dimanche, septembre 26

Oh hello, moving day

Seriously, you guys
Assuming that the movers actually show up as scheduled, it's moving day. Yes I said movers. I'm all grown up and shit now, remember? Please see previous post if you've already forgotten. Grown UP. My apartment is currently a sea of boxes and I'm having minor panic attacks every time I walk through the main room but I'm sure it'll only get worse better, right?

Please keep in mind that I'm once again moving into a *smaller* apartment so will somehow have to cram all this crap, two cats and an architect into a mini-space. Not particularly looking forward to it - trust me. Also not looking forward to the fact that I'm going to be cooking on an electric stove again.

Am looking forward to the new neighbourhood and the balcony and living with the architect again, though. It's not all bad. I just have to get through the next few days.

Or so I keep telling myself....

samedi, septembre 18

Acting like a grown-up

Last week the architect and I had one of the best conversations we've had in a long time. Possibly ever. We were pretty honest with each other about where we stood in the relationship and where we wanted to go. Result - I've given up on apartment hunting and will be moving into The Cottage with him. We've been mentally spending the money we're going to save (rent is $500 less a month!) on this not-quite-as-cute apartment and have high hopes that the increased fun money and the trips and outings and adventures it will bring can fix what was broken.

It's been a shitty, shitty 2010, guys, but I've always counted my years from September to September, so here's hoping that this one will be better. Fingers crossed.

In the meantime, we're going tonight to see a friend from my childhood play with Dan Mangan at the Belly Up tonight, so I'll leave you with Robots. We need love too, you know.

samedi, septembre 11

I rule. It's true.

So my Saturday evening is consisting of getting mostly dressed up to go out with a friend then realizing that he didn't want to go out until like 10pm and then I had a minor panic attack b/c I couldn't figure out wtf I would do with myself for three hours beforehand and I was worried that I'd drink myself stupid like I did the *last* time I went out to a club and so I cancelled.

Now I'm drinking myself stupid but I'm wrapped up in my fuzzy seahorse blanket in my jim-jams so that's ok. If I end up passing out on the floor at least I don't have to worry about waking up to realize that I've made an ass of myself in front of local radio celebrities. Not that I've ever done that.

More than twice.

In other news I've realized that, even though this separation / end of marriage thing is all my fault I seem to be taking it way harder (or at least not getting over it as easily) than the architect. Ironic, I know, and much as I enjoy the opportunity to use that word correctly, yeah not so much this time. Though good for him, I guess - he's getting out and doing things and having fun which is where all of the problems began (you know, 'cause he just wanted to hang out at home and never wanted to go out with me so I felt old and stifled and like my parents and now he goes out all the time while I sit at home wearing too much eye makeup and my pjs. Fuck you irony I see you there.)

vendredi, septembre 10

mercredi, septembre 8

scattered pictures of the smiles

Sometimes I think back to how things were just over a year ago. Sure I was fat & getting fatter. I drank two bottles of wine a day. I made almost no money. We argued about that fact. But holy fuck compared to how I feel right now, I'd give anything in the world to magically teleport myself to those moments where I felt like I was at home, not this dislocated sense of being the world's most collossal fuck up.

Though shit let's not kid - I always was the ugly stepsister, doomed to a life alone with my cats, being discovered by my neighbours when my decomposing carcass begins to smell like week old shellfish left on the counter.*

I hate playing the what if game, but sometimes I just can't help myself. What if we'd stayed in Vancouver. What if we'd found a cheaper apartment. What if I'd never taken this job. What if we had paid attention to the stupid little signs that things weren't right. What if I wasn't such an emotional fucking cripple and had been able to express myself 4 months, six months sooner. What if What if What if.

What if and a six pack might catch you a buzz. Probably not, though - it'll just get you fat.

*FYI - that's also pretty much what the Salton Sea smells like.

mardi, septembre 7

It smells kinda funky

Yes these are dead fish.
Anyway, the downside to disappearing to the desert for a 3-day minibreak is that on the day you have to come home you find that you really really REALLY don't want to come home and so you decide to take a 100 mile detour to the Salton Sea because once you saw it on Bourdain and it seemed all romantic and cool-like but it's really just smelly and full of dead fish. Also you develop a massive stomach ache that feels like someone has grasped your esophagus in their fists and is SQUEEZING your carne asada quesadilla back up towards freedom, which isn't good because it's kinda chewed up now and couldn't make it on its own in the real world. Fortunately I don't have any photographs of the carne.

praise jeebus for sangria
The good think about taking yourself on a 3-day minibreak to the desert is how fucking HOT the desert is, so really all you can do is lounge poolside drinking sangria from a (BPA free, thank you very much) plastic bottle that you smuggled in under the watchful eye of the rentacops. Every once in a while you peel your sweaty self up off the lounger and kind of melt your way towards the pool where you splash around listlessly (way to hot for any kind of list) (though I was probably listing after a bottle or two of sangria). Lather. Rinse. Repeat. When even this becomes too much effort you wander upstairs for a shower and a nap. Clearly I should have spent more time in the desert when I was unemployed, because that is the life I was born to live. Of course I couldn't afford to do it then (and can't really now, because I have 8 days to vacate my apartment and still nowhere to relocate myself or the cats). But that's a story for another day.