Wednesday, August 31, 2005

Ta-ra to Park Street.

I’m going to be on the road for a couple days, moving my belongings or ex-belongings all over creation. Of course, we are now getting the tail end of Katrina, so we’ll have to be loading a minivan in the rain. Brrr.

I went for supper with Mark last night. ‘Twas a good time. It kinda sucks I’m only going be in Hamilton for another couple of weeks, because I’d like to get to know him better. Of course, it is all part of the comedy of my life that I meet someone interesting in the last month of living in this city that I've disliked so much. Bah on circumstances.

I have to go back to last-minute packing. It’s now down to this: there are two boxes on my bed. One is labelled “Hamilton Miscellany,” and the other, “Ottawa Miscellany.” It’s a nice way to say “dumping grounds.”

Final thought: check out the music of Ted Leo and the Pharmacists. I’ve been really digging this guy’s stuff for a little while, but he’s going on tour soon, with a lot of Canadian dates, including Vancouver, Toronto, Hamilton, Ottawa, Montreal, and Halifax. What! You say most of my friends live in these cities that I’ve listed? Huh! Coincidence. Seriously, this guy rocks in a cool way and he's well worth the c.$15 for cover.

Tuesday, August 30, 2005

Know What Blows?

Packing. Packing blows. It’s so time consuming – I kinda wish it were mindless. If it were more mindless, then I wouldn’t mind as much. Then I could just turn off my brain and toss crap into boxes. But packing requires much more thought than any other terrible task.

On top of all the strategery, I have to think about what I’m going to need in the next month while I’m stranded on people’s couches. This includes books, articles, coursepacks, and previous drafts. There is no margin for error here, because my stuff will be, within 2 days, divided into “Hamilton” and “Ottawa,” so I can’t just tuck up to the nation’s capital if I forgot to pack the notes I took on that "super-important" paper on sex tourism in Thailand.

What am I going to wear to my defence? I dunno. When is my defence? I dunno! My defence can suck it for all I care right now.

I thought I was a fairly minimal-living kinda gal. It’s only when you have to itemize everything you own that you realise that you are but a cog in the wheel of commerce. Actually, no, I really don’t have all that much stuff. I’m just alone and packing it all by myself. This should really be a team sport.

So, I’m stressed, I guess, is the bottom line. Stressed and tired. It's going to be a very long month.

Monday, August 29, 2005

Sunday, August 28, 2005

Poll.

Is the Dave Matthews Band's "Crash Into Me" too sexy to be used as a first dance at a wedding? While I think it is a stunning love song, I wouldn't want my grandmother listening too closely to the lyrics.

I checked, and non-blogspot bloggers can comment without having to sign up. Just click on "anonymous," or "other," and participate!

Friday, August 26, 2005

Extra Virgin.

I went to The 40-Year Old Virgin last night. It was excellent. I laughed too hard for public. It was rude and sweet and so GD funny. The whole this was fun, but the last scenes went beyond expectations. I really embarrassed myself by laughing so loudly. Braying. Screaming.

I recommend this movie highly. Between 2 and 4 on my scale.

Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition.

The Church of Catherine grew out of my silliness. About a month ago now, I wanted to report that I had had a little crisis – a stress freak-out, a bout of self-loathing and doubt, a hormone spike – call it what you will. I guess it wasn’t even that little. I was really upset.

Anyhow, when I decided to mention it on my blog, I couldn’t just say “I had a stress freak-out,” could I? No, I had to be flip and creative.

It’s turned out, though, that writing that I had “a crisis of faith in the Church of Catherine” was an excellent way to describe how I was feeling. I really was questioning myself, and how I operated.

So, I vowed that I would no longer be a passive player in my own life. I wanted to take control so the next time I had a “hormone spike,” I wouldn’t have so much ammunition with which to denigrate myself.

This active role (i.e. fighting for what I want/ believing I deserve to be happy), is now what I refer to as New Catherine. Old Catherine was afraid to look like a fool and therefore didn’t take chances.

