Urgh!

So I have absolutely no idea why, when my blog is set to show the last 15 days worth of entries, it will only show the entries from this month. Very irritating!

The weekend in the sticks was fun. The reunion was more enjoyable than I thought it would be, as I am not very big on spending vast amounts of time socializing with people I barely know. My husband and I spent Saturday night up at his cottage, just the two of us, and it was perfectly lovely. His sisters and their families and his Dad came up Sunday and we swam, and chatted and ate food while sitting around the bonfire.

The only annoying part would be my husband's aunts, who spent much of the reunion cornering us in the kitchen asking when were planning on starting our family. One aunt went so far as to tell us that they had graciously given us two years since our wedding, and they now expected an announcement by October. At this point, I fell back onto my usual response, telling them we had decided not to have any children, but would instead rent them for special occasions.

Buh bye!

I am off to the sticks this weekend, in order to partake of a family reunion. The call of the lake and swimming is enough to drive an extremely hot and sticky girl to tears.

Later!

Gotta Love Free Enterprise!

Sadly, Ebay nipped this one in the bud a mere hour after it was listed. One must wonder, though, exactly how much bang a company would get for it's buck, seeing as the guy is married after all.

Gimme a "B"...

I have spent much of my life feeling as though I am being pulled in two very opposite directions. One day I am the little hippie girl, the next a goth baby. I swing between glowing idealism and snarling cynicism, sometimes in the same thought. I like daisies and combat boots. I live liberal and vote conservative. (Of course, in Canada, that particular distinction is a little more vague, since conservative isn't really so - that's what we have *shudder* Reform for.)

It's awfully exhausting hating frills and ruffles and girly crap and loving cute fluffy little bunnies all at the same time.

I think I have found the perfect solution. I wanna be a Radical Cheerleader! (If that link doesn't work for you, try this one.) This is the most perfect thing I have ever heard of. Pom Poms and combat boots! Social conciousness with style! Protests are often so very boring, standing around waving a sign or chanting some desultory slogan. Who wants that? Not me. I want to bounce while shouting catchy cheers!

I have found my calling.

Wheee!

I have taken the plunge and set up Moveable Type. Yay me! (Actually those cheers should be for my fabulous husband who spent his whole Sunday setting this up for me.)

Now I just have to *shudder* change my template again. The though is enough to send me into cold sweats. Oh well, everyone can use more practice in html, right?

Yesterday was our two year wedding anniversary. Two years ago we pledged our hearts and futures to each other in my mother's beautiful garden, standing around this pond:

Along with my bouquet, I carried the pocket watch my mother gave my father years ago. During the ceremony it rained, making me laugh instead of cry. We spent the rest of the evening with our closest friends and family, sitting in the garden, eating and chatting. Once the evening was over, I changed out of my white satin pumps into my Doc's, and, with me in still in my wedding dress, a small group of us gathered in a pub for a last toast before we headed off to the hotel.

The last two years have passed so quickly. It's been hard sometimes, and wonderful most of the time. It's with hope and love that I move into this new year.

Sudden Light

I have been here before,
But when or how I cannot tell:
I know the grass beyond the door,
The sweet keen smell,
The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.

You have been mine before,--
How long ago I may not know:
But just when at that swallow's soar
Your neck turn'd so,
Some veil did fall,--I knew it all of yore.

Has this been thus before?
And shall not thus time's eddying flight
Still with our lives our love restore
In death's despite,
And day and night yield one delight once more?

-Dante Gabriel Rosetti

So who is in need of an anal stickectomy?

Well, other than various people both in real life and not-so-real life (and if you think this is directed at you in some way - you know what they say: "If the shoe fits...") the prize goes to the couple we had to deal with at work on Friday. After more than a decade in the wonderful world of customer service, some people still manage to surprise me with the amazing depths of their anal retentiveness. Not only did this woman come in and manage to be a total pain in the ass, but thirty minutes later her husband phoned in order to complain about how upset his wife is by our lousy customer service, sloth, and piss poor product line. All in all, these two managed to make three peoples lives miserable for over an hour - all because of an item that cost seventeen dollars and ninety nine cents.

Ever get the feeling that some people in this world are in desperate need of an anal stickectomy?

Wow!

I spent the day watching my best friend give birth to her beautiful baby girl. It was amazing! She was amazing! After 13 or so hours of labour she gave birth to the loveliest 8 1/2 pound little baby. She had a waterbirth at home, and it was a priviledge and an honour to be able to be a part of this miraculous event along with her husband and midwife. I am in awe.

Congratulations Roberta!! And welcome to the world, little Muriel Elizabeth!!

If you haven't heard already, South Africa's Sesame Street will be introducing an HIV positive muppet. This scandalous fact seems to be on everyone's lips lately, and I just don't get it. Maybe I am missing something here, because I'm really having a hard time wrapping my brain around why this is such a big deal.

It is estimated that one in nine people in South Africa have HIV. One in nine. With numbers like that, an HIV positive character is far more socially relevant than wether or not the Cookie Monster will learn the value of sharing, and the significance of the letter B. For many children the specter of HIV won't be some far off boogeyman, but instead their reality. One of their friends will have it, one of their parents, or relatives, or teachers, or maybe it will be them. When 40% of adult deaths in South Africa are attributed to HIV, it's no longer about the dangers of needle sharing and unprotected sex, or the tragedies of contaminated blood supplies - it's about a population trying to come to grips with what is now everybody's problem.

Nor do I understand the outrage about Sesame Street's supposedly "PC" attitude towards modern programming. This isn't new and it isn't news. If you hadn't noticed this until recently, you've been watching the wrong show. This latest brouhaha is just Sesame Street doing what Sesame Street has always done. Ethnic diversity, multiculturalism, and tolerance - along with a host of other "liberal" mores - have been a mainstay of the show since it started. This is PBS. Broadcasting with a social conscience and a liberal political bent is kinda what it's all about.

'Course, I could be wrong, what the hell do I know - I love Sesame Street.

Who said that every wish would be heard and answered
When wished on the morning star?
Somebody thought of that, and someone believed it,
And look what it's done so far.
What's so amazing that keeps us stargazing
And what do we think we might see?
Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection,
The lovers, the dreamers, and me.

(And yeah, I know the Rainbow Connection is from The Muppets. Sometimes we must make do. )

I have spent three hours on the computer, and what have I managed to accomplish? I changed my comments box. Productivity at it's finest!

I'm planning on working on my blog template sometime during the next couple of days. If this place vanishes, I screwed up.

I Need To Get Out More

I was flipping through the channels tonight, and noticed the beginning of Sixteen Candles. As I was glued to the couch by the mean hand of unrelenting humidity, I figured I would watch for a few minutes. (We will studiously ignore why I would watch a movie on TV that I happen to own on video, as it raises far too many pesky questions about the true extent of my laziness.) As I was watching, suddenly there appeared a scene (specifically a cafeteria scene) that I had never seen before. Ever! I have watched this movie dozens of times, both in the theatre and on video, and I am now consumed with a burning need to know where this scene came from!

Not to mention that I now feel compelled to watch the whole damn movie, just to see if there are any other mysterious additional scenes.

Did I mention I need to get out more?

Job Interview Tip #207

Picking an argument with the person who will ultimately decide wether or not to hire you is a bad idea.

