Marcel With Shoes On

Dear 401 Commuters,

I'm about to drive to work. I'd really appreciate it if you not fuck that up for me today. I mean, driving on the 401 is actually pretty simple. It's basically a straight highway. Just stop tailgaiting people, and we'll all be JUST FINE.

Thanking you in advance for your cooperation,
Michelle


ION: This.

And Now with 100% Less Monday

Monday’s are generally speaking the worst day of the week.

The way I see it, if the rest of the week was at a party than Tuesday would be the English major leaning up against the wall talking bullshit about poetry while trying to score a peek down your top. Wednesday would be the dude getting laid in your parents bed. Friday & Saturday would the hot cheerleaders having a threesome with the Thursday, and somehow Sunday always wakes up with the goat mascot stolen from the rival university up the street. But Monday? Oh man. No one actually likes Monday because Monday? Well, Monday is the bitchy old lady neighbour who lives downstairs and calls the cops complaining about all the noise.

Honestly I’m too bitchy to be posting today. For the third straight drive in a row, my commute has been a complete and utter cluster fuck. The traffic jams that make you mutter, “Someone had better fucking be dead up there” because it takes you so long to inch your way past the hold up. Of course one of these days someone IS going to be dead, and then won’t I feel like shit for being so grumpy?

It’s just that it’s HARD not to feel like the universe is jerking you by the proverbial chain when you spend two hours staring at the back of a JESUS LOVES YOU bumper sticker.

If Jesus really loved me, he’d invent teleporting.

Why Yes, You Can Buy A Clear Conscious!

This is Tracey (on the right). She’s sort of hysterically awesome and dresses like this all the time.

In addition to being funny, smart, and fashion forward (er, backward), she’s also socially conscious. And not just in a lip service way either, oh, no. In the past, this chick has raised money to travel to Africa where she’s actually worked in villages hands on. This is her idea of a vacation. It’s enough to make you feel horrible about all the rum slushies you consumed on your last stay at an all inclusive resort.

ANYWAY.

Right now Tracey is fundraising for the yearly walks she takes with her family. And what is not to love about a woman raising socially conscious kids? Nothing! I know! Now normally I wouldn’t use my blog to pick your pockets, but I’ve got a lot of bad karma to atone for and what better way than through your wallets?

I would love it if you were able to donate. Here are the details on Tracey’s walks from her email.

I am very proud that our family will be a part of the SuperWalk for Parkinson's on September 11th in Springbank Park in London. I know first hand the difference that these funds make to programs that support people with this extremely challenging disorder. Please visit the website at superwalk.com - go into pledge a walker. Put in the last name Jones and you will find us in there under John and Tracey! Help us reach our goal of $1000.00 to support this worthy cause!

The second walk we are participating in is the AIDS Walk for Life on September 12th; we let John Liam and Ethan take the lead in fundraising for this walk. I have been a proud supporter and volunteer with Camp Wendake (a camp for children and adults affected by HIV/AIDS) for 7 years now. We have no funding other than donations to be able to operate this incredible retreat for people living with this disease. Please visit our website at www.campwendake.org to find out more about the camp....BUT take the opportunity to pledge the boys by following the link below to help us reach our goal of $1000.00 there as well.

Tracey, John, John Liam & Ethan Jones

Someone Is Wrong On The Internet

Apparently I am a lying liar who lies.

Last night I met up with a group of friends for Movies & Music in the Park. Every summer The Beat Goes On (a local business who frequently milks my bank account for spare change) partners up with The Princess Theater and the city to host three events to raise food for the food bank. Given the fact that Derek and Nancy pretty much fed Ben and I for a year when I had (very literally and with not even a pinch of hyperbole) no money, the food bank is one of my favourite charities. Basically a local band provides entertainment while everyone mills around waiting for it to get dark. When it does, you break out the blankets and get deep into snuggle mode to watch a family-friendly movie on a big, inflatable screen. It’s sort of the most awesome thing ever.

Anyway, while we were waiting (and arguing over the best and only way to serve brownies – heated with ice cream, no icing, no nuts) it came to my attention that I grossly misrepresented Derek’s favourite number. Derek immediately demanded a formal retraction.

Consider this post retracted.* Derek’s favourite number is apparently 29 not 28. My whole world has changed. First I was wrong about the Fuzzy Peaches and now this!

Fuzzy Peaches for those of you not in the know, are a candy. Nicole and I both thought that Derek *loved* them, and so for years we’d buy him a big bag for his birthday. Finally one year Nancy informed us that he *HATED* Fuzzy Peaches and was just too polite to say so. Needless to say, we were stunned.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON’T LIKE FUZZY PEACHES?!

WHY DIDN’T YOU SAY SO?!?!

Well it turns it turns out that Derek’s not so shy anymore and so I’m here to inform all five of you that Derek’s favourite number is 29. I think we’ll all be able to sleep better knowing that’s been rectified.

Up next: solving world peace.



*God, this must be what the Toronto Sun feels like all the time.

Blogging, Working Out, Wonderland & The Holy Grail

Sometimes blogging is like working out, if you skip a few days you forget how. After that, your ass magically gets glued to the couch and you find yourself eating dishes of ice cream at 3:30 am while watching informercials like it’s 1995 again.

Speaking of working out, I’m fairly certain that in two weeks the only thing you will read about here is my moaning. When Nancy and I were talking the other day, she suggested working out together again. She caught me in a moment of inspired weakness and I said yes. I’m fairly certain that I’ll grow to regret this. Nancy is all sweet and goodness and light on the surface, but get that girl near a some free weights and she turns into some whip wielding masochist.

Speaking of Nancy, yesterday she took the three kids to Canada’s Wonderland making her officially Ben’s hero. We’ll see how he feels about her after she crushes my will to live in her basement (see above). Wonderland is pretty much my idea of hell on earth. Oh sure, when I was a kid I loved that place. But I’m an adult now who tends to get carsick if anyone drives me to the grocery store, let alone over a 75ft drop. Not to mention the fact that place is full of kids, and we all know how I feel about kids. Of course, Ben came back thrilled, red-faced and eager to chat my ear off about every single roller coaster in the park. Hint: THEY’RE ALL AWESOME.