As I’ve recently explained, this is not a quick process. Surely it’s not, right? It can’t be. Really, I’m trying to undo about 15 years of poor self-esteem, so I have to wean myself. To re-use an analogy, instead of a flick-‘a-the-switch from Old Catherine to New Catherine, it’s going to be more like a dimmer switch. (And, if I remember my physics classes, and I think I do, a dimmer switch on a circuit creates {or requires} more resistance. Yeah, you thought I couldn’t push the reasonable boundaries of that metaphor, did you? Hah!)

This is, in some ways, very easy, and in others, difficult. The attitude is getting in line. I’m trying not to use self-deprecating humour as much as I did. Sometimes, it’s just unintentional and I do it without thinking, but I’m trying to be more aware.

The taking risks step is a scarier prospect. I’ve always been like this.

For a couple of weeks, neighbourhood kids have been rambunctiously playing on skateboards on the incline of the parking lot which is, unfortunately, directly outside the window next to my desk. These kids are tear-assing around the blind corner of our parking lot on their skateboards, and I sometimes hear them wipe out, or yell, “car!” but they go right back to it. When I was a kid, I liked playing with blocks and making up choreographed dances for Whitney Houston songs. I didn’t even like leaping off of my swing at the height of the arc. It was too high, too fast, and there was too much of a chance that I’d hurt myself.

So, the risks I want to take now aren’t exactly extreme coral-reef surfing or anything, but still, I have to work up courage to dive in (I didn’t intend to use this water-esque parallel, but I’m the better writer for doing it unconsciously… Chumps…).

Happily, I have a great team of New Catherine Cheerleaders to yell and e-yell at me. I don’t want them to stop, even though sometimes it might seem like a lost cause. Thanks, all.

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

Sequins in Your Oatmeal.

A couple of days ago, I tore my glasses off my face while I was enthusiastically lip-synching along to an Elton John song (I think it was Honkey Cat, but I can't be sure). My glasses were fine, and no one actually saw me do it.

I just put copies of my thesis in the mailboxes of my committee, and now I have to pack like it's going out of style, while I have the time. I have no idea how long it's going to take for these readers to suggest revisions, so I have to efficient. Not my forté.

How About I Call This One... "The Rage" ? Yes? Good.

I just printed off my entire draft for my second reader. I tried to print two copies (one for my advisor), but my printer decided that it would be a prudent time to be a cock and randomly omit lines on random pages.

Oh, the rage.

Christine is off. She left yesterday at 5am to catch a 6-something-am train from Toronto to Montreal. There were some good last times with her, methinks. We went suppering with Kim and then watched/talked through Shaun of the Dead, aka The Greatest Movie Known to Man. I liked watching it with someone who appreciates it as much as I do.

Yesterday was a wash. I went to school to drink with Kristin, but then we just ate and had a couple of pints. Nothing too scandalous. Hisako was there, too, and we all discussed our pinin’ for the fjords (or, as normal people would call it, homesickness).

I have to go to school and face the photocopier in the office to make another copy of the first draft. Remember how Kevin envisioned the furnace in the basement in Home Alone? That’s how I see the photocopier. Malicious. Evil. Hateful.

The Rage!!!

Sunday, August 21, 2005

Procrastination Destination.

August 11th’s post might have sounded a little cryptic. I said I was passing time in some mysterious way. True to my dorky form, it’s not nearly as salacious as any of us would have hoped.

I was reading Harry Potter VI. I felt like the guy who tapes the “big game” and then lives the next day in fear that someone will mention the score, or that awesome catch, or the blimp that crashed on the 20-yard line, or whatever, before he gets a chance to watch the recording.

So, yeah, HPVI. I wasn’t disappointed. I was sucked in by all the teenage hormonal stuff, and there were some things I didn’t see coming. There were some that I really did. I think I can place it thusly in the ranking:

4
6
5
3
1
2

5 and 6 could switch places, depending on my mood.

For those of you who have not read it yet: yes, Harry does grow out of the pissy teenage phase he’s in throughout HPV. Thank god. I wanted to strangle him.