So this actually happened yesterday. A woman dropped her resume off at work, and during a few normal questions with the soon to be manager, managed to be both belligerent and argumentative. Needless to say, she will not be getting hired.

The results of the Google Game:

Chryse is eerily deserted.
Chryse is covered with morning cloud.
Chryse is in charge of the Groundwork Erewash Valley Land Team.
Chryse is very bright in red light.
Chryse is firmly of the opinion that looking into the future locks you into the timeline you see, which is a pretty stupid thing to do to yourself.
Chryse is boggled.
Chryse is small, but it is large enough for him to be lost in.
Chryse is effectively ruled by the merchants.
Chryse is quite attached to those things that she designates as cute.
Chryse is a rich second-circle Shadow, looking much like Amber.

Ever so appropriately, the final search result was this:
Chryse is right!

Maybe it's because I just watched Roger & Me last night, or maybe the heat is making me cranky, but really - to say that children go hungry in the US because their parents are dumb is, quite frankly, the dumbest thing I have ever heard. Okay, maybe not the dumbest thing, but certainly naive, and reeking of priviledge.

Lots of families go hungy, not because they are too stupid, or too lazy, or don't give a shit about their kids. Truth is, for a lot of people, the American Dream is a big, fat lie. The romantic notion that the only thing standing in the way of a white picket fence and two cars in the driveway is some elbow grease and good ole fashioned ingenuity is, quite simply, bullshit. Equal opportunity for all is a nice idea on paper, but really, the playing field sure as hell isn't equal, and a small group of people have the ball, and they aren't sharing.

Imagine this, if you will:

You work at a factory, making whatever. The money is decent - you can raise your family on your income. Your family, your friends, everyone works there. Whatever industry this factory is in, it is the only game in town. Every other business serve the employees of the factory. The grocery stores, the retail stores, the car lots, the real estate agents, the restaurants, all make their money from the factory's wages. So then, the layoffs start. A couple thousand people in one day. Then a couple thousand more. Then a few more, for good measure. The great thing is, you aren't being laid off because business is bad, but instead because your company realized that they can pay people in Mexico 70 cents an hour to do your job! What a great deal!

There are only a couple hundred jobs to be found, so the rest get unemployment. Frightened that people will start to leave town to find better jobs, the local government tells people not to worry, the job market will pick up, it will be okay. But it's not okay. Soon people realize that the jobs they found making half what they made at the factory don't pay their rent. Unemployment will maybe cover your mortgage, or your bills, but not both. The local economy becomes depressed, retailers start losing their businesses. More and more stores close, and more and more people become unemployed. Crime goes up - way up, depressing the economy even more. You can't sell your house, because the market is for shit. Your trapped with a mortgage you can no longer afford. You can either pay your rent or feed your kids, but if you don't pay your rent, you'll get evicted and won't be able to feed them anyways. Your choice is either to abandon your house, and hope you can find a job elsewhere, or wait till the bank forecloses and you end up on the street. You can't get unemployment if you move out of state to try and find a job, even if you could afford the expenses of moving. Then again, you can't get unemployment if you live in a cardboard box, either, so whichever way you look, you're screwed. You can't borrow money from your friends or family to help you get back on your feet, because they all lost their jobs, too, and are facing the same thing.

Everyone knows, though, that the only reason your kids are going to school hungry is because you are dumb. Yeah, right, whatever.

Yay! My Dad is coming to town! Wheee! I haven't seen him in ages, like a year and a half. Unfortunately, it isn't under the best of circumstances, because my Aunt is very, very ill. Yet still, I cannot help but be excited to get a chance to see him. :)

Wheeeee! It's Christmas in June!

Anyone who works in retail knows that Christmas starts, oh, just about now. Actually, it starts in January, when the majority of the Christmas orders are placed at the January shows. Then, in June, the orders start to arrive. They pretty much keep arriving for the next six months or so. So, here I am, in the sweltering heat of summer, pricing Christmas ornaments. This makes me an interesting combination of giddy and disgruntled, as I stare at my eight millionth cherub of the day. My hand is starting to form a twisted claw from gripping the pricing gun, and I have sparkles in my hair.

Sir! The peasants are revolting!

Yes, and they smell, too.

This last week has kind of sucked. We have been very impatiently waiting for my husband's paycheque to arrive. This absurd comedy of errors would be a lot more amusing to watch if we hadn't been too poor for popcorn. First, they can't get the direct deposit set up on time. Then, they courier an envelope, but forget to put the cheque in. So, tonight, finally, we get one cheque, for the consulting work he did before he was hired on full time at the company. Apparently payroll didn't realize he was actually a salaried employee now, and didn't make up a paycheque for him. Supposedly we will get it tomorrow. I would start to worry that this was some ingenious money saving venture and the company was about to go down the tubes, but they have always been very reliable with his cheques in the past. So, for over a week now, I have been wandering around the apartment aimlessly, doing a stunning version of Edina from Ab Fab, muttering; "Poor? Poor!"

To top it off, the hot water heater went out in our building yesterday morning. We haven't had hot water for two days, and they promise that we might have it sometime tomorrow morning. So now I am broke and smelly. :P

*sigh*

Do you ever get the sneaking suspicion that you have become really, really boring? I haven't been blogging much at all lately, because I haven't had much to say. For those who know me, you know how odd this is. I always have something to say!

So what the hell happened? When did I become so incredibly dull that my own musings bore the crap out of me? I used to be interesting. I used to dye my hair purple and go out dancing all night long, dressed in PVC hot pants and clinging to the bars of a makeshift cage. I used to go on impromptu road trips and splash around in fountains. I used to argue about philosophy until all hours of the morning, and rant about stuff I read the in the newspaper as though it actually mattered.

I am sitting here, wearing my emily t-shirt, emblazoned with the words "sixteen and gothic" and I have realized that I am no longer either. (Well, duh. :P) The thing is, I realize that we grow up, and it's not really my lost youth that I am mourning. (Okay, not much.) The accessories I have acquired throughout this life, my tattoos, my piercings, don't define me any more than my shaved head or my black lipstick did. It's okay that I am married now, and have a job, and can no longer go dancing on a Wednesday. It's okay that my road trips are mostly planned, and my black leather studded dog collar is in retirement. I can say with certainty that I like where I am, it's a nice place, and the view is pretty.

The thing is, where I was, wasn't really all that radical. Goth started before I was even born, and certainly wasn't new by the time I stumbled upon it sixteen years later. Being a disenchanted and disenfranchised university student sure as hell wasn't the cutting edge. Blue hair does not a revolution make. I am more radical now as I rapidly approach thirty than I ever was in my misspent youth. I learned how to think, and even more important, how to act, and my politics are no longer a fashion statement and a handy dating tool. So why am I so easily dismissed? Just another chick who got married and got boring. God, she probably even votes!

When did I become invisible?

I wear a disguise
I'm not just your average jane
The super doesn't stand for model
But that doesn't mean I'm plain
If all you see is how I look
You miss the superchick within
And I christen you titanic underestimate and swim
I've got the rifle gonna be myself

I'll be everything that I want to be
I am confidence in insecurity
I am a voice yet waiting to be heard
I'll shoot the shot bang that you hear round the world
I'm a one girl revolution

Some people see the revolution but most only see the girl
I can lose my hard earned freedom if my fear defines my world
I declare my independence from the critics and their stones
I can find my revolution I can learn to stand alone...

