love.
So a few weeks ago, I came home to discover that he'd been fooling around with his equipment and recorded a cover of one of his favourite songs by one of his favourite UK bands. He played it for me and, I must say, the boy is certainly not without skills. Instrumentation, vocals, backup, and percussive bits and pieces were assembled by this kid over the course of about a day. The only thing missing was the drums and, while he does play, he can't set up here (until he gets the coveted electronic ones for practicing). While he was somewhat forlorn over it, I pointed out that it was great as it was. And that was that.
Right?
Of course not. My husband is a crazed perfectionist. He's not one of those people (like me) who starts something, gets bored, and lets it go. Next thing I know, he has somehow ended up getting the band's original drummer to bring the whole thing together. In Scotland. He put together an international collaboration of sorts. Over the web.
Now come on!
How can a girl not crush on that?
I haven't updated in forever. I keep starting and then closing the window. In order to get back on the wagon, I must present ten little updates.
(1) The loft is mostly set up. We still have to buy a coffee table, another living room chair, and some artwork, but it's pretty peachy. I can't get over how lovely and quiet it is here -- no jerky upstairs neighbours screaming at each other, no crack pipes in the backyard. Ah, this is the life, baby.
(2) Pam came to visit! The triumvirate of fun -- gossip, libations, and sneaky cigarettes -- came together fabulously for her trip to the city.
(3) Jen and I went to 'ho school (or at least that's what my charming boytoy called it). Please note: that is not -- I repeat, not -- us in the picture to the right. In fact, however, those women are effectively the other twenty or so women who were in our class. You know the ones. They're the professional dancers and athletes who -- instead of making silly faces and doing stupid dance moves when they can't do a flying backwards spin around a pole with one leg gracefully out in front of them -- have the instructor come over to show them said move more carefully, then proceed to practice it for two minutes only to master it as if they'd been on the pole for ten years. I don't think I've ever felt more deflated or taken more of a self esteem beating in my life, but the stories were worth it. Despite the humiliation, I managed to heartily entertain my husband with a few flashy moves when I got home, after which he couldn't stop laughing for ten minutes then followed up with a request that I never, ever, under any circumstances bring these moves forth in the boudoir. Mission accomplished?
(4) We had to replace our new mattress with a second, less fluffy new mattress. The original mattress was pocket coil + memory foam pillowtop. This sounded dreamy, and felt altogether cozy in the store. However, upon getting home, we discovered that said mattress was altogether delicious for lying in, it was not at all made for sleeping. After waking up about ten times every single night for a month then finally sleeping soundly the two nights we spent on a mattress from the 70s at the cottage, we knew a switch was in order. The new baby arrived yesterday and our whole sleeping situation is now conducive to the sweetest of dreams.
(5) I finished my first year (apparently the toughest of the three, in terms of volume and intensity) of my dastardly MBA. It may make me crazy, but I am a sucka for the madness. Last semester was a complete bitch, as our poor little group had dwindled down to three. By some miracle, we still completed everything (no thanks to a boatload of bullets) but I'm relieved to know that the school has reorganized all of our groups so I'll be back in a decent sized lineup next semester.
(6) We booked our trip to London to see a fun band in July. I don't know what we'll do the rest of the days, but I'm pretty sure we'll think of something. I haven't been to the UK since I was fifteen, which was a distressing thirteen years ago. I spent so many years of my life not being able to afford travel, it's just thrilling to finally be able to jet around when I feel the urge.
(7) My sister's wedding shower is in a few weeks, and I'm making the trip home to enjoy gossip, delicious dips, and mimosas. Strangely, this will be the first trip to Cape Breton since Christmas 2004. My parents have painted my old bedroom for the occasion. My sister and I plan to recreate our famous Three Pub Crawl on the Saturday night.
(8) My beloved little Mini uses just over half a tank a week. Hah! In a world of ever-increasing gas prices, this makes me want to kiss that car every time I get in it. The Saab used just under a full tank a week, and I really felt that was effing awesome. I do a lot of driving (to work, home, to work, to school, home, to work, to meetings outside the city, to warehouses, to suppliers, to meetings downtown, to work, to school, home, etc.) so this freaking rules.
(9) I started meditating to reduce potential for emotional responsiveness. I am generally not someone who responds emotionally, but given how stressful things are with work and school (and given the fact that my MIL -- who has meditated religiously since the 70s -- looks ten years younger than she is), it has to be worth something. Serenity now!
(10) I've worked out for 60+ minutes every day for five weeks. I haven't lost an ounce, but am down 1.5" each in the waist and hips, and 1" each in bust, arms, thighs, and calves. I can't really tell via the eyes, but for every four weeks of commitment, I am nonetheless rewarding myself with a decadent purchase. This time, I won myself a pair of Fidelity jeans.