This, like a lot of other things I’ve done today, is a procrastination device. I’m meant to be writing the conclusion of my thesis. I’m finding it very daunting. My advisor wants it to be grander. I’m having a hard time mustering the mental energy to make anything grand. I don’t want to have to look anything up. I don’t want to do more research. I don’t want to be innovative. I want to be done. I want to watch “Arrested Development” all night with a huge bowl of popcorn. My microwave caught on fire, though, so I guess I’m forced to do schoolwork.

I’m stressed. I went to breakfast with Holls, John, Christine, Mark and a new acquaintance, Ben, this morning and had to say goodbye to Holly and John. Jolly? Hawn? Huh. Never thought of that. Tomorrow I have a meeting with Ellen and then I’ma have lupper with Christine as a last ‘do. I’m hoping I’ll be able to get to Montreal (where Christini is relocating) when I’m in Ottawa, and I’d love to go up to Waterloo to see Holls and John before I go east. Since I’m in Hamilton for a little longer, this looks like a possibility.

Ok, this is bullshit. I have to go do some work now. It’s 9pm and I don’t want to have to get up at 5am to finish this GD steaming heap of crap. Moan. Bollocks.

Friday, August 19, 2005

Tick Tock.

I went out for supper with Holly, John, Christine and Mark last night. All but the latter are moving away from Hamilton in less than a week. It kinda bites. No, it full on bites. It’s no secret that there’s no love lost between me and the Hammer, but my classmates and ex-classmates were a point of light in the smoggy haze. I think there’ll be one more meeting of the minds over breakfast on Sunday and then they’ll be off. Jeremy P. is gone and Joe leaves this week, too. Bah. People leaving. Suck-a-doodle-doo.

Unfortunately, I’m at the legendary “12-hour days” point of the thesis. I have to craft an artful conclusion, finish all the formatting (kill me), make sure the biblio is tight, write an abstract, comb for informants’ introductions (I only want to say, “Mario, a flight attendant from Halifax told me…” the first time he appears, then, just “Mario said,” after that, and so forth for each informant). Oh, yeah... this is due Monday at noon. This means I’m going to have to be dedicated like gangbusters to my work in my moments off of playing with friends. I have to go to U of T tomorrow for some essential article that I’ve for some reason left ‘til now to collect. Bah again.

Pray for Mojo.

I Have My Cornsilk Back.

I have what most would call “bad hair.” No I’m not fishing for compliments, not at all. This is empirical. The colour’s lame and the texture’s lame. There’s no body, it’s rather limp and doesn’t take to curls without fierce persuasion. It tangles if there is any change in its direction. I have a weird cowlick on my widow’s peak, I have a widow’s peak, and there are sometimes unpredictable little curls at my temples. I can’t go two days without washing it – I’ll look like a greaseball. To wrap it up, it’s fine and limp.

Two years ago, I decided I’d go lighter. I got all blonded up, and it was just a bad move. It fried my hair so it was brittle and dry and straw-like. So, now, probably two years to the day (?), I got the last of the damage cut out. (My hair also grows very slowly – you can add that to the first paragraph.)

I’ve been getting $12 crap-ass haircuts since I got here. Supercuts. There’s just no love. No love. They cut your hair, get you to bend over and kick you out the door. They don’t even shampoo or blowdry – just spray it down with water. I hate it, but I couldn’t justify spending more than c. $12 on a haircut when a) I’m poor and b) it’s hard to fuck up my haircut.

Well, I figured I’d saved enough over the last two years so today, I treated myself to a $29 (!) haircut. The stylist was a fun young thing with the obligatory wacky dye-job. She had an icon of Durga on her station, making me like her all the more. She took a lot of care with my cut. I told her I had two objectives for this cut: a) I wanted the dead straw gone, and, less importantly, b) I wanted to keep as much length as possible. Point a) supersedes b).

Now my hair is lovely and healthy like it used to be. No, I haven't forgotten about what I hate about my hair, but it's now in an upswing. Slippery, smooth and straight. I remember Reebs Mawle always stroking my hair, saying how soft it was. I think I could let her do it again now. And anyone else who is so inclined, come to think of it…

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

Something’s Broke.