I'll be everything that I want to be
I am confidence in insecurity
I am a voice yet waiting to be heard
I'll shoot the shot bang that you hear round the world
I'm a one girl revolution

~Superchic(k), One Girl Revolution

Is there anyone out there who doesn't know how much I love Ani DiFranco? In a completely relaxed, non fangirl type of way, of course. I've been trying to get my Mom into her by sneaking a couple of Ani tracks onto each folk CD I make for her.

The first time I heard Ani DiFranco, I was hanging out on Arlington, in the (very scary) apartment of a guy I dated very briefly my first year of university. He wasn't home, and I was hanging out, listening to CD's with his roommate, when he mentioned this singer he thought I would really like. So we listened to Ani all afternoon, and it was like I had discovered the most amazing secret. Then, brimming with our secret knowledge, we scampered off to the park to splash around in the fountain and make a spectacle of ourselves.

You know, in retrospect he was a lot cooler than my boyfriend.

This has been the worst month ever. Everyone one I know is either sick, dying or has a relative who is. Even my Mother's dog died.

Can I just crawl under a big damn rock until it's over?

Today is Tangwystl's baby shower! My fridge is full of lovely, yummy food right now. Cherry Oatmeal Bars, Mexican Brownies, Hummus from scratch, Lentil Split Pea Spread (sorta like hummus, and yummier than it sounds, I promise), three cheese balls, almost home made salsa, Feta Pine Nut Spread, spicy olives, and lots of dip and cut up veggies. Also, the bread bowl with lemon dill dip that is mandatory at all functions that Tang or I am hosting. The shower is being held at her sister's house, and will be a ton o' fun, with lots of people and yummy barbeque.

Now I just have to run out and pick up a couple last minute things for her present, and I am all set!

Recipes from Epicurious

Indian Lentil and Split Pea Spread

• 1 cup dried lentils
• 1 cup split peas
• 1/3 cup plus 3 tablespoons olive oil
• 1 cup chopped red onion
• 2 tablespoons chopped garlic
• 2 teaspoons turmeric
• 2 teaspoons ground cumin
• 1 cup fresh cilanto leaves
• 2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
• 1 teaspoon chili powder
• Pita bread, cut into triangles

Cook lentils and split peas in large pot of boiling salted water until very tender, about 35 minutes. Drain.

Heat 1/3 cup oil in heavy large skillet over medium heat. Add onion and garlic and sauté until onion is translucent, about 5 minutes. Add turmeric and cumin and stir 1 minute. Transfer mixture to processor. Add lentils and split peas, cilantro, lemon juice, chili powder and remaining 3 tablespoons oil. Process until smooth. Season generously with salt and pepper. Transfer to medium bowl. (Can be prepared 1 day ahead. Cover and refrigerate. Bring to room temperature before serving.) Serve with pita bread.

Feta Pine Nut Spread

• 8-ounce tub whipped cream cheese spread
• 1/2 cup plain nonfat yogurt
• 3 tablespoons toasted pine nuts
• 2 tablespoons (packed) chopped fresh basil
• 1 garlic clove, minced
• 1 7-ounce package feta cheese, crumbled
• 1/3 cup chopped drained oil-packed sun-dried tomatoes

Place cream cheese, yogurt, pine nuts, basil and garlic in processor. Blend, using on/off turns, until combined. Add feta cheese and sun-dried tomatoes and blend, using on/off turns, until combined but still chunky. Transfer spread to bowl. (Feta-pine nut spread can be made 3 days ahead. Cover and refrigerate.)

Mexican Chocolate Brownies

• 3/4 stick (6 tablespoons) unsalted butter, cut into pieces
• 3 ounces fine-quality bittersweet chocolate (not unsweetened), chopped
• 2 ounces unsweetened chocolate, chopped
• 1 cup sugar
• 1/2 cup whole blanched almonds, toasted until golden and cooled
• 2 large eggs
• 1/2 cup all-purpose flour
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon

Preheat oven to 350°F. and butter and flour a 9-inch square baking pan, knocking out excess flour.In a heavy 1 1/2-quart saucepan melt butter and chocolate over low heat, stirring, until smooth and remove pan from heat. Cool chocolate mixture 10 minutes.In a food processor process sugar and almonds until ground fine. Stir almond mixture into chocolate mixture and add eggs, 1 at a time, beating well with a wooden spoon until mixture is glossy and smooth. Stir in flour, salt, and cinnamon until just combined. Spread batter evenly in pan and bake in middle of oven 25 to 30 minutes, or until a tester comes out with crumbs adhering to it. Cool brownies completely in pan on a rack before cutting into 16 squares. Brownies keep, layered between sheets of wax paper in an airtight container at cool room temperature, 5 days.

How is it that two people can generate so much laundry? Yet, at the same time, I never have a single thing to wear?

Never fear! I have not joined the ranks of those who are quitting blogging. I have just been insanely busy this week, and apparently spectacularly dull, as well. I will return to the keyboard soon, I promise! After all, I wouldn't want to dissapoint my trio of readers. ;)

Oh yes, and for those who are concerned, Mr. Monkey is on the mend, and should be home soon!

Woohoo!!! Nothing like an unexpected 4 1/2 day weekend! I work in a gift shop in a small mall located on the main floor of a large government building. Wednesday, a pipe in the cooling system broke, causing an antifreeze spill. Somehow, during the course of cleaning it up, a large amount of antifreeze was flushed into the buildings water supply. Enough so that the water coming out of the taps was a slightly blue colour. Yesterday morning, they discovered the problem, and evacuated the building. We closed early, and this morning I found out we are closed today and Saturday, so no work for me. I don't think I have had Victoria Day weekend off in ages. It will be kinda fun!

Yeah, so I was a goth in high school. I wore the standard uniform of unrelieved black and a pair of Doc Marten's. I listened to Nine Inch Nails, The Smiths, and My Life With The Thrill Kill Cult. I adopted the appropriately cynical attitude, and danced in cages in industrial clubs, clad in PVC hot pants.

Then I had my membership revoked for having an unnatural affection for the colour yellow. Oh, the horror!

A line from an Ani DiFranco song keeps running through my head these days. I suppose it is oddly appropriate, seeing as I cannot remember why I thought it was so appropriate in the first place.

they say goldfish have no memory
I guess their lives are much like mine
and the little plastic castle
is a surprise every time

What a busy weekend! The Tulip Festival started this weekend. Tang and I went to see Great Big Sea on Friday night. They were great, although it was incredibly cold outside. In a six degrees of separation moment, Tang's old roommate, Kathleen Edwards, was the opening act. In an "only in Canada" moment, they continually interrupted the shows in order to update everyone on the Ottawa/Toronto hockey game. The cheers when Ottawa won rivaled the cheers for the band.

My Mom and stepfather had an art show open this weekend, so on Saturday I went and checked it out. Their work is fabulous as always. If you haven't already, check it out at Touch of Sky Studio.Then we went to the Tulip Festival again, this time to see Sarah Harmer. The weather was thankfully a little nicer, and the show was really good. The people bundled in their winter jackets and ordering alcoholic slushies kinda scared me though. A hot toddy would have been more appropriate, I think.