Speaking of Ben, fingers crossed, he’ll be visiting my parents for a few more days next week. It will be my last few solid Ben-free days until the Christmas holidays and I can assure you, I’m guarding those days like they are the holy grail.

Speaking of holy grails, I got nothing. Thus concludes my post for today.

Tune in tomorrow when I discuss how in love I am with my new bottle of cuticle oil. It’s riveting stuff, I assure you.

Post 746 (For Lack Of A Better Title)

Can we talk about how I felt after seeing THIS outside my back door this weekend? And before you go brushing off my hysterics, it’s not just one rogue leaf either. There are lots of them, yellowed and browning and scattered all over the lawn. All signs are currently pointing to OMFG, RUN FOR YOUR LIVES, WINTER IS COMING.

Today Is Officially Fired

Seriously, I don’t even know if I should be telling you this. On one hand, it’s funny. On the other hand, what if someone reads this and decides I am a danger to myself, calls the authorities and has me institutionalized? I’d lose my child and most likely end up homeless while picking at my scabs and muttering to myself on a street corner. It could totally happen, you know. After all, Paris Hilton did once get a record deal.

Anyway, at the risk of great personal humiliation (and possibly my freedom to defecate in private), allow me to share with you my latest and greatest OH MY GOD, WHAT IS MY LIFE moment:

This morning I had a meeting across the street at our other office. I packed up what I needed and headed downstairs. So far, so good, right? Nothing terribly out of the ordinary, you’re thinking. And I would agree, except that’s exactly what millions of North Americans say every morning when they get into the shower and at least 6.8 per 100,000 of them die. Let that be a lesson to you people having dangerous shower sex. That fancy move you’re pulling while performing the world’s most contorted blow job? It’s probably going to kill you.

(Look at that: My blog officially saves lives (and causes blue balls)(seriously mom, I’m sorry – pretend you didn’t just read that.))

Shockingly, this post is not about sex no matter how many people are out there, RIGHT NOW, Googling “sex in shower” and “fancy blow jobs that might kill you.” Where was I again? Oh right. This post is not about sex. It’s about me getting trapped in a revolving door. Because doors are hard and apparently require a university degree in order to adequately operate them. Here is the part where I tell you I am not kidding:

I am not kidding.

You see, our office building has a few of those fancy revolving doors. All well and fine. I mean, I’ve used them at least 1,000 times before without incident. One would assume this morning would be no different. Except that the wind tunnel outside of my old office? Apparently it followed me here. So basically, I walk into the little pie-shaped opening and give the door a good strong shove to get it started. And it moves forward, exactly as it should.

Then it stopped moving and I was stuck in what can only be described as a glass coffin.

I shoved it again but it wouldn’t budge. For a second I contemplated backing out of it, but of course the crack between me and the rest of the free world was big enough for (at best) a tiny slip of paper. I don’t know if you’ve seen my physique lately, but I assure you – my body is larger than a slip of paper. So there I am, stuck with a lap top slung over my shoulder and the distinct feeling that at some point I’m going to run out of air and die in this god forsaken revolving door. You know, exactly how I imagined the end of my life.

Happily with panic comes brute strength.

I push the door hard again and it slots forward the tiniest amount. Then I try yanking it backwards (panic, sadly is all brawn and no brains). No dice. The door only rotates one direction. So I push on it, battering against it like a fly against a window...with approximately the same amount of success. Then I start throwing my shoulder into it. Again and again and again. And little by little by little it edges forward. Finally after a lot of bleating and muffled curses it sprung open and I tumbled out of it onto the sidewalk in front of our building, head first into a few people having a cigarette and watching the whole spectacle as though I was their own private episode of Just for Laughs.

Oh, Monday. Why do you always have to be such an asshole?

Things That Are Awesome:

1) Gail for hooking me on this song:



2) England for giving us Pimm's:




3) This kid who I get back tomorrow:

Fortune Cookies Won't Make You Rich

Sometimes I get sappy whenever I sit down to write about my dad. It's nice to know I'm just as sappy about my mom.

You Should Prepare My Eulogy

Oh hey. Guess what I forgot to tell you about? MY NEAR DEATH EXPERIENCE, THAT’S WHAT.

On Friday I showed up to work only to find a note stuck to the doors of the elevators: OUT OF SERVICE, PLEASE USE STAIRS (AND DIE). I think it goes without saying the and die was implied, even though that’s pretty much exactly what happened. Have I mentioned lately that I work on the 7th floor? And that I’m in no shape to be trotting up the stairs? Obviously by the time I got to my desk I was a wheezing puddle of near-death. Forgetting about the size of my ass for a minute, I’m sure it didn’t help that I was dragging a few heavy bags up with me.

The real kick in the pants though was the fact that the elevators WERE NOT EVEN BROKEN. Apparently they’d been doing some service work on them and the maintenance guy forgot to remove the sign. Almost everyone in my office realized this though and breezed through the door like they were fresh out of a fabric softener commercial. Or maybe not because none of them were sniffing large piles of fluffy white towels. But my point is, none of them were teetering on the cusp of death. Which got me thinking: I’d like to be able to run up 7 flights of stairs and not worry about dying. Or throwing up, because frankly for 30 minutes afterwards I was pretty sure I was going to blow chunks.

And so after thinking about it for awhile, I decided that from now I’m, I’m taking the stairs in the morning. And today I did, on purpose. When I got to the top my legs were shaking. And yes, I was 99% sure that I was going to die the whole time. But I did it, and lived to blog about it.

LUCKY YOU.

Ezekiel 25:17

I swear to god, this will change your life:



Donald Duck & Mickey Mouse do Pulp Fiction (Not the porn you think it is) My suggestion is that you don't watch this video if you are in a public place or are at all required to look like you're hard at work. Because you will laugh. And then you will try NOT to laugh, which will only make it worse. And then you will make a horribly embarrassing snorting noise - which you will then choke on. Everyone will stare. They always do.