Am I being a scab for listening to CBC Radio One while its staff is in a labour dispute? I have qualms about listening at all, but I don’t think the people who are still working on the air are really scabs, it’s technically a labour slowdown and not a strike.

Beyond me being a scab, am I a horrible person for actually digging the current programming way more than usual?

I like CBC Radio One for many reasons. I like that there are no commercials. Radio commercials make my toes curl with rage. I like that there’s a mix of music, and it’s not all Top 40. I like that you can hear good political debate and movie reviews and social commentaries and ukulele orchestras and any other weird mishmash of entertainment.

Now, they’re filling the airtime with a potpourri of Canadian music. I woke up to Sam Roberts’ “Brother Down” followed by K-os’ “Crabukkit.” It’s basically what I’d be playing from my computer’s collection anyway. Lately, about the time I’m going to bed, at about 11 to midnightish, they’ve been playing indie stuff the likes of which I’ve never heard. I know it’s all Canadian and I also know it’s all awesome.

So, I feel a little guilty. Labour Slowdown CBC is actually my dream radio station: All Canadian music with no commercials, some news on the hour and very little talk. How can I be spiritually behind this strike/slowdown if I prefer the alternative?

Coming soon: more details about the Church of Catherine. Some people have asked, so I thought the blog would be a good forum for clarification.

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

Bloodletting; or, Clifton Pratt, Eat Your Heart Out!

I just returned from my bloodletting. It took a while because my donor file was still red-flagged and they had to get someone to override it. Once I got into the chair, however, it only took me 11 minutes to get the 2 units!

I remember it took me 22 minutes once. I think that was the night I went to the clinic with Cliff Pratt. He was making fun of me because he was done in 6 minutes and I was sitting there, aching with a needle in my arm. For those of you unfortunate enough to not know Clifton Pratt, let me explain: he's a lean 6'7" with ropey veins like the Chunnel. Of course he was done quickly. I miss Cliffie. I like looking up at a man.

Here are some stats: only 9% of Canadians have my blood type: B. So few! A whole blood donation is 2 units, which is 500 ml. Most people have between 5 and 7 litres of blood, depending on one's size, so a donation's no more than a 10th of what one is carrying around at any time. Easy peasy.

And, I've decided since I've created the Church of Catherine, I might as well go into detail. Therefore, I am hereby announcing the First Pillar of the Church of Catherine: If you are able to give blood (physically and emotionally), you must do so as often as you can, to the best of your ability. I feel good about this Pillar. Amen.

I Don’t Have Mad Cow Disease!

I am so chuffed that yesterday, Canadian Blood Services lifted my ban on donating blood (yes, it’s all about me). After the Mad Cow disaster in England of the late 90s and early 00s, Canadian Blood Services, scared straight after the previous blood collection agency’s tainted blood scandals, decided since they were not %100 sure how vCJD (the human form of Mad Cow) was transmitted, they should be extra careful and just ban everyone who'd spent any amount of time in England or France.

I understand this, but since I am a confessed self-absorbed asshole, I didn’t have a lot of other philanthropic activities to fall back on. Giving blood made me feel good. I’m healthy, I’ve got tons of blood (ok, about 5 litres, whatever…), and although the process of giving is uncomfortable for me, it’s for the greater good.

Anyhow, I looked online and today there’s a clinic at City Hall, which is less than a block away from me. I think it might be for City employees only, but I’ll give it a go – there’s a little icon online saying it’s not closed to the public, so I’ll cross my fingers.

If you can give blood or plasma and don't, think about it - it's a great way to gain some good karma.

Yay on bloodletting!

Sunday, August 14, 2005

My, my… This Here Anakin Guy…

Ok, I know more than one person has heard me say this, but I really think it should be written: I love Ewan McGregor. He’s my celebrity crush of the summer.

I saw Episode III again this week. Excellent company aside (which I’m trying not to get too preoccupied by), I really dig this movie. I think seeing it twice in the theatre will do me, but god, it was so sad.