Mother's Day, I went out for lunch with my Mom and Grandma, and then went to the hospital to visit with my Grandpa. He is doing much, much better. They moved him out of ICU, and Sunday he was using a walker to go up and down his room while declaring that he was ready to go home now. He isn't big on this mandatory confinment thing. :P While I was gone, my new (well, new to us, anyways) refrigerator was delivered! Yay! A seperate freezer, wohoo! Sad, isn't it, how excited I get over kitchen appliances? It's a sickness.

The issue of personal responsibility keeps coming up again and again everywhere I turn, in real life and online. It boggles my mind that so many people seem to have abdicated all responsibility for their lives and happiness, and are so quick to lay blame. It's fate's fault, or their mother's, or husband's, or the evil bloggers. The bag boy at the grocery store probably has it in for you, too. Then there is the delightful irony of watching the very same people laying blame for how the act and react at the feet of other people, telling those same other people that they should control how they act and react so those who have no control can feel better. So, for those who feel they must lay the blame for their personal happiness on everybody else's doorstep, I say:

Own your shit. Hug it, love it, take it home and call it George.

You know, I never watch hockey. Until the Olympics men's final, I had never watched a game on television before. Now, it's almost midnight, and I am still watching the Ottawa/Toronto game! I think I am becoming one of those hockey people. Oh my.

It seems I spoke too soon. Early Wednesday morning, Grandpa started bleeding, and they couldn't get it to stop. He was also having problems with his heart. So now, he is in ICU, heavily sedated, and we wait.

And wait.

And wait.

I haven't updated this thing in a few days now. My Grandfather went into surgery today, to have a tumour removed from his bowels. I have spent the last few days alternating between worrying and worrying some more. Happily, my Mom called me a couple of hours ago, and although the surgery was more complicated than they thought it would be, he now resting comfortably, and they think his recovery will go smoothly.

I can breathe again.

Better Living Through Chemistry

I keep seeing this commercial for Jergen's "Naturally Smooth" moisturizer. This product frightens me. A moisturizer that makes hair finer and less noticeable after 8 weeks of use? What the hell is in this stuff that it makes your hair fall out, and why would I want to put it on my skin? Sheesh, chemotherapy would produce the same results, but I don't think I will be signing up for that any time soon.

I am Living A Hitchcock Movie

Across from my kitchen window is another building which houses a party supply store. The alley way between our buildings is fenced in on one end and a wall is on the other so it is cut off from the street. The windows in the building across the way are barred, and several pigeons have made nests on the windowsills.

Oddly enough, I like the pigeons. They aren't screechy, relatively clean, and they mate for life, so I have watched several generations of pigeons born and leave the nest. Actually, it's the baby pigeons that won me over, since like most baby animals, they are fluffy and cute.

My super doesn't feel so kindly disposed towards the pigeons. So one day a couple of months ago he decided to tie several soda cans together, and hang them from the bars of the windows. I suppose he thought the noise would scare them away, and it did - for about a half hour. Being city pigeons and all, they got used to it pretty quickly, and settled back in. He then took to going out at night and rattling the cans around. This little tactic didn't even get them to move, let alone leave permanently.

Little did my super know that this little plan would have an unexpected effect. Now, with their territory invaded, the pigeons have decided to wage a subtle war of dominance against our building. For instance: every once in a while you will see a pigeon perched on a soda can, staring defiantly at our building. The newest hatchling in particular, now in birdie adolescence, has taken to swooping down - barely missing my kitchen window -and proceeding to perch on the window ledge, and strutting back and forth while my cats go wild in frustration. Yesterday, the war escalated as no less than five pigeons swept down from the windowsills and roof and started marching back and forth in precise formation up and down the length of the alley. My cats don't know what to make of this new aggression. They have tried their usual tricks of sitting in the window and warbling their "don't mind me, I'm just a little bird" tunes, but the pigeons merely look at them, their beady eyes shining in mocking disdain.

I can't wait to see what is next. If my body is found, pecked to death and covered in feathers, you know what happened.

Urgh. Sinuses congested. Headache pushing eyeballs out of skull. Brain foggy. Allergies suck...

Why, oh why do people who live in the middle of the city allow their cats to roam around outside? I was taking the garbage out tonight and this pretty little cat, with collar, goes wandering through the parking lot. Hello, people! We live at a major bloody intersection, in a big city! This is a really good way for your cat to get hit by a car, stolen, or catch some terrible disease.

I read the most wonderful thing the other day (in a review for the new Leonard Cohen CD, actually) and I keep coming back to it:

The truth isn't always pretty, but it is always beautiful.

Last fall, we decided to start having bi-weekly dinner parties with some of our friends. Every second Sunday, a bunch of us get together and cook, and eat and chat. We rotate who cooks and where it is hosted. It usually gets hosted at our place half the time, because both DH and I like to cook, so we each take a turn "hosting", and another friend of ours, Jay, cooks at our place because it's bigger than his apartment. It's been very fun, and I was very sad that it sort of got sidetracked after the holidays. Today, we have decided to start it up again. So, tonight, DH is cooking his fabulously fantastic signature dish, often known as "heart attack on a plate". It's fettucini in a cream sauce, sort of like an alfredo sauce, but made with feta and fresh basil. Before serving, the pasta is topped with more basil, crumbled feta and diced tomatoes. It is too good for words. It is incredibly rich, though, so we will be forgoing my usually decadent and fattening style of dessert, and have fresh strawberries with a little freshly whipped cream.

I am so excited, I have been running around cleaning all day! Over the last few years, I have come to realize that I love entertaining. I really like to cook and do cute place settings and stuff. It's a little Martha-y, but what can ya do? The nice thing about this whole set up is that since the six of us rotating hosting duties, sometimes you get to entertain, and sometimes you get entertained.

Not to mention that my apartment is so much cleaner when I know people are coming over every couple of weeks.

MmMmmm... I made the most fabulously yummy pizza dough tonight. So, I thought I would share the recipe. (I make the pizza dough in a bread machine.) This recipe makes enough dough for two pizzas, I usually make one, and wrap the other half in plastic wrap and freeze it.

1 1/2 cups water
2 tbsp. olive oil
2 tsp. salt
2 tsp. sugar
2 tsp. basil
2 tsp. garlic powder
4 tbsp. parmesan cheese
4 cups flour
4 tsp. quick rise yeast

Place ingredients in the order listed into the bread machine. Use dough setting. When the dough is ready, remove from the bread machine, and divide dough in half. Press one half into a 14 inch pizza pan. (I use a pizza stone dusted with cornmeal.) Spread with toppings. Bake in a preheated 425 degree oven for 20-30 minutes or until crust is crisp and browned. For thicker crust, let dough sit in pan for thirty minutes before adding toppings.

So, on another blog, a guy commented about how the current discussion going on in the comments section was being conducted by "hormonally heightened" females. He apparently came into the discussion in order to start some "intelligent discourse". Little did we know that the discussion happily going on before that was lacking in intelligence. Gosh, it's a good thing he came along to set us little ladies straight.