Fish Oil & Dogs Do Not Mix

I came home from my parents house on Monday night and in the tradition of all trips north, I dumped my bags in the middle of the kitchen floor and then promptly left them there. Now, before I go any further, I should point out that in the past year That Fucking Dog ™ has developed this annoying habit of rooting through the garbage. I can’t leave tissues in the bathroom waste basket because she’ll dig them out and shred them all over the place. I can’t leave anything on the edge of the table because she’ll manage to knock it off and then eat it. Occasionally I’ll let Ben eat in the living room while he’s watching TV but if he turns his back for even a second, she’ll snatch food off his place.

Needless to say, there is a lot of cursing at her and we defend food and garbage like it’s the hope diamond.

But whatever, the other night there was nothing edible in my bags so I wasn’t really worried about it.

I was wrong.

Apparently there were about 10-12 fish oil capsules in a small Ziploc bag. When I got back from work my clothes were striddled (is that even a real word?) across the floor and the room smelled as though a bunch of cod fish had committed suicide. The dog was pacing around the room, stopping every few steps to heave.

“Oh you fucking idiot,” I said.

She hung her head and skirted off to the corner to sit and watch me while I cleaned up her vomit. All three puddles of it.

Then I broke out the bleach. Bleach – which you should know - I haven’t used in almost a year because Amy has finally, OFFICIALLY worn me down with all her nagging. And when I say nagging, I mean lovingly forwarding me emails outlining all sorts of scary scientific facts about how bad bleach is for your asthmatic child AND the environment. It took a while but I’ve adjusted to cleaning with vinegar and water, even if there are moments when I longingly cuddle my jug of bleach. I can’t help it. Bleach smells awesome. It smells clean. Clean turns me on.

The problem is (aside from those last three sentences) I can still smell fish every time I walk through the door. I’ve left the windows open and I’ve washed with bleach at least three times. No luck. The fish oil stench will not be defeated. Only now I’m starting to think it’s all in my head. Sort of like that one time I got so drunk on tequila and puked all over my own bed and the boy I was making out with (shut up, I was only 20). For months every time I went to bed I thought I could smell tequila and then I’d get dry heaves.

Dry heaving yourself to sleep is not sexy.

Eventually I started sleeping on the couch in the living room because I couldn’t stand the “smell” of my own bed. Which was really the height of insanity – although it did get me off the sauce. The problem is, I can’t just avoid my whole apartment and moving because I psychosomatically smell fish oil is not really in the cards for me right now.

I swear to god, TFD can’t die soon enough.

Ugh, Really?

In the past two weeks or so Starbucks and I have been getting pretty chummy. Before you panic, I promise you I haven't went back to my old calorie sucking ways. This is just a tiny summer fling - quick hand jobs and no tongue, I swear. There's nothing to worry about, unless you stop to consider that I make a lot of sexual jokes about coffee. In which case, yeah that's not normal. But whatever, the fact is, in a few days I'll be swearing Starbucks off again when I don't have the luxury of doing whatever I feel like after work.

Which brings me to the main point of this post: my god there are a lot of douche bags out there.

It's true!! Apparently they are not just confined to the internet! In fact they're out there in the real world and apparently Starbucks is their headquarters.

EXHIBIT A: Right now there is this guy sitting across from me having some major conference call complete with a full headset, a video phone snapped onto the top of his laptop, booming authoritative voice and accompanying hand gestures.

I'm not going to lie: I want to take him outside and beat the pulp out of him. Sort of like that nightmare scene from American History X where Edward Norton's character slams that one guys head into the curb and then stomps on it. Remember that one? It made you cringe and you felt actual dental pain?

Yeah, that's exactly how violent I feel about this guy right now.

DUDE. You are conference calling....from Starbucks. Please fuck off now some of us have obnoxious screenplays to write.




NB: No, I am not writing a screenplay. I can't even write a grocery list these days.

NB2: Oh great. Now guy number 2 has whipped out his iPhone and plugged it into his Mac. JFC.

It Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time

Last Monday I took Ben out paddle boating. It was one of those things that seemed like a good idea, in theory. The theory being, of course, that one of us isn’t grossly out of shape and likely to die in the middle of a lake. Like an idiot, I didn’t really consider this until it was far too late. And by too late, I mean, up current with no way of getting back to shore without a lot of tears and prayers to false gods.

I refuse to accept the blame for my predicament because the thing about paddle boating is this: it’s one of those idyllic summertime adventures that you see on the fronts of those lying, glossy tourist brochures. You know the ones, right? Everyone is smiling, fresh from their enema at the spa and wearing matching polo shirts? Swans (let’s not forget about I feel about swans) are usually seen gliding safely in the distance. You look at the photo and in a moment of temporary insanity, think: “Wow. That looks like so much fun!”

SPOILER ALERT: It’s not.

What you can’t see in the photo is the swarm of bugs waiting to devour you alive.

Obviously I somehow suckered myself into thinking that this was going to be one of those scrapbooking moments in Ben’s childhood. A pleasant paddle around the lake where we’d talk about Chaucer or something equally highbrow. Instead, we got about 20/25 minutes out when my legs started to cramp and burn. Apparently this is normal if your most strenuous physical activity is pushing the number 7 button in the elevator cab every day. But whatever, I figure. I can totally do this. So we paddle on, only instead of talking about Chaucer (which is fine really because I don’t know SHIT about that dude) Ben was busy chattering about whether or not the lake had any piranhas in it.

“Don’t be silly,” I said with authority. “There are no piranhas left here anymore. The alligators have eaten them all.” Ben looked at the water cautiously while I pointed out the tree he was steering us towards. “You’re going to swamp us, kid. And then we’re screwed.”

Unfortunately Ben took that as a challenge and not a warning and so he drove us directly into the overhang of the tree. To recap our situation: my legs are burning like a Salem witch and I’m eating bugs while being attacked by a killer tree.

Fun, right?

Ben thinks this is hilarious. Me? Not so much.