It’s all about Obi-wan. That scene – that sad, sad, scene. “You were my brother!” “You were the chosen one!” and the one that really kills me: “I failed you, Anakin!”

I just want to take Ewan McGregor home, stroke his hair and rock him until the pain goes away.

It’s so sad. What a great movie.

Saturday, August 13, 2005

I Spoke Too Soon.

I should have known I was tempting fate by saying not a lot is going on.

Yesterday morning, at 5am, Jeremy pounded on my bedroom door and scared the heck out of me. I said, “Come in?”

I don’t remember exactly what he responded, but he opened the door, stood there and started talking. Here’s the jist: There was a bat in our apartment and the pest control guy was there, and he wanted to look in my room to make sure the bat was not there, since they hadn’t been able to find it.

I said, “Jesus Christ.”

The he said, “So can we come in?”

Wearing what I like to call my “summer pyjamas,” I didn’t think that would be a good idea, so I told them to give me a moment while I put on a robe.

I stumbled into the living room to meet Aaron, a friendly young man who works with AAA Wildlife Control.

Here’s what had been happening while I was nuzzled in my bed: Jeremy woke up and thought there was a moth in his room, flapping about. Then the terrible realization that it was not a moth came over him.

He came into the living room, stopped up the crack under the door and called this pest place. The dude, Aaron, was on a call in Oakville, so he could come for another hour.

So, at about 4am, the bat exited Jem’s room and entered the living room through an unsealed hole in the wall around the heating pipe (this is typical of the whole apartment – very shoddy construction). It started spazzing out and flap-flapping around the length of our “Grand Room”: the kitchen and living room. Jeremy went back into his room until Aaron came.

BUT the bat was then nowhere to be seen. Aaron figured it went back up into the ceiling boards. He looked at the windows so he could put in writing that it wasn’t our fault that a bat got in – it was the shittiness of the apartment. He said that there are likely more bats in the walls, and it was just a matter of time before one got into an apartment.

Aaron’s late-night call? $350.

Oh, you can bet on us being reimbursed from the realty company. I faxed off the stuff yesterday. Not impressed.

So, I went to school that afternoon, groggy from sleeplessness, for a meeting with Ellen. She said my conclusion was no good and I’d have to totally re-do it. Ellen is going away for a week and unable to see me now until the 22nd. This is not great news, and dumbstruck, I asked her how much this sets me back. She said I’d probably be looking at defending on about the 10th of September, but I should be prepared to stay until as late as the 20th.

I was willing myself not to well up. I kept saying, “The 20th? The 20th?” I can’t believe I have to squat on people’s couches until the 20th.

I really wanted to get to Ottawa and start the next chapter of my life, as I mentioned in my last post. I was excited about that.

So, regrouping, the plan now is, I’m going to drive as much of my stuff to Ottawa as possible on the 1st of September, come back and depend on the kindness of not-strangers until I can beat a hasty retreat.

Anyhow, thankfully, Holly was at school, so she and I went to the Phoenix and we did away with some food and a pitcher of beer (I was mostly responsible for the beer’s disappearance) and bitch about still being here. ‘Twas good.

I got home at about 6pm and Jeremy came out of the house to meet me. He said that bat had returned and he trapped it between the screen and the window in the front big window. Sure enough, there, squashed between the inside pane of glass and the screen was a brown ball of fur.

Ok, it might be the same bat, but there was really no way to tell.

Fuck.

I produced my high school biology dissection kit (not so stupid to keep it now, eh?) and Jem cut a slit in the screen with the scalpel. It didn’t leave. We did. Jeremy wanted to get precautionary rabies jabs, so we went to the clinic. He had to get 7 shots, and that’s just a start: he has to go back 3-4 more times for more. We got home, Jeremy quite sore, to see the bat, “Rufus,” still in the screen. He didn’t leave until about 9pm.

Soon after, I went to Slainte’s (pronounced Slontcha’s), an “Authentic Irish” Pub about 5-6 blocks from here. It was Joe’s going-away thing, Andrew’s congratulations on defending your MA thesis thing, and Chris’ birthday thing. Me, having had a long and emotionally exhausting day, started hitting the cocktails. Not that bad, I guess. Ok, I had three. And a shot. I was well merry by the end of it.