Do people still really think this way? Didn't this misogynistic bullshit go out of style sometime in late 1973? Last I checked, we were all, male and female, under the influence of hormones. They go running through our bodies when we are stressed, scared, hurt, and frightened, not to mention when we are in the mood to tangle some sheets. Last I checked, neither sex gets to claim some "get out of hormones free" card that allows them to pass go and collect two hundred dollars. Unless of course, testosterone is no longer considered a hormone. Gotta keep up with those advances in medical science, I guess.

It wouldn't bother me so much if this were only about the rantings of the occasional internet dipshit. The problem is, this whole "those pesky women, always at the mercy of their hormones" mentality affects more than just the clouded minds of a mere few. It's awfully pervasive, for these oh-so-enlightened times. For instance, the British Boxing Association decided, oh about two years ago, to not allow women to enter the sport of boxing, because apparently women are so at the mercy of their hormones that they could not be trusted to not accidentally maim or kill another boxer while they suffered through the apparently mind bending effects of PMS. Gee, little do my friends and family know that they gamble with their lives hanging out with me for a few days each month. Funny how the male dominated boxing that I have witnessed has also had their problems with the occasional maiming and killing. Guess the British Boxing Association is suffering from short term memory loss. Too many blows to the head can do that, I have heard.

Now, I am not all that interested in stepping into the boxing ring, as I like my nose right where it is, but decisions such as this have a much wider impact. We can assert that women are autonomous and capable individuals, yet every time a group of people who get to decide what we can do and how we can do it base their decisions on the idea that women are helplessly at the mercy of their overwhelming hormonal urges, any assertion to the contrary by the general public is completely undermined. Yeah, you've come a long way, baby. The thing is - I don't get it. I really don't. What is so fearsome and loathsome about a few women having an intelligent and passionate conversation, or about a woman wanting to play a freakin' sport that makes everyone have to run out and find any excuse to characterize them as nothing more than a Stepford wife married to a bunch of biological secretions.

So let me say this for all those who may be a little confused. Just because a woman displays a little passion and zeal doesn't mean she is a hapless victim of her hormonal urges.

Well, unless she's naked.

Now the fish tank in the laundry room is housing nothing but a rather lonely looking snail....

So yesterday was my husband's birthday, and I was out running around, picking up his gifts and such. As I stepped out of the record store, a reporter asked me if he could ask me about health care. (Or as it is also known, an AOA - "any old asshole" interview.) So, being the sap that I am, I agreed. Now, the reason I say I am a sap is threefold.

1.) I looked like crud. I had a huge pimple on my cheek, and of course, this was an hour before I got my fabulous new haircut.

2.) I hate being on camera. I loathe it to the point that I have yet to watch my wedding video. But, invariably I agree to these stupid things, (three times in the last year) because I always feel sorry for the poor guy who has to ask strangers to answer idiotic questions on camera.

3.) Although I have very vehement opinions on the status and future of our healthcare system, you wouldn't know it from my pathetic (and giggle ridden) answers yesterday. I sounded like a total dork, and worse yet, a dork with an opinion (if you can even call it that) without any shred of substance. In fact, I think my loathing of being on camera is quickly being overcome by an even bigger loathing of having missed my opportunity to sound off about healthcare and privatization.

Oh well, it could have been worse. At least I wasn't playing tennis!

It's a Serious Issue

You know it's a slow news day when you hear this:

"On the news at eleven. Flying truck tires! Freak accident or tragedy waiting to happen? An in depth look at how to keep you and your family safe!"

Better set you VCR's, folks, you wouldn't want to miss this fascinating and informative report. :P

Was It Really the Best Years of Our Lives?

Oh god, someone hand me an afghan and some Geritol, because I am feeling old.... I just received an email inviting me to my ten year high school reunion, to be held summer of 2003. I need to go lie down.

Recipes

My friend wanted me to post a couple of recipes, so here they are. The Chimichangas in the Oven recipe is from allrecipes.com and the yummy Chocolate Cookies recipe is from a Martha Stewart magazine.

Chicken Chimichangas In The Oven -serves 4
� cup chopped onion
2 cloves garlic, minced
� cup chili powder
2 cups salsa
3 tbsp water
� tsp ground cumin
� tsp ground cinnamon
1 pound cooked, shredded chicken breast meat
1 cup refried beans
8 10 inch flour tortillas
2 tbsp olive oil

Saute onion and garlic in a large saucepan until tender. Stir in chili powder, salsa, water, cumin and cinnamon. Mix together and pour mixture into blender or food processor; process until smooth. Pour back into saucepan and stir in chicken. Heat through. Preheat oven to 425 degrees F (220 degrees C). Spoon a heaping tablespoon of beans down center of each tortilla, working with 1 tortilla at a time. Top with 1/2 cup of chicken mixture. Fold up bottom, top and sides of tortillas and secure with toothpicks. Place chimichangas seam-side-down in a lightly greased 10x15 inch baking dish. Brush sides with oil. Bake in preheated oven for 15 minutes or until golden brown and crisp, turning every five minutes. Serve with salsa, sour cream and guacamole.

Super Yummy Chocolate Cookies (Not their real name :P)
2 cups plus two tablespoons flour
3/4 cup cocoa powder
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1 1/4 cup butter
2 cups granulate sugar, plus extra for dipping
2 large eggs
2 tsp vanilla extract

Sift together flour, cocoa powder, baking soda and salt. Set aside. In a large bowl, beat butter and sugar on medium speed until light and fluffy, about two minutes. Add eggs and vanilla, and beat to combine. Reduce speed to low and gradually add flour and cocoa mixture, beat to combine. Form dough into flattened disk, wrap with plastic wrap, and chill until firm, about 1 hour. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line to baking sheets with parchment paper. Shape dough into 1 3/4 inch balls. Roll each ball in sugar. Place on prepared baking sheets, and 1 1/2 inches apart. Bake until set, 10 to 12 minutes, rotating halfway through. Transfer to a rack to cool for five minutes. Transfer cookies from baking sheet to wire rack. These cookies freeze well. Makes 3/12 dozen.

So the Friday Five bored me again. Questions about the seasons just don't whip me into a typing frenzy. So, I thought I would instead post my Top Five List of Songs for That Melancholic Time Between One Day and the Next. (And win the longest list title, while I was at it.)

1. Trouble - Cat Stevens
2. I've Got Dreams to Remember - Otis Redding
3. Both Hands - Ani DiFranco
4. 'Cause Cheap is How I Feel - Cowboy Junkies
5. Georgia On My Mind - The Righteous Brothers

For some strange reason, everyone in our building has decided that nearly midnight on a Friday is *the* time to do laundry. Very odd. This building is full of college students, shouldn't they be out testing the limits of their livers? Of course, it doesn't say much for my social life that I am doing laundry at midnight on a Friday night, now does it?

Even odder is that every time I go into the laundry room, the fish tank has either lost fish, or gained entirely new fish altogether. I am beginning to think that this particular fish tank is the equivalent of a dark, mouldering, haunted house in a teen horror flick...

Attack of the Lawn Bunnies

My friend was asking if there were any more horrifying Easter decorations gracing the shop I work at. I told her all about the crazy two foot tall white plaster bunnies with bendy ears and little pink jackets. What I forgot to mention (because we hid them down at the bottom of a display) were the incredible grass poohka's. These little gems are bunnies, about a foot tall, standing upright and carrying gardening "accessories". The kicker is that they appear to be made entirely of lawn clippings. In actuality, I think they are constructed of straw dyed a virulent green, but every time I look at them, they make me think someone's lawn has risen up and is about to go on a rampage.