PS: I should've made it eleven little updates, as I just changed the visuals of this blog. I know you're mocking me in your head, but I think my fourteen-year-old-girl-style rules.
So we got the place on Thursday. Came here. Cleaned. Went home at midnight. (Despite being annoyed that the former owners didn't clean as much as I would have, I didn't hate them because they left us unopened booze. Darlings!)
Got up Friday at 6:45. Did some work, got ready, met the painters at the door (they were here before me, eeks!). They worked their asses off all day long while Dave and I cleaned our heads off. New sectional arrived! Went home at 11:30.
Got up Saturday at 8:30. Arrived here within the hour. Cleaned madly, madly, madly. New bed arrived! Put it together. Left at 10:30, finally satisfied with how everything looked, convinced that we were ready to move in.
Got up today at 7. Finished final bits of packing, got ready, drank coffee (rarely do this!), piled all the boxes at the front of the apartment so moving would be easier. Came to the new place. Did some final cleaning while the boys moved everything over here. Went to get boys beer. Arrived back in half an hour to discover that those wonderful, wonderful men had finished the job (huge freight elevator lands right next door to us, whee!). Got McDonalds for hungry boys. Bid boys adieu. Unpacked maniacally all day long. Did laundry! User dishwasher! Admired setup! Have about ten boxes left to unpack and am so dead on my feet. Last photo of me in the old place below, super crazy psyched to be getting the hell out.
Holy CRAP. Moving was always a pain in the ass, but I had no clue how obsessed I'd be with things being perfect this time around. Yeesh. Our new mattress arrives tomorrow -- just have to get some new bedding and the place will be all in order.
I am so wiped out and my feet are positively aching, but holy crap. I am thrilled.
Alright, I didn't spill 'em. But a piece of them that was here last time I posted is gone now.
Last Monday, I woke up at 4AM with horrid abdominal pain, which, after a rushed trip to emergency, an hour and a half of ultrasounds by three different doctors, and a few bags of morphine, turned out to be acute appendicitis. I had surgery the same day and spent the week in and out of sleep, on and off of percocets, tylenol 3s, morphine, gravols, and naproxens, and antibiotics for one post-surgical infection, which had me in and out of the hospital again.
In any case! I've been healing since then. It's a pain in the ass when you're impatient to be a... sickly patient? (That was tragic writing, I apologize. Ridiculous. Yeesh.) So, yeah, here's what I've been doing: Lying on the couch. This includes sleeping, trying to do weakass exercises, pointing and flexing my toes, watching bad TV, reading gossipy magazines, and (again) sleeping. I've sat in the shower. I didn't get to shower for the first four days. I am so unproductive and sad, it's just not right. I feel like an elderly person. I'm embarrased!
However, despite all the suckiness of doing absolutely nothing productive and guilt for missing work and terror of missing school, I have discovered one most excellent thing: my husband is even more darling, sweet, dreamy, wonderful, and awesome than I had suspected before this. He's been a most excellent caretaker.
He's made me laugh so much it hurt when I wanted to weep from the pain. He's coined the Helping Hug, a crafty manoeuvre that helped me get up to standing position when I couldn't by myself. He's held my hand, pushed my hair out of my face, provided me with a big ziploc container to vomit in (and cleaned it afterwards without vomming himself), and set me up in bed so my abdomen would be in the least painful position. He's made me breakfast in bed, sat with me for entire days in the hospital when I was so drugged up I was the least entertaining company evah, and made sure my lip gloss, painkillers, at least one crappy magazine, and water were set out beside me and within my reach wherever I was. I love him!
Truly, I knew he was le best boy evah. But this? This is like level of best boy evah that I didn't really even realize existed. Aw, l'amour.
Between this and the five pounds I'm sure I'll have lost by the time I'm really back on my feet, I guess spilling my guts wasn't so bad after all.
I am going home in a few weeks for a short but very-much-looked-forward-to visit. As I counted down the days tonight, it occurred to me how very much I miss my few favourite people.
My two closest friends and my sister -- all home in Halifax, enjoying the prettiness of the city and the kindness of the people within its walls. Then there's me -- here all by myself, not really knowing many people despite many efforts to get to really get a few. And I love the city, it's not that I'm not happy in my new home. Truly, it's been so good to me -- I don't know how I got so lucky with the progress in my academic and professional lives. And I've met some really great people here that I feel pretty lucky to know. It's just that... no matter how many times I try, I just can't seem to get to know anyone like I know those girls from home -- clever, interesting, charming, and just basically wonderful in about every way possible.
