I'm already onto the next project for work and I'm worried that I'm already behind the 8-ball. I'm worried that I missed the deadline for getting Christmas packages to Korea and I haven't even gone shopping yet. I'm worried that we don't really have time for our long planned trip to Montreal this weekend. My head is in 'that' space, the one in which I will worry about everything possible, no matter how unhelpful worrying is.
What snaps me out of it is doing things I like and I like Tarot. It's been far too long. I don't have a lot of time, but I will make time for one long-distance, email-based reading. Full Celtic Cross with my new favourite deck. It'll be nice to get my chops back.
First come first serve. monica is at sympatico dot ca.
A number of years ago, I quit my marketing job and became a Production Secretary for a low-budget feature film. I think the writer used to work for Melrose Place or Beverly Hills 90210 (boy, that sure seemed like a bigger deal at the time). People in other industries get days or weeks to learn the ropes. I remember I had to learn how to do call sheets and script versioning within hours. I busted my ass for the duration of prep, shooting and wrap. I worked 14-hour days, week after week. I started to dream about call times and photocopiers.
A few years later, I was hired as a last minute Field Producer for a historical television series. It required traveling around six European countries over six weeks conducting up to three interviews a day. I’d never done anything like it before. A camera guy was my only companion for the duration and we spent most of our time very lost and very late. By the third week, I started to dream about unfolding maps and road signs and question sheets and release forms, over and over, night after night.
I just came through an experience that had all the hallmarks of everything I’ve been through before, though it came with a different title and a horrible chest cold. Last night I dreamed about a scene slates and sharpies and pieces of gaffer tape and script breakdowns. I think I will be proud of this one. It’s too soon to tell. Or maybe, like the others, I will be grateful I survived and won’t really think about it again.
Until the next new thing kicks my ass and I have to blog about it.
We helped New Neighbour haul an old couch left behind by the Old Neighbour. If only he knew the things that went on on that couch, he’d probably have gotten rid of it a long time ago. But I think NOT saying anything about it is part of being a good neighbour.
Anyway, moving the couch involved a cramped hallway (with a brief, unplanned tour of his kitchen and bathroom), down a very narrow stairwell, over a banister and across the porch. In the end, it was easier than we thought and I only lost my slippers twice.
Of course I did the brief glance thing so he wouldn’t notice I was actually snooping. He doesn’t have a lot of stuff. In fact, I wonder why it took him and the aunts three weekends to move him in. Getting rid of the couch left him with one chair.
In the corner was an old TV with a hand drawn picture taped to the screen. It said something like, “The new revolution is not TV”, and had an image of a tortured, googly-eyed guy. I think. It was hard to get a good read in brief glances.
Wow, what he must think of us. We watch a lot of TV. By his standards, probably stupefying amounts. I never had a TV growing up and I guess I’m making up for it. Old shows, new shows. Space shows, true shows.
Here’s the thing – while a lot of what’s on TV is indeed crap and a colossal waste of time and the whole reason a lot of us are getting fat, there is good TV out there. Better than it’s ever been, I could argue. Some TV shows run like serials now and the production value is excellent. I consider myself a ‘reader’, and yet I’m easily captivated. Sometimes it makes me think, makes me yell at the screen, makes me get all teary.
So if dude wants to look down his nose at me*, I’ll take him on. I feel confident in my argument that TV is an entirely legitimate form of narrative. In fact, I may do a study. Or, I may just pop in another Battlestar Galactica and eat apple pie.
* Okay, he likely never would look down his nose because he seems like a nice guy and now with this entry, I’m clearly the jerk.
I have never been so keenly aware of the shape of my skull as I was at 5:00 this morning. The sinus pressure was such that my teeth hurt. I could feel the outlines of my eye sockets, the ridge of my jaw, the notch at the top of my nose, as though everything was pushing out at the muscles and skin.
So I took a pill and now I can’t feel anything. It was probably a bad idea to pop a strong nighttime pill at the beginning of the day, but the relief is sweet.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been this sick. Working at home has it advantages, like the avoidance of daily exposure to germs on public transit. Somehow I still picked up this little demon and it’s kicking my ass.
Enough whining. In other news… oh hell, there is no other news when I’m sick. It’s all snot and Kleenex at this point.
I feel awful. Chicken soup, wrap up in a blanket and watch episodes of Northern Exposure kind of awful. Work is in a minor panic so I’m going to try a steaming-hot shower and see if that makes the pressure in my head go away. And I swear this whole thing isn’t a way to get out of my French class, though I’m considering not going tonight. I mean, it’s rude to spread germs, right?
Speaking of hot showers, I bought the world’s ugliest shower curtain. I stood in the bed and bath aisle forever just staring. It was all ugly and overpriced. But I had made a special trip. There was no going home without.
The immediate reaction on Trev’s face told me I’d chosen poorly. And yup, it looks bloody awful in our bathroom. It actually offends me. I don’t trust myself to try this again, so it’s up to Trev to find us something nice. Though, Luv, I wasn’t a fan of the realistic goldfish one you had when we first met. Fantails are great, but feeder goldfish? Way too pointy.