Today I slept late. Holls called to see if I wanted to go for a picnic walk, but I’m pretty spent. I have to work up the energy to start working on my conclusion, the sequel, and I want to flush the toxins out of my body, so I’m going to lay low for a day or so. I want chocolate. Can someone bring me chocolate? Fake Toblerones are great, sans ants.

Thursday, August 11, 2005

No News is Good News.

I’ve been requested to make another post. There sure isn’t much going on in my life.

Well, I am passing the time in a certain way, but I don’t want to write about it yet for fear of someone ruining it in a fit of maliciousness.

I have another deadline tomorrow. I have to bring in my conclusion and doctor some stuff. Ellen suggested I take some pages from the last chapter and put them in the introduction. This is fine by me. At least I don’t have to cut anything or replace anything.

Tomorrow is my unbirthday. Or anti-birthday, if you will. I think I’ll celebrate the only way I know how: demanding everyone pay attention to me and shower me with obscene amounts of attention. Um... and by getting really, really drunk.

318 months. 26 and a half. What sounds older? Anyway.

I’m so looking forward to this next year. I hate that I don’t have any concrete plans, but I think turning a page will be a welcome change. Although a lot of great stuff has gone on in Hamilton, I want to get out of here. I feel a little stagnant. Of course, I’m not really making a lot happen for myself, but that’ll take some practice. I’m new at being the New Me. Growing confidence doesn’t happen overnight, but I'm actually starting to listen to the people telling me that I'm awesome.

Last thought: I can now add Jason Bateman to my list of funny guys on TV I have a crush on. This is, of course, for his “Arrested Development” role, and not for the “Hogan Family,” which I don’t think I’ve ever seen. It looks lame, though.

So, to recap:
-Zach Braff
-Conan O’Brien
-Jon Stewart
-Jason Bateman

Sunday, August 07, 2005

23,341.

I just placed all four of my chapters into one document. This is a big step in my mind. It means it's all the closer to becoming a coherent whole.

Word count: 23,341.
Page count: 89.

Remember back in the day when I said I'd be happy to get the minimum 60 pages? Now I have 89 and I've not even included the intro and conclusion. I'm pretty stoked, but then I remember that I have to write those today. It's going to be a long one.

Thursday, August 04, 2005

I Need a Swedish Deep-Soul Massage.

This week has been exhausting for me. Let me briefly, if not vaguely, elaborate:

-Jackie was here for over a week and we were always on the go,
-I re-evaluated my life on a scary canoeing trip,
-I had a major crisis of faith in the Church of Catherine,
-I got some hopefully good but still surprising news from a best friend, and,
-I have a major deadline looming towards which I have not worked.

I know deep down that I have awesome friends. I mean, let’s face it: I am kinda a self-centred asshole. I’ve done and said some utterly humiliating things to some of these people who I care about, but for some reason, they keep coming back for more.

I also know that I’m often sarcastic and prone to exaggeration on this blog and in person, but each of the items on the list above is in earnest. Particularly the canoe trip. I don’t ever want to forget how frightened I was, or how disappointed I was with what I was seeing when my life was flashing before my eyes.

Re: my crisis of faith, I may be canonizing the first saint in the Church of Catherine, and she knows who she is. That is all.

No Belfry?

I slept with the phone on the foot of my bed last night because I was planning to make a phone call first thing in the morning. It started ringing before I had a chance to even wake up. In my sleepy haze, I didn’t know what was going on. I realised it was the phone, located it in my myopic murk and answered.

“Hi Catherine? It’s Sarah.”
“Hey Sarah, what’s up?” [I still don’t know what time it is, but I’m trying to pretend I’m fully awake.]
“I have a bat in my room.”
“Fuck off.”