Fifteen minutes after that, I managed to get our boat safely back to the dock. And that’s where the real indignities began. The teenage boy working the dock looked like he’d just stepped out of some Abercrombie & Finch ad complete with deck shoes and swooshy hair. On the complete opposite side of the model spectrum? Me. Sweaty-faced with dead bugs plastered to my red cheeks. So there I am, dreading the next 10 seconds of my life when Ben, like the limber little shit that he is, scrambled out of the boat without incident. My jelly-legs were not about to let me off so easily. Instead of blithely exiting the boat, I flailed around like a drunk. The boat rocked back and forth while I stumbled and tripped over the console. Meanwhile, Mr. Abercrombie & Finch stared off into the middle distance with his stupid cut abs of steel: asshole. Finally, having lost the last tenuous grip on my dignity, I flung myself forward at the dock and log rolled my way back to dry land where I lay heaving like a fresh trout out of water.

Funny how they don’t put THAT on the motherfucking tourism pamphlet, huh?

How To Be Alone

Family Comes First

These are the things I hammer into Ben’s head at every opportunity:

pay yourself first
be charitable, invest in people whenever you have the chance
be forgiving because we’re all flawed
give people the benefit of the doubt at least twice
family comes first – always

These are the principals I learned from my parents and so far they’ve served me well. I thought about them a lot this weekend, and especially on my drive home last night.

I don’t know if my dad was ever disappointed that he had daughters instead of sons. If he was, it was impossible to tell. When I was young, I mowed the lawn in the summer and in the fall I was expected to help him cord wood. I was also allowed to pin his hair back into pink, yellow and white barrettes while he sat on the floor in front of the couch watching the news on TV. In the end, I suppose it all evened out in the wash.

Ben’s lucky enough to get the same, unwavering attention from him. My dad feigns interest in Pokemon the same way he listened intently to me when I talked about Strawberry Shortcake.

On Saturday night Ben and I my dad took a helicopter ride together. It was a gift from my mom & me this past Christmas. Oddly enough, afterwards, it made me think of my grade 8 graduation.

If you look at the photos from my grad, you will see a girl in a pink lace dress, her hair French braided and lips glossed for the very first time. Standing next to her is her father. His mouth in those photos is a lemon-twist of pain from having thrown his back out a day earlier. And yet he was there, leaning heavily to the side, one arm gripped too tightly around her shoulders, a tight tired smile pinned dutifully to his face.

He’s always been there. Whether it is over the phone while I rage about things I think are unjust or whether it’s just that I need someone to witness how gutted I am.

For the past few years my dad has been in constant pain while he waits on doctors to determine the next best course of surgery. He visits the local hospital every other day and yet on that Saturday night he climbed into a helicopter and spent twenty minutes being Ben’s superhero.

Afterwards, he climbed out the chopper and followed slowly behind while Ben ran ahead, shouting in excitement. I realized on my trip home last night that Ben is very much like the girl I used to be and he’s learning that family comes first from the very best.

Love You Like Air

This past March break Ben spent the week with his dad. I missed him as though my right arm had been cut off. This summer? Not so much.

Perhaps it’s the change in weather. Perhaps it’s because even though he’s gone for three weeks straight, I still see him every weekend. Whichever the reason, I’m finding myself quite content to laze around after work photographing, writing, having long meandering coffee dates with friends, or just shirking my own bed time in favour of mainlining pop culture. I’m feeling more rested and centered than I have in a long time. It’s a starling revelation and it makes me think we’d all be better parents if we only had to work weekends.

I for one, would be.

When you get wrapped up in the daily grind of parenting you lose who you are as an individual. You don’t realize what a luxury it is make your way to a coffee shop after work to write for a couple of hours. Don’t get me wrong, I love that kid like he’s air, I guess I just wish he wouldn’t suck so much of it out the room. It makes me realize that I’m going to have to work harder at carving out my own time once we get back into the swing of September.

Still, I’m looking forward to seeing him again this weekend. In a few more days I’ll be up north to visit him at my parents’ place before he goes off to his dad’s for another week. We’re planning a hike on the escarpment, an afternoon at the beach and a night out at the village fair. Ben’s been giving me progress updates every day when we chat. He’s been fishing with papa. He’s been to Tim Horton’s more times that he can count. Oh! And grandma let him eat a WHOLE donut and not just the two timbits that I allow. Booyah.

I laughed when we were talking because Ben is giddy at the idea of throwing off all my rules in front of me. He hides behind the “papa said I could” with a wicked sense of daring. Maybe he loves me like air too. Maybe he just wishes I wouldn’t suck so much out of the room either. Maybe we both needed the break.

Today is my turn to post over at Project 182 and my photo was an after bedtime shot of Ben. It feels fitting today.

Grow Up, Collins

Whenever I hate what I’m doing it takes me a exactly a million and eighty-two hours to finish it.

I hate this about myself.

I hate that I’m not willing to just buckle down and get it done, even if I know it will make me less miserable in the long run.

I hate that I will work at the problem for five minutes and then spend 30 minutes doing other inane things just to avoid the next five minutes.

I hate that I see the same thing in Ben, who will happily sit at the kitchen table swinging his legs until bedtime rather than finish his homework.

Considering I’m blogging about how much I hate what I’m doing, the smart money is on the fact that it’s still not fucking done.

I'm Sorry, Mom.

I'm addicted to Thai Sweet Chili Sauce, in particular, this:



That's right, Cock Brand...which, because I'm permanently 12 years old, I refer to as cock sauce. But not out loud, because that would be weird. Seriously though, how can you not laugh at this? The safety label has COCK stamped over it at least a dozen times. And it's SAUCE.

Right now my mother is reading this and shaking her head in horror.

Cock sauce.

*snickers*

For Pete's Sake

Carolyn nags me when I don’t update enough. The problem is, it’s hard to say anything here that Carolyn hasn’t heard already. Especially considering that for two weekends in a row we spent a good five hours in Starbucks chatting until our lips fell off. Which reminds me, Carolyn is slightly worried that she’s put a large crack in my Starbucks resolve.

It’s true. Starbucks and I had a short fling two weeks ago. A one-espresso stand, if you will.