Now, I should point out that most of the stuff we carry *is* really nice. I would say a good 90% of what we sell is quite attractive. The problem is, when we carry something awful, it is reaaaallly awful.

If I Ever Meet Steve, I Will Pass Along the Message

So last night we were at the pub, hanging out with some old friends and some new ones - always fun - when I discovered that someone had written "fuck you Steve" on one of the bathroom stalls. Which got me to thinking - what is the point? Will the mysterious Steve ever see this little message? It is unlikely, unless he spends inordinate amounts of time hanging out in the women's washroom, in which case, I guess I could understand the sentiment. I can't even understand how cathartic it could have possibly have been, as ballpoint pen flows so easily on a clean painted surface. So, I started wondering about who this Steve was, and the anonymous girl who was so upset with him she felt the need to vent her spleen on a bathroom wall. Did he break her heart? Irritate her with some intractable position on the literary importance of Tomson Highway? Skip out on his bar tab?

These thoughts skittered around my head until a half remembered story about a guy who was doing a travel book about public washrooms around the world vaguely came to the surface of my consciousness. If indeed, there ever was such a book, I would have liked it to include the women's washroom from Cafe Wim, during the mid 1990's. This washroom wasn't covered with the usual epithets and lovestuck declarations most washrooms are. This one, much to the chagrin of the owners I am sure, had every available inch of writable space covered with poetry, and long drawn out discussions about philosophy and the meaning of art, conducted entirely by strangers. People would write their poetry, others would deconstruct it, and long debates would be waged, all within the confines of this one small space, all happening between people who would perhaps pass each other in the hall, or sit next to each other in the small cafe, but never sign their names. A couple of years ago, Cafe Wim closed it's doors, and the space it used to gracefully occupy is now an aggressively upscale restaurant/martini bar. I met my husband at that cafe, so many years ago, and I must say, that although the menu was over priced, the owners kinda crazy, the service purposefully slow and the coffee really bad - I am so sad it is gone.

Work, Work, Work

Sadly, I haven't had much time to update this darn thing, but I have been working six days a week at my supposedly part time job. Certainly better than being unemployed, but it doesn't leave much time for blogging. Or laundry. Or dishes. Luckily, it doesn't leave much time for socializing either, so no one has had to suffer the disastrous state of my kitchen!

The Top Five All Time Breakup List

1. J. was my first boyfriend, so by law must be ranked as number one. Before that first boy, your heart is all shiny and new, full of hope and too many teen movies. That first boy is so exciting, everything is all fresh and interesting, and cynicism has yet to unroll it's sleeping bag and take up camp in your head. When you get your first "real" boyfriend, everything is defined within this new reality - first "real" date, first "real" kiss, first "official" walk hand in hand to homeroom as a couple. The first boy doesn't have to compete with anyone else for space to etch their name on your psyche. So, for that, he gets the coveted top spot. Well, that and the fact he broke up with me during a school dance. Being dumped by your first boyfriend in public at the Spring Fling is asking too much for the teenaged heart to bear. On the upside, as he did dump me in public, it meant I got to cry in the girl's bathroom while girls who would normally never deign to speak to me offered me hugs and lip gloss. After all, crying in the girl's washroom is a rite of passage up there with sneaking out of your bedroom window to meet the boy who will eventually make you cry in the girl's washroom, right?

2. T. He thinks he should be listed first, as our break up was terribly sad and traumatic, and probably he should, but he loses points because we are now great friends and he was in my wedding party. This means I can't claim total emotional scarring and mental trauma while in the pub comparing war stories, because he is usually there to make sure I don't exaggerate too much, and what fun is that? We dated for about two years. Apparently, to this day, people persistently believe I broke up with him and shattered him forever, turning him into the bitter and twisted man he is today. Sorry folks, he was that way when I found him. For the record, he broke up with me. Not only that, but he woke me up at 2am so he could tell me he was breaking up with me, and walk out the door and out of my life five minutes later. Though, in all truth, the out of my life part didn't last that long. Funny thing is, it took twice as long as we actually spent dating to get our non-dating relationship to the point of friends who *don't* annoy the crap out of each other at every opportunity.

3. Third in the list is another T. Sigh. You know, it's probably a good thing he broke my heart, because I get to remember how fabulously cool he was before he grew up and became boring. So boring. White picket fence and goin' huntin' deer boring. So sad. In high school, he was the coolest. So very pretty, with a motorcycle and the aura of danger faintly clinging to his leather jacket. He was older, old enough to be interesting, but not too old, because that's just plain creepy. Sadly, we had nothing in common other than being attracted to one another - not politics, religion, movies, music or books - he liked hunting, and I was a vegetarian. Of course, when you are young, the "attracted to each other" part is the only one that matters. So our relationship progressed for several months, and then, one sunny afternoon on my parent's back porch, he broke up with me. I learned later that he was apparently afraid that he loved me more than I did him. This was my introduction to the "hurt someone else in order to save oneself from theoretical future hurt" concept of relationships.

4. D. has the distinction of having spawned an entire theory. The theory goes that every girl has to date a crazy person at some point in their lives, however brief, to understand what crazy truly is. This is preferably done before the girl is old enough to get married or something equally as permanent. At this point, the girl has a choice. To continue to date crazy people, and wonder why all men suck so much, or to decide that crazy is a lot more fun from behind a bag of popcorn at the theatre than it is when it is standing at your door at 7pm on a Friday night. D. holds that honour. He broke up with me on Christmas Day - he gave me my Christmas present and then said; "Oh, by the way...." How very sweet. The next week he was going to the movies with one of my best friends.

He was the person who made me realize that as much as I like a little delightful eccentricity, full stop insane wasn't my cup of tea. Sadly, I also chose him to learn another important dating truth: stupid on and off again relationships are like day old donuts - stale and crumbly, and never improve with age. Not only was there the Christmas Day breakup, there was the day before Valentine's Day break up and the long distance phone break up from England. That was expensive. About there it got boring, and I let him go and break up a couple of dozen times with his old girlfriend. Apparently she hadn't taken any little epiphanies out of the first ten times they dated.

I am sure you are amazed I actually dated this guy more than once. I admit, it took me a little longer to figure out the truth about crazy than it should have - I claim being sixteen as my excuse. Sixteen has far too many cultural connotations attached to it in our society, and I truly believe that it would have been best if I had spend that year buried in the backyard, and arranged to be dug up the day after my seventeenth birthday.

5. Brian wasn�t horribly traumatic, but rates as number five for the simple fact that he claimed he broke up with me because I had cut my hair. With an excuse like that, he deserves to be immortalized.

In honour of High Fidelity I have decided to post my Top Five Breakup List, but it will have to wait until after Buffy The Vampire Slayer, because it's the wedding episode, and I am a girl.

The Sound of Silence is Highly Underrated

I like my job, I really do. But, if I have to hear that "Can't Fight The Moonlight" song one more time, I am going to go stark, raving mad.