That woke me up. I squinted and looked at my radio. 2am, almost exactly. Sarah told me that a bat a gotten in through a crack between her air conditioner and the wall, woke her up and freaked her out (and reasonably so…). She ran out of her room and closed the bat into the room behind her. I told her to call pest control and let me know how it went. We hung up and I lay there, sporadically breaking out laughing. Not at Sarah, of course, but the situation.

Who the hell gets a bat? It seems so cartoonish.

Lying there, I thought, “Man, I’d really like to go back to sleep,” but couldn’t because I was wondering how Sarah was faring. Then I thought, “This is silly. She’s right next door and alone. Get dressed and at least be there with her while this is going on.”

I threw on some clothes, tip-toed out through the living room where Jeremy’s latest guest is sleeping and went up to Sarah’s.

I got to her floor in time to see her dash from her apartment. Safely behind a glass fire door, we looked into her open apartment door. “It got out of my room,” she told me, and sure enough, when I looked in through her open door, I saw the unfocussed flapping of the bat careening around her living room.

She left the door to the main hallway open and after about 5-6 minutes, it flew into the hallway and we ran into her apartment oh-so-pointlessly locking the door.

We stripped her bed, uninstalled the air conditioner, closed the window and sat for a while. I left there at about 3:30am after some great chatting. I got to sleep again at about 4am.

So, now Sarah is on the lam. She slept in her living room that night but woke at every little noise. She’s at Hisako’s for a while, and then I think her boyfriend’s place while he’s away. Poor thing – she’s at about the same place in her thesis and I wouldn’t want to be freaked out about being at my apartment right now. I feel kinda bad for suggesting she was trying to kill me.

Holly Moves in Mysterious Ways.

I went up to Holly and John’s this morning to help them load stuff into a cube truck to move to Waterloo. They are moving there for schooling, but with the added glee that they both hate Hamilton with the burning heat of a million suns.

I got there a little late, as I was on an important phone call that I did not want to interrupt, and their friend Mark was already there. They had already been shifting major furniture and were already hot. Oh, did I mention that it was 39 on the Humidex this morning? Hm. Yeah, it was.

I was already shvitzing when I got there, but within half an hour of shlepping boxes, sweat was pouring off me. I could feel it dripping down my back and the deviation of its course as it left my chest and curved around my breasts.

Of course, John’s friend Mark was distractingly handsome* and I was standing there like a jerk with stringy pigtails and belly sweat saturating my top. I imagined myself impossibly fresh in a skirt, kitten heels and a slight blush (not the hypertensive redness I had acquired), and went about the business of shifting bulk. Holls and John live on the third floor of their place, so we were doing a lot of stairs. I wished I was still in Capoeira. I’ll probably be a little stiff tomorrow.

*I refuse to write that someone is hot (it's not very dignified), but if I allowed myself to, I might in this case.

Tuesday, August 02, 2005

Tentative Plans.

I have plans rattling around in my head for the autumn, but I've been reluctant to write them down because it might make them concrete. These are still my plans, but they are malleable.

My Aunt Jacky and Uncle Wendall have a home in Kanata, which is just outside of Ottawa. It's about an hour away in rush hour traffic, and twenty minutes' drive otherwise. They have a summer cabin in Newfoundland and spend a great deal of time there. This year, they plan to be out East until mid October, so they kindly offered me their place for September.

This is excellent, because I have so little money and I have no plans. I can't afford to sign a lease somewhere if I don't yet have a job in that town.

So, as of right now, I'm planning on housesitting/squatting in Ottawa in September and using it as an HQ for the Job Hunt.

Job Hunting is so exhausting. I hate the bullshit cover letters. They have to be "just so," and that drives me batty.

Anyway, all I do is translate this:

Dear Mr. or Ms. Honcho:
All that stuff you want to hire someone to do, I can do it. Not only can I do it, but I can do it better than all the other chumps who are applying. I'll do that stuff and then some other stuff you didn't even think needed doing.
I am great to have around because I can work hard and be personable in appropriate situations. I will not abuse the company credit card because I have values. I will not photocopy my ass in the office, because no one needs to see that.
In conclusion, I'm fucking awesome and sound judgement dictates you should hire me.
Love,
Catherine Sweet.