But it’s okay. I’m over it. Ordering my old usual felt like sleeping with a lover you used to fake orgasms for. It’s sort of okay in the moment and you think you’re getting what you want only afterwards they’re snoring and you’re still left with the wet spot and a weird desire to eat ice cream. Really no one ever wins in these situations.

ANYWAY.

My point is, Carolyn and I killed five hours on Sunday. First we hung out at Starbucks for a hour, then we wandered across the street for lunch. Then we headed back to Starbucks again for more talking. I brought my camera and there was a few moments when Carolyn was in the perfect light to shoot but the subject matter we were covering didn’t readily allow for: hang on, lemme take your picture.

Also, and this is unrelated - I swear, this weekend my mom came to visit.

I actually love when my mom comes to visit. Usually she does these really handy things, like take my dog outside for a pee and wash my breakfast dishes. If you’re not careful, she’ll start cleaning out your fridge and organizing your underwear drawer. We spent a ton of time talking, which isn’t anything new. My mom and I have always been able to talk for hours. We cover a ton of seemingly unrelated topics without ever pausing for air. Apparently Ben must take after us, because he never shuts up either.

Unrelated to everything above, this:

Stepford Workers

My new office building is green. Not literally, but environmentally. For example, we don’t have garbage cans at our desks. Instead we have recycling bins and compost containers. On the weekends the building managers turn the AC way down and on Monday’s it takes a few hours to ramp back up to a comfortable temperature. Speaking of temperatures, they also keep the building a few degrees warmer than other air conditioned buildings.

Downstairs there is a small sandwich shop where they do not charge .50 extra for cheese. The people who run it know everyone by name and they don’t try to upsize your chocolate milk from a small to a large. They wave good morning to you when you pass by and shout “Have a nice drive home!” when you leave.

But the biggest change is the elevators, or more specifically, the people who ride them. My old building was 12 stories and there were several different companies throughout. This building is 9 stories and it’s primarily one company with a few small rental spaces – like ours. I’ve yet to run into a single crazy person, unless you call being considerate and friendly crazy.

Even though I’ve come to expect it, it’s still rather surprising to be sashaying (though I clomp more than I have ever sashayed) into work only to find someone quietly, patiently waiting for you to reach the elevator before letting the doors slide shut. And they talk to you. Quiet, polite chit chat about the weather and traffic and plans for the weekend.

It’s unnerving, and I’m not going to lie: I am moderately suspicious of these smiling, Stepford workers.

Commuting With Nature

Ignoring Maggie's dirty windshield, this mornings commute was lovely.



It reminded me of what it's like driving to work in early September: cool mornings with a heavy fog that clears the closer you get to KW. I'm not as ambivalent about my commute as I used to be. While I still love driving, there are moments during my drive when I feel like I'm never going to get there. Thankfully there are still moments - like this one - that make me feel like I don't care if I do.

It’s My Blog, I Can Be A Dick If I Want To

I’m not about to be a dick or anything, I’m just asserting my rights.

In other news, does anyone else have problems with reading & audible pronunciation working together? Like, for example: there is a woman in my office who I think is Indian/Pakistani/do not know. Anyway, she has a really pretty name that I can pronounce but not spell. And yet when I walk by her desk and see her nameplate I can read it but not actually connect all the letters into what I know her name sounds like. In other words looking at her name does not make literal phonetic sense to me.

It’s gotten to the point that I’ve deliberately started to avoid looking at her nameplate because every time I do I find myself wrapped up in this long, loud internal argument with myself that inevitably degrades to the point of name calling. It goes something like this:

Me 1: *mangles pronunciation*
Me 2: You’re such an idiot. I can’t believe you do this every time. Obviously it’s *mangles pronunciation*

Me 1: Oh really, now who’s the idiot? (mocking) *mangles pronunciation* phfffpt That’s not even close.
Me 2: Fuck off.

Me 1: That’s mature.
Me 2: Really? You’re going there Miss I Had a Kool Aid Jammer For Breakfast?

Me 1: One time! I had a jammer ONE TIME!
Me 2: Uh huh.

Me 1: You’re such an assole. This is why no one likes you, you know.
Me 2: Whatever. Oh shit. There’s her nameplate again, look away.

Spa Day

Sometime during the heat wave Ben slopped his chocolate milk in the back seat of the car. It soaked into the carpet and then – as milk is wont to do during times of extreme heat – rotted like a sonvabitch. Every time we’d get into the car, I’d gag while frantically rolling down all the windows. Meanwhile Ben would look shame-faced and apologize for the millionth time. Unfortunately it’s really hard to be benevolent about these things when your lungs are trying to make an exit through your nose.

As if that wasn’t bad enough a few days later I had leftover Thai sitting on the passenger’s seat and it leaked through the container…right onto the upholstery. That night I called to book an appointment to get the car detailed & shampooed. When I dropped Maggie off the following morning I handed over her keys with a profuse apology.

90 minutes later I picked up a brand new car. The tech walked me through everything they’d done (which I assure you was nothing short of being forced to perform brain surgery with a pitch fork). He was apparently VERY sorry about not being able to get Ben’s glitter infused silly puddy out of the floor mat.

“Dude, whatever. Look at this! This is amazing!”

He smiled.

“I swear to god,” I continued. “If I ever kill my ex-husband in this car I’m totally bringing it back here to be detailed!”

He looked a little apprehensive and made an uncomfortable sound that I think was supposed to pass as a laugh. Regardless, the interior of my car is fucking spectacular right now.

So in summation: If you’ve recently killed someone and need to have your car detailed, I highly recommend this place.

We Keep It Down When We Take A Beating

The company I work for has run out of space at our central head office. Eventually they decided to move three departments to another building right across the street. Obviously moving is always painful and there are inherent adjustments that go along with it, especially when one gives up a corner space with three gigantic windows for ….well….something substantially smaller.

(You can insert (no pun intended) your favourite penile joke here)

Yesterday was the official move and I spent the day knee deep in boxes and chaos. In 5 hours we uncrated what took days to pack up. I’m happy to report that I got through it all with every nail intact and not a single paper cut to report. In unhappier news: Wow. Cubicals are tiny these days.