My most brilliant friend -- we used to get beers after philosophy class, mock boys who recited bad poetry, and talk way into the night. We would go see bands and flirt with the boys in the worthwhile ones. We would hang out in cigar bars so we could smoke cigarettes for hours on end while chatting about everything under the sun. She would talk about things I knew nothing about and was spectacularly knowledgeable about everything that mattered. She's still it, baby.
My most darling friend -- it wasn't a night out without giggling, mocking, and sharing a plate of nachos (and beer with lime cordial). She is probably the sweetest person ever made and everyone I know loves her endlessly for that guileless charm. There are few people in the world you never want to let out of your social circle -- this kid is definitely one of them.
And of course, the sister -- it started with harassment over Barbies and moved into the terrain of cheap pink champagne. She's more sensible, honest, ethical, and brainy than anyone else I know, yet miraculously just as fun as I am (hah). Truly, there wouldn't be anything worth doing without her around and if she'd just move here, my life would be complete.
So? Only 22 days 'til I see the lot of them again. And what a weekend it will be!
Holy crap. I wish I'd kept track of how many times I've sneezed today because I'm pretty sure it would be a record.
My nose is so grossly red and runny, I am mortified that even my husband to has to see this hideousness.
I don't feel sick, per se. Just frustrated and fluffy-headed. And slow. And, um, okay. It hurts. Why?
I can feel the sinuses behind my cheekbones!
My right ear will not pop!
The puffiness level of my eyes cannot even be fixed with Clinique!
I am patiently waiting for the Tylenol Cold to kick in, but I fear that I should've taken the night remedy instead of the daytime dosage. It's been nearly two hours and, um, nothing is happening.
This'll be gone by tomorrow, right?
Right?
Damn you, ever-changing weather, lacklustre immune system, and overly-jam-packed lifestyle.
Bah.
When I started my MBA program, I knew I'd be placed in a group. This group was to be my team for the first four of nine semesters of the program. We would do all collective projects together and be responsible for helping each other keep up if any of us had to miss a day of notes. I was terrified by this prospect -- in the months preceding our program's beginning, I had an impending fear that I'd be stuck with business-y jackasses who felt superior to me, lazy people for whom I'd have to do all the work, or anti-social, competitive maniacs.
Then school started. And my group was -- in layman's terms -- the bomb.
When the school set us up, they did so via some statistical analysis, based on goals, personality, and achievements to date. Most groups had six people, but ours only had five. And what a group of five we were. We had an architect from Columbia, who had the most fabulous sense of humour and tended to look a bit like U2's Bono. We had a computer programmer from the Phillipines -- a little shy and incredibly sweet in his modesty -- with such innate understanding of financials that I was constantly in awe. We had an engineer from India -- currently working as a pharmaceutical consultant -- who played the group father figure with incredible brilliance, diplomacy, and one of the kindest hearts I've had the pleasure to see. We had the adorable marketing whiz-kid from Hong Kong, whose organizational skills and sensibility towards stellar teamwork kept us all on perfect track. And we had me: brand junkie, paper-writing fiend, presentation dynamo, and overall Perky Pollyanna.
We worked exceptionally well together. We had similar styles for putting projects together and highly connected attitudes on learning and teamwork. Each of our skills really complemented those of our teammaters, and I'm certain that we learned as much from each other -- if not more -- than we did during our lectures. We spent time together outside of the classroom, discussing life, politics, entertainment, and aspirations. It was an amazing relationship and I was thrilled to have the lot of them in my life.
Then first semester ended and second semester began. Our architect disappeared. He sent us an email saying he'd withdrawn for personal reasons. It was an unusual exit, but we respected his need for privacy and carried on. We often chatted about him, wondering if his family was okay, hoping the best, but never heard from him again. We went through another semester, reassembled our skill sets to cover what he'd contributed and continued kicking ass.
The second semester ended and third semester began. Next thing we know, we're getting an email from our engineer/consultant. He's been offered a position as associate VP at his company -- a huge honour and a real testament to his talents and kind personality! -- and will have to leave the program, as his new position requires him to live in India and spend a good deal of time in Europe. He met with our classmates for the final post-lecture beer-fest on Thursday night, then met with just our team today for our final post-group-meeting lunch at our favourite cafe by school. We reminisced, laughed, talked. He told us that his wife is newly pregnant and that he expected each of us to come visit him in Delhi.
We really do miss him already. It's quite incredible the close relationships you can form with people when you work so very well together. So to one crazy-exceptional friend: good luck, congratulations, and stay in touch. We all feel lucky as hell to have known someone as fantastic as you!