I am Pretty Sure I Didn't Learn About That In Biology Class

I was awfully productive at work today. I redid a multitude of displays - 22 shelves to be exact. This involved taking all 3 billion items off the shelves, washing them down, and then rearranging everything.

The hardest part was trying to make our newest shipment look attractive. Imagine, if you will, sculptures of chickens, ducks and roosters made from steel wool. These masterpieces vary in height from 6 inches to 2 feet tall. They look remarkable like the frames used for making paper mache, except with little glass eyes attached. The scariest part of these things are that the larges birds have 2 plastic eggs inside of them - even the roosters! Making a display of these things look like anything less than a scene out of Trilogy of Terror was a feat, let me tell you. I am sure that my dreams tonight will involve being chased down by rabid transgendered roosters.

Alrighty then. This week's Friday Five bored the heck out of me, so I am not going to bother.

Well, I'll answer question #2, because it amused me a little.

2.Where do you consider to be the biggest hell-hole on earth?

That would be Hull, which being a border town to a province with a higher drinking age, is a haven for drunken teenagers, crawling from bar to bar, waiting for their lives to start . It is scuzzy and yucky, and once the weekend revelers clear out, it is just plain sad. Although they did try to spruce the place up by putting in a major museum. It didn't help much. Once a person hits 19, they try their hardest never to visit again. Oh yeah, and it's the place where I was once trapped in a bar until 5 am, while the police tried to subdue some idiot who was waving a gun out on the sidewalk, threatening to kill the first person to leave the building.

Although it ranks as the number one hell hole in my book, I must admit that it does hold some fond memories for me, in that teenage-rite-of-passage sort of way. Even so, I don't think I will be visiting any time soon.

Oh happy, happy day!!! *jumps up and down while twirling in circles*

My husband got a job! A real live, excellent paying job!!! Yay!!! No more creative math, trying to figure out how to buy groceries and pay the phone bill at the same time! I won't have to find a crappy part time job to supplement our income! I can finally go back to school and finish that silly degree I started!!!

Someone hand me a margarita!

What can I say? I am a different breed of cat. Precocious, but never busy.

~ Dennis Miller

Sooooo...what's new today?

Oh yeah, we kick hockey ass!!!! Two gold medals, baby! Woohooo!!!!

Okay, I'm done now.

*sniffles quietly to herself, as reality hits* All the sugar cookies are gone!

Sugar Cookies

• 1/3 cup butter or margarine
• 1/3 cup shortening
• 3/4 cup sugar
• 1 tsp baking powder
• 1/8 tsp salt
  
• 1 egg
• 1 tsp vanilla
• 2 cups flour

Beat butter and shortening on medium speed for 30 seconds. Add sugar, baking powder and salt, beat till combined. Beat in egg and vanilla. Beat in flour. Cover and chill dough until easy to handle. Roll onto a lightly floured surface to 1/8 inch thick. Using cookie cutters, cut into shapes. Place on an ungreased cookie sheet and bake at 375 degrees for 7 to 8 minutes, or until edges are firm and bottoms very lightly browned. Cool on a rack. Frost if desired.

Makes 36 to 48

From The Better Homes and Gardens Cookbook

I am thinking of changing my blogger template. As much as l like green and yellow as wall colours, I am not to sure I am thrilled with them as blog colours. A little purple, maybe. Something a little less girly and whole lot more girly at the same time. Now, if I can just figure out how to do it, without losing all my nifty stuff.

Wanders off to learn more about HTML.

Give Me Sackcloth and Ashes

Yesterday, I was faced with a sad, unavoidable fact about myself.

I am a fashion mutant.

I must be, or how else could I go to ten stores, spend over four hours, and not find a single pair of pants that I like? In fact, be faced with racks and racks of pants that, although apparently considered quite cute by the rest of the world, made me want to throw up?

Now, I admit, I am not fond of shopping. I am fond of clothes. I love clothes. I love finding that perfect combination that makes you feel like a funky, free spirited vixen. There are outfits, that when donned, can make you feel all flirtatious and spunky, and hopelessly interesting, ala Holly Golightly. Sadly, though, these items are rarely found at a mall. Can you see Holly Golightly at the mall? Trying on oddly fitting pants with those stupid plastic theft deterrent doohickeys digging holes into her thigh, while bemoaning the funereal lighting mandatory in all fitting rooms? I think not.

Every three or four years, when my current pairs of pants become so ragged they are kept together by a myriad of patches, I go shopping. This is a cruel test of willpower that I usually put off for months before finally working up the required energy to endure. In fact, the only reason I actually went to buy these damn things is because I started a new job, and wanted more than two pairs of pants to rotate through each day. And my cat ripped a hole out of my third pair.

Strangely, my horrible affliction is apparently only reserved for pants. Everything else, I can handle. Shirts are easy - I have a uniform - I wear tank tops. Everyday. In the spring and fall, I wear tank tops and cardigans. In the winter, tank tops under sweaters. In the summer...you get the picture. A becoming and reasonably priced tank top is easy to find. Shoes are no problem. I own five pairs of Doc Martens. Oh, and three pairs of pumps for the few times a year they are required. Skirts - easy - who needs skirts? Skirts are something you buy when you walk by a store and see something that catches your fancy. Pants - they are the bane of my existence.

So, off the mall. Evil, vile things, malls are. I swear they are designed with the specific intention of draining ones will to live, until you are so desperate to get out of there, you are willing to shell out 95 bucks for a pair of canary yellow platform running shoes. And, can I ask a question- please? Who the hell decided we all wanted to dress like refugees from 1976? I refuse to spend my hard earned money on anything I have vague recollections of my mother wearing when disco was considered cool. Why? Why? Why!!!

This time I thought I was being smart. I had a mission, an actual idea of what I wanted to find. I had a vague idea of khakis, casual, yet suitable for work. I hedged my bets by being flexible on style and colour. Before I left the house, it didn't seem like all that big a deal, really. Khaki's are popular, it would be easy, a piece of cake! Right? Boy, was I wrong! In retrospect, I was really, truly deluded. The closest I came to finding a pair was the Gap, they have nice khakis and in a variety of styles to suit even the freakishly short legged like myself. Problem being, I have issues with paying 70 dollars plus tax for a label, let alone a label that I am not particularly fond of. So begins much trudging and cringing and gnashing of teeth. Around two hours worth.

So you, ask, what do I end up buying, after this gruesome ordeal?

The exact same damn pair of jeans I bought the last time I bought jeans, in 1995.

Oh yeah, and a tank top.

So, let's try this one again, shall we? For those who wanted to know the saga of how I was fired, here it is. I warn you now, gentle reader, that this is a complicated tale, filled with intrigue, rumour, drama and betrayal. If, at the end, you find it confusing, don't worry, those of us who were involved are still confused as to exactly what happened. Names have been changed to protect the innocent and to spite the guilty.

For those of you who didn't know, I worked at an airport parking lot. I sat in a booth, took people's money, answered the phone, and coordinated the shuttle drivers and they brought people to and from the airport. The job wasn't fulfilling, exciting or particularly interesting, but it paid surprisingly well, and gave me lots of time to read. I worked there for three years. After a year or so, a job opening came up, and I encouraged my friend, B., to apply. She got the job, and we lived happily ever after. Well - until we were fired, that is.