I’ve given it some careful consideration and one quick Google. Turns out that the average American prison cell is 6 x8. My office cubical is 5 x 5 …which means if I want to upgrade, I’m going to have to rape someone. Oh wait, Roman Polanski already did that and he only lived under Swedish House arrest (in his opulent chalet) for nine months. I suppose if I want to go to prison I’ll need to steal a car.

How insane is that?

One, that my cubical is so small and two that we value possessions over human life.

God that’s depressing…on both counts.



Unrelated: I've been listening to a lot of Gaslight Anthem again.

Gaslight Anthem, Queen of Lower Chelsea

Chicken Little

I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to mock your kid on the internet, but fuck it. Tonight Ben put on my glasses and he reminded me of a cross between chicken little and the Jerry McGuire kid. He's practically BEGGING me to make fun of him.

Witness:

Dating Advice....From An Eight Year Old

Tonight Ben & I had the following conversation:

Ben: Mommy when do you meet the most new friends?
Me: I'm sorry? When like, what time during the day or when like, in the span of your life?

Ben: In your life.
Me: Oh, I dunno. When you're in school probably? And I guess if you're a grown up, when you're at work?

Ben: Or you could bump into them and then say you're sorry and then you start talking and then you're friends!
Me: Or that.

Ben: I think you should bump into boys.
Me: Really? Just...bump into them, huh?

Ben, laughing: Yeah! Bump! Oh hello!
Me, laughing: You're insane.

Ben: I know! Bump into boys with kids and then I'll have a step brother my age. That would be so awesome.
Me: It would be somthing, that's for sure.


I suppose Ben's dating advice is timely now that I'm dipping a (cautious) toe into the dating pool. And considering the horrific dating profiles I've read lately (more on that later) maybe I really should consider banging into random strangers.

Oh hello!

Blinded By The Light

Ben refuses to suffer for art.

This evening we grabbed our cameras and headed out for a drive. After awhile we ended up at some cemetery that I never knew existed. Sadly it was a pretty boring cemetery (no offense to anyone buried there) so we didn't stick around long even though the light there was pretty fantastic. At one point Ben was standing in this perfect spot but refused to turn his head because he was apparently being blinded.

I can't believe he chose function over vanity.

I've Always Loved You The Most

Friday was a busy day. I kidnapped the Haber kids then met Ben's dad in Mississauga to pick up Ben. From there we went to the science centre. Considering it was 3 kids vs me (coupled with the very real fact that I generally do not like children) it went swimmingly.

Speaking of swimming, last night I ditched Ben with a rental Pudd while I went out for dinner with my dear, dear, DEAR friends (who neglected to invite me in the first place). Two hours later I came back to find that my boy-child, the one previously freaked out about any body of water larger than drinking glass was a full fledged swimmer.

Jeff had taught him to float, dog paddle, and do cannon balls off the edge of the pool. He can also sink to the bottom of the pool and sit cross legged, do front flips and a very, very, very splish splashy back roll.

Jeff is officially amazing and I take back every time I ever implied that Josh was my favourite.

I Wanna Drive The Zamboni

I saw this and immediately thought about Jeff.



Happy Canada Day, eh.

Baby Fever

Ben doesn't like being an only child. We never actually intended on him being an only. The game plan was always to have three kids. Only having Ben turned out to be a hell of a lot more challenging than we expected. Our first year was spent rushing to the emergency room for one reason or another and somewhere in all of that I started thinking it was greedy to want three kids and what I really wanted was one that just stayed breathing.

Obviously Ben's fine. Sometime after he turned three our trips to the emergency room tapered off. Before we could get serious about having more we ended up divorced. Which leaves Ben an unexpected lonely.

Most of the time he's fine being an only. But then Sam get's a new brother and all I hear about is how awesome it would be to have a baby. It's officially to the point that I'm starting to wonder if Ben is a pre-menopausal woman fighting her biological clock.

On the way home from Oakville yesterday Ben wanted to know if it was expensive to adopt. Because maybe we could just do that? All of this is just to say,

Welcome to the world, Crosby. Look what you started.

Fill 'er Up

There is an abandoned gas station off the 401 right before you get to Mississauga Road. I drive by it almost every day and every time I do, I think it would be a great place to stop and get photographs. Finally this morning I did. Only apparently people get freaked out when you tromp around private property with your camera? Who knew?

Granted it wasn’t a big deal. The security guard was pretty friendly and as soon as he saw that my Nikon wasn’t a can of spray paint he was happy to let me poke around. Of course, he also followed me around asking a lot of questions. Why was I taking photos? What was I going to do with them? Did I want to buy the property or something? I laughed and said no.

“So then this is a hobby?” He waved his arms around at the mess behind him.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

I never know how to answer questions like that. Hell, I barely know how to describe what I do for a living so describing why I’m interested in buildings that are falling apart is decidedly harder.

I’m not sure WHY I love the idea of decay so much. I’m not sure why feral buildings attract my attention. I suspect it’s because I love the idea that everything has a story without a clear beginning/middle/end. Places like this gas station/rest stop must have hundreds of stories. Husbands and wives arguing in the parking lot. Kids begging for a treat before the family hits the road again. Someone pumping gas while at the same time praying to god they have enough money in their bank account to cover the charge. People excited about where they’re going; others gutted about where they’ve been.

I guess what I’m saying is that life is transient and for someone who clings to things that are stable and predictable there's something very appealing about that.

Rush Hour

Not exactly the rush hour I'm used to seeing on the 401, but way cooler. I love the guy at 29 seconds who is towing along a second bike with him.

Sum Sum Summertime

Ben is officially sporting his summer look, despite how badly I wanted him to leave his hair shaggy. His hair is going white around the temples and his eyebrows have all but disappeared. The freckles on his cheeks are starting to stand out and he permanently has red cheeks no matter how much sun screen he wears.

All in all, it's not a bad look.

Cookies vs Veggies & Dip

Did I tell you my childcare provider is breaking up with me?

It’s true. She says it’s because they’re moving. Initially I was skeptical. It sounded to me like a sketchy version of the old break up line, “It’s not you, it’s me.” Sadly there’s no denying it anymore because she’s packing like a crazy person. Still, there are moments when I feel like I should latch onto her leg and beg her not to leave (she’s just that awesome). I’ve even briefly toyed with suggesting couples therapy. The irony here is that my therapist moved too.

Because of this, two weeks ago I interviewed a new caregiver (Ben too, for that matter) to take over in September. It turns out that Ben and I have very different objectives. My questions were more along the “Do you have a criminal record?” line while Ben’s was a very pointed, “What sort of snacks do you have?”

Still, the new girl seemed to take it in stride. It was a quick “no” to the criminal record and a hopeful “veggies and dip” to the snack query. Ben wrinkled his nose and looked equal parts repulsed and suspicious before shooting back with, “Lisa lets us have cookies sometimes.”

After the interview was over, Ben and I headed out to the farmers market. On the way Ben announced that he was going to miss Lisa.

“Me too, dude.” I said.

And I will…because like I said: she is just that awesome.

Labour Day

Yesterday I phoned Carolyn on my way home from work. When she picked up I said, “So are you tired of people phoning you every day to see if you’ve had the baby yet?”

Carolyn groaned. “I hate you. You’re such a bitch.”

“I know,” I chirped. “That’s why we’re such good friends! But seriously I wanted to see if you’re available for lunch tomorrow….you know….to celebrate the arrival of your due date.”

There was a small, silent pause then, “I really, really hate you.”

So yeah. In case you haven’t figured it out yet. Carolyn is due to have her baby today however her baby has other plans.

Hurry up, Baby! I want to take pictures of you!

Sometimes You Can Just Tell These Things

For the last week I've kept running into this guy in the elevator and the cafeteria downstairs. He’s very pretty. Not attractive in the normal sense, but underwear model pretty with a full mouth, defined cheekbones, flawless skin and perfectly sculpted hair. The problem is, he knows it which takes all the fun out of admiring him.

You can tell he’s the sort of person who defines himself by his looks. He has a faux hawk. He wears designer shirts and his shoes are made from good leather. He checks out his reflection in the sneeze guard when he's ordering toast and always looks perpetually bored while posing and staring off into the middle distance. Worse, he talks about his French girlfriend with tired adjectives and well punctuated sighs making it sound as though dating her is an act of charity.

All of this has lead me to the obvious conclusion: I am firmly convinced that he’s a lousy fuck.

The Beatles Were Only Half Right

This letter is written in response to this blog post.


Dear Michelle,

So it’s 1994, huh? By now you’ve probably figured out that depression is a real bitch. I’m not going to focus on that today though. You’ll get through it eventually and it will become one of those clichéd things that make you stronger. It’s okay to roll your eyes, I think that’s a crock of shit too and I’m already standing on the other side of it.

Still, I have some advice for you. First of all, you need to step away from the President’s Choice Decadent Chocolate Chip Cookies. You’ll only hate yourself for eating the whole bag, and right now you don’t need that kind of pressure. Which reminds me: while we’re talking about bad habits you need to kick, you really should stop watching Jenny Jones and Maury Povich. I’m telling you this in the kindest, most honest, and direct way possible, Jerry Springer is not your friend. Honestly, how many times do you really need to see an overweight woman in a tube top throw a chair at her baby daddy? All the daytime TV you’re subjecting yourself to is a just a major time suck. You’re doing it to avoid real life. And honey, real life is actually pretty cool. Once you get your shit together, you’ll realize that.

Overall, I think you’re spending way too much time listening to that negative voice in your head. You know the voice I’m talking about right? The one that trash talks you constantly and convinces you that every fleeting negative thought you’ve ever had about yourself is true times a million. Right now you think you’re going to grow old and die alone leaving behind your 12 cats to feast on your decaying body. I promise you that’s not going to happen. Please stop trying to be invisible all of the time. Your friends like you, and for good reason. You’re actually pretty funny and awesome to be around when you don’t look like you’re going to jump off the balcony at any second.

I understand, school sucks. I need you to realize that you’re just not in the right program. Of course, you already know that. The problem is, you’re not doing anything to fix it. You’re just sitting here stagnating instead of actively trying to find a solution. Which reminds me, please focus on fixing your own problems instead of playing nursemaid to boys with low self-esteem and mommy issues. You keep getting sucked into liking boys with emotional problems and it’s because you’ve confused being needed with being valued. Learn the difference. If you don’t, it’s going to cause us some major problems down the road. I’d really appreciate it if you could nip this in the bud.

Also, I’d like you to stop telling yourself you’re lazy, because you’re not. That’s just an excuse you use to cover up for the fact that you’re afraid to embarrass yourself when you fail. And you will fail, because sooner or later - everyone does. Later you’re going to meet Carolyn and the two of you will have a long conversation about this and procrastination. I suppose if I’m giving you tips, I should also point out that Carolyn isn’t a consultant. I’m telling you this because you actually ignore her for an entire year – and she turns out to be one of your best friends.

Life is actually a lot simpler than you realize. All you have to do is find the thing that inspires you. Make sure you get enough calcium. Get in the habit of going for a walk after dinner. Do your kegels. Make sure you have at least one friend who will always tell it to you straight, and don't get pissed off when they do. Don't ever hesitate to be the first person to apologize. Sex will cure a headache. Eat your vegetables. Vote. Stick up for the underdog because chances are good it might be you some day. Do good things and if you have the chance to make a difference in someone's life, snatch it up.

And as for where you are right now? Well, you’re a few years away from making a pretty big mistake but I still think you should go through with it. Marry the guy anyway because some pretty awesome things eventually come out of it. You’ll end up with a son who thinks you’re amazing, and the feeling will be mutual. When he’s eight he’ll end up coaxing you into learning your multiplication tables with him.

Eventually you’ll look back on your marriage with a certain amount of fondness. You’ll figure out a way to compartmentalize the good from the bad, and that’s sort of awesome. Mostly, you’ll learn a lot about yourself while you’re desperately trying to hold it all together. In the end, all of that will make everything worthwhile. It will be character building and you’ll make incredible new friends. Best of all, you’ll end up with a much deeper appreciation for the friends you started with.