It all started this past fall. Several new people were hired and were soon dismissed, for various reasons. Soon after, a complaint was made to the labour board, and an inspection was made. The head office and my boss were extremely upset about this, and apparently "heads were going to roll". According to office rumour, B. and I were suspected of making the complaint. Never mind that two of the people recently dismissed had threatened to call the labour board. Around this time, I received a perfect three year review, in which I was praised for being an excellent employee.

A few weeks passed, and B. discovered she was pregnant. A few days after she announced her pregnancy at work, she was given a letter, notifying her of several "offences" she had apparently committed. She had a meeting with the boss, and pointed out that three of the complaints made against her, she hadn't done (apparently all three of these complaints were brought to the bosses attention by a new employee, we will call Z.). The fourth offense was arriving a few minutes late for work on occasion, which she had, but she reminded the boss that she had made an arrangement with *him* (and the coworker who worked before her) that, due to the bus schedules, she would often arrive just on time, or a couple of minutes late. In fact, the reason she took the bus that often made her a couple of minutes late was due to a policy that our boss had implemented - that no one was allowed to arrive more than 15 minutes early for their shifts, because some people were arriving early and socializing before their shifts. B. had the choice of either breaking this rule, or arriving to work with no time to spare. After this meeting, she was led to believe everything had been sorted out to everyone's satisfaction. A couple of weeks later, she was asked if she was planning on returning to work after her pregnancy leave, to which she answered that she did not know yet. Two days later, she received a phone call from the boss, telling her she was being fired for being two minutes late to work the day before. It is important to note that several employees had been consistently coming in to work late for years, and had never been reprimanded, let alone fired for it (and still were arriving late, even after she was fired). Her termination was effective immediately.

I was very upset by the turn of events, but due to financial circumstances, couldn't afford to quit my job. So, I decided not to discuss B.'s firing with anyone at work. Rumours floated about that B. had been fired because of the labour board complaint. So work went, until a couple of weeks later, when the boss posted a memo stating that employees were no longer allowed to use the computers for personal use. Although this was annoying (as several hours of each shift left me with nothing to do except play on the computer or read) I followed this new policy. Several employees chose to ignore this policy and continued to use the computer.

Around a week after this memo was posted, I remembered that I had a few personal files and games on the computer at work, and brought a disk in to save them to, so I could remove them from the computer. I accidentally left the disk at work. The next morning, I receive a phone call from the morning employee, who is responsible for doing the bank deposits. I am told that my deposit envelope from the afternoon before is missing. This seems incredibly odd, as I remember depositing the money in the safe, and a new trainee had been with me while I had done it, as I was showing him the cashing out procedures. I mention that the trainee had been watching me do my cashing out, and ask him to call me if the deposit is not found. I figure that the envelope had become stuck in the top of the safe (which happened often) and it would be found. A few hours later, I get all call from my boss, telling me that I was being immediately dismissed for using the computer for personal use. I explain to him that I was merely removing personal files from the computer, and I am told that it does not matter, I am being fired anyways. He then says that he will not tell the head office about the missing money when he fills out my termination report. He implies that if I decide to complain to the head office, he will tell them about the money.

Now, there are a number of strange things about this whole situation. I have worked with money for over ten years and have never "lost" any of my deposits. I had a witness watching me deposit the damn thing. Not to mention, there were five people who had the safe's combination (I was not one of them) at work in between the time I made my deposit and the time the money went "missing". One of these people, Z., was even suspected of stealing money several times over the last few months, and had been suspected of stealing money at her last job! And please, if I was going to steal from the company, there are a number of ways to do so without stealing my own damn deposit! Also, just to be petty, why the heck didn't all the employees who chose to break the "no computer" policy get fired as well, even though the boss knew they were doing it? Curiously, the missing deposit was apparently found around twenty minutes after I was terminated, according to the assistant manager.

So here is where the story would end, if it weren't for the events of a couple of weeks ago. Another long time employee (he had worked there over two years) was fired. We shall call him E. Apparently, he came into work one night (he worked the night shift), and went about his job as usual. A few hours later, he was called into the booth by Z. and another employee, A. (Incidentally, A., along with Z., had access to the safe the shift after mine the day my deposit went "missing".) They informed E. that they suspected he had been drinking before arriving to work, and had called the boss to tell him. E. spoke with the boss, and told him that he hadn't been drinking, and had been with someone prior to his shift that could attest to the fact. The boss, told him it did not matter, and he could choose to quit, or be fired for drinking. Now, E. works as a driver, and being fired for drinking would ruin his chances at finding another job, so he agreed to quit.

This is where it gets really strange. At 7am, the same day (this all happened after midnight), his termination papers from the head office (in another city) were already at the office. Even more strangely, someone was being interviewed for E.'s job by 8am. Please, gentle readers, explain to me how exactly, one can be fired in the middle of the night, for an incident that occurred that very same night, and your termination papers arrive from another city in the wee hours of the morning? How can you have an interview with a person you didn't even know you were looking for until a few hours before? Was the psychic hotline involved? Has the head office decided to keep it's human resources office open twenty four hours a day? Is there are new midnight courier service that bends the fabric of time and space? Was the boss so desperate to replace E., that he was phoning prospective employees at two am to set up interviews? Sheesh, at least with B. and I, there was an attempt at subtlety.

That would be the whole sordid story. I have found a new job, which I love. I had forgotten that I actually like customer service, it had been so long that I had worked anywhere so blessedly normal. (Okay, the Beanie Babies are a little weird.) My employees are so nice - there are no rumours, backstabbing or office politics at all, it is great! It is so very different an environment that it started me thinking about how you can get so immersed in a crazy situation, that you don't even noticed how crazy and fucked up it is until you leave and get to see it from this side of normal.

Stupid Internets

Argh! I just posted a huge ass post- my first post actually saying something about anything worth reading - and the damn blogger ate it. Which sounds like the lamest homework excuse ever. That is what I get for not writing it in word first. Argh!!! *stomps off to write her post all over again*

One of These Things Is Not Like The Other

I promise I will post something fascinating tomorrow! Bedtimes suck, they really do. This day was far too long, although I did get to catch up on my latest addiction: Buffy the Vampire Slayer. (Yeah, yeah, Mr. Monkey, roll your eyes at someone else.) Right now I am wrestling with HTML (which would work better if I knew HTML) and trying to change the layout of this thing. Maybe after a good night's sleep, I will figure out how to get my little anarchist archive box to turn a nice light green like the rest of the good, obedient boxes.

One Point for Me!

Woohoo, I seem to have managed to add comments. Yay me!

I was beginning to think that the fates didn't want me blogging! First, my internet connection goes poof, then we wrestle with the server, trying to get it to acknowledge the existance of my blog, and then, last night, I sit down to start posting, and the blogger webpage was apparently down. The horror! Happily, the fates seem to have stepped out for coffee, so here I am. Now, if I can just think of something to say....

Brand Spankin' New Blog

I was beginning to think that the fates didn't want me blogging! First, my internet connection goes poof, then we wrestle with the server, trying to get it to acknowledge the existence of my blog, and then, last night, I sit down to start posting, and the blogger webpage was apparently down. The horror! Happily, the fates seem to have stepped out for coffee, so here I am. Now, if I can just think of something to say....