I’m glad to see that you’re journaling. Over the next 15 years you’ll re-read those notebooks few times and laugh at yourself in places. Your poetry is really bad. So is your spelling. Either way, don’t worry about it. For awhile you stop writing and when you finally start again, you’ll feel like you just came up for air after swimming an entire length of the pool underwater. Please keep tinkering around with your camera. Find a way to travel more. Go to see a bunch of live music with your friends, it turns out you love doing that. Definitely take a road trip someplace on your own. Learn to love the quiet space inside of a car when you’re driving alone at night. Which reminds me, you should lighten up on your lead foot after film club because you’re going to get a ticket you can’t afford on the corner of University and Fischer-Hallman. Don’t worry if you forget about this, the cop is pretty cute and he’s funny too so it’s not all bad.

Save money. Jesus this one is important; I cannot say it to you enough: Money is not about how much you make, it’s about how much you keep. I want you to open an investment account and be ruthless about protecting it because the Beatles were only half right: Money can’t buy you love but it will buy you independence. Right now you’re not setting anything aside for later and down the road this really pisses us off. Don’t tell me you can’t afford it either because I know how much money you waste on fast food and your weekly bar tab. I promise, you don’t need much - just put away 50.00 a month and then add more to it when you can. If you start doing this at 25 you’ll have over a million dollars by the time you’re ready to retire. Also, buy stocks in RIM before that shit goes wild…because it does.

Mostly I want you to be a little kinder to yourself and a little harder on others. And also? When you get that puppy, put corner guards on the arms of that new chair you just bought. She’s going to chew them all to hell and they’re expensive to have refurbished.

So that’s it for now. There are a lot of things I could warn you about but life isn’t supposed to come with a road map. Sometimes you just have to fall down in places, but that’s okay. You’ll learn more from picking yourself up than you ever will from reading this letter.

I’ll see you at 36, kid.
Michelle

So Long Sunday

For the first time in three weeks Ben went to visit his dad for the weekend. In lieu of doing cartwheels, I settled in on the couch (still hopped up on cold medicine, antibiotics and salbutamol) with the entire second season of True Blood.

Once I was finally finished watching all 12 episodes I called Amy to apologize for all my ruthless mocking. I have seen the error of my ways: I'm officially a convert.

Then Sunday rolled around and all my attempts to physically bond myself to the couch were called off. Dishes were done. Laundry folded. Floors mopped. Then finally, I left to pick Ben up. When we got home we took the dog for a walk and I strolled along watching them run ahead of me. God he loves that mutt.

Also

I’m pretty stoked about two recent posts on Joerg Colberg’s blog, Conscientious:

1) Holy Crap Phil Toledano’s project Day’s with My Father is now a book: FINALLY.

Thank god I did not put BUYING BOOKS on my list of things I could potentially live without thereby improving my economic status/goal to consume less crap I do not need. This fills me with so much want. Seriously, I cannot even tell you how much I loved this series and I not so secretly hope that Phil will guest judge the InFocus grant some year. Speaking of…


2) Holy Crap Matt Austin (who won the 2009 InFocus grant) was reviewed on Joerg’s site!

When I discovered this I immediately did the following: fist-punched the air over my head, emailed Matt to congratulate him on the coverage, emailed every person I know to crow about how proud I was of him, and finally BASKED IN THE GLOW. I love Matt’s series and it’s so rewarding to see him making such big strides.

Lucid

I am a massive chicken shit with an amazing imagination. Because of this I do not watch any horror movies and certainly nothing with creepy suspense or mechanical-faced rabbits named Frank (Donny Darko, I’m looking at you). If you give me the tiniest nugget of OMG, WTF WAS THAT I promise you, I will pick that pebble up and run with it until it’s a full fledge bolder. And then I will drop that bolder on my own toe and dance around in agony while looking frantically over my shoulder and freaking the fuck out.

I’m pretty amazing that way.

Anyway, last week I was hopped up on enough Benadryl to kill an elephant. While it did stop my coughing it also gave me the most bizarre, drugged-out dreams. Surreal-out of body-creepy mechanical-faced bunnies-everything is out of focus and slightly moving like a heat-wave dreams.

Only instead of being freaked out like I normally would, I was oddly fascinated by it. Basically it was like eavesdropping on two parts of my brain having a conversation with itself: one half saying, “Holy crap this is some really fucked up shit you’re dreaming” and the other half, sounding-awed, saying, “Duuuuuude. I know, right?”

All I can say about that is that I bet nurses hear some pretty screwed up shit from people who are coming out of anesthetic. Which actually reminds me of the time when Ben’s dad was doped up and freaking out about where to park his boat (that we didn’t even own). Ha.

In other news, I never want pneumonia again. Number one, because it’s super hard to spell and number two, because it will knock you on your ass faster than you can say Mike Tyson. For real.

You can tell I’m starting to feel better because I’m actually able to whine about how crappy I feel. Do you have any idea how crappy I feel? Get comfortable, I’ll tell you. CRAPPY. I feel CRAPPY. I’m tired of coughing to the point that I throw up bile, because do you know what I’ve learned about bile in the past week? It’s disgusting. No amount of tooth brushing can erase it’s putrid taste, which in turn will make you throw up. But wait! There’s nothing left in your stomach TO throw up…HENSE THE BILE…which makes you gag…which makes you cough…which makes you throw up…wait for it……BILE…which is disgusting. Can you say hello vicious circle? So that’s how I’ve been spending the last week: red-faced, wheezing, coughing, gagging and clutching the toilet bowl while praying to die. And all this while my child is standing outside the bathroom door shouting, “Mommy! Can I have a snack?!”

Anyway, I’m clearly on the mend and for the first time in two weeks I feel like I can actually not die from doing the dishes. Ben throughout it all has been pretty good about the situation. Although this past weekend he went from being, “Mommy I wish you were feeling better because I feel bad that you’re so sick” to “Mommy I wish you were feeling better because I’m bored.”