WORKING: You aren't going to believe what the dogs are doing. TREV: measuring for shelves? TREV: Percy with a pencil behind his ear and Charlie wrestling with the measuring tape? WORKING: They are digging for worms. TREV: great WORKING: and eating them. TREV: oh, what lucky dogs. Having a little worm eating party. It’s like clamming.
It's like Scorsese forgot what makes crime films interesting. And then he forgot what makes people interesting. And then he peed his pants and started storing his dentures in the production assistant's latté, but they just kept on shooting.Palinode
Now for a new neighbour mystery: Here’s were I was going to link to an old entry I distinctly remember writing about my old neighbour. Something about “that partying whore woke me up again with her smoking and sexing and now I can’t sleep” (Edited:I was tired and very cranky when I wrote it. She was a nice girl). Only, I can’t find it so it was likely in an old blog. Which makes me wonder if I ever saved those entries?
Anyway, at one point we had an uncomfortable exchange with that neighbour, something like, “we can hear you going at it as though we are in the room.” Apparently she didn’t want us in the room because the sex stopped cold. It was moved off the premises. She never really looked us in the eye again. Then I realized I kind of missed the morning snoop through the curtains to see what gender and form was leaving the house.
She eventually fell in love with the most consistently seen guy and moved out. Enter New Neighbour – a shy, tall young man of olive complexion who rides his bike everywhere. He told me the two older ladies who helped him move were his aunts. One day, I found one of the aunts meticulously sifting through the old neighbour’s garbage, pulling out various size 0 sweaters and boots and other odds and ends. Odd, but not a mystery.
The mystery was that New Neighbour started getting mail from overseas addressed to him plus a woman, like “Joe and Rose Brown”. Only we know he moved in as a single guy. That’s what he told our landlord. Divorce? Widowed?
This week I started hearing two distinct voices up there and two different morning departures. This time I remembered to peek through the curtains. It was one of the aunts. She appears to live with him. Is that lady indeed Mrs. Joe Brown and he is ashamed of his May-December romance?
Ooh! Gingerbread loaf with icing! No. Why not? Remember the deal? You’re not eating that shit until Christmas. Pooh. Hey, you made the deal…. Ooh look! Caramel Praline Lattes! Oh Jeezus. You may as well just get the loaf! Plus the latte? You really think so? No, you fool! Neither! You should get neither! So plain coffee or tea…. Exactly. Both of which I could just make at home. And save money. So there’s really no point to me being here. … …? (Sigh) I guess you can treat yourself. It’s not like you buy these all the time. You’d have to leave the house more often to do that. Ha. Okay, so one Grande Caramel Praline Latte. No loaf. No loaf. Good. “That will be $7.52, please.” Wow, that seemed expensive. No kidding. Strange…. “Grande Caramel Praline Latte!” “Thank you.” “Oh, ma’am? Don’t forget your loaf!”*
*True story. I didn’t know I’d ordered the loaf until it was handed to me. My brain is ordering without me. My hands are paying without my consent. Which makes me wonder if I’ve not just had a Picardian experience and S*bux is, in fact, the Borg.
I haven’t felt much like posting lately. (Do you really need to state the obvious?) I’ve been busy. (While very true in recent past, your life has recently returned to a normal pace. Stop making excuses.) I’ve been depressed. (Oh come off it, you whiner. You had one or two glum days. The rest of the time, all it took was a few dips into that monster bag of corn puffs to completely turn your mood around. That’s hardly depression.(Don’t even deny it - there are corn puffs stuck in the couch cushions.)) I just didn’t feel like writing. (That’s better.)
So, in the news: - A very sweet coworker arranged a massage for me two weekends ago. In my relaxed stupor, I was upsold on some really expensive face creams (“your skin is extremely dehydrated. Also, thin skin ages prematurely.” (Note: I had marked on my form that I had medium skin. Imagine my shock to hear the truth)). Fiddling with persnickety creams is not my style (lack of style being my main style), but now I don’t think I can ever go back to my usual regime (1. Poke at any visible spots. 2. Scrub to red with loofah using available shower soap. 3. Coat with any general body cream in reach. 4. Ignore.).
(could you use any more brackets? Seriously.) Fark off.
- I passed a French entrance exam with moderate colours and accordingly placed at an Intermediate level. I was kind of proud of my Intermediate standing after all these years, until I realized I couldn’t understand the first paragraph on the first page of my new Intermediate exercise book. I shoved it aside and watched TV.
- My first class is tonight. This will be my first book-learning class in almost a decade. I plan to show up with takeout coffee that has one of those dysfunctional lids, look sullen and do a lot of exasperated sighing.
- Trevor and I decided to seriously reduce our cable package and cancel all gym memberships in an effort to save more money. We bought a set of free weights instead and invented the New Plan For a Healthier Us. Number of days into the New Plan: 2 Number of times we’ve worked out: 0 Number of hours of Battlestar Galactica watched: 4
- Look, I know my grammar and spelling is a friggin' mess. I finally got around to picking up Eats, Shoots and Leaves, so I expect this will improve within months. Or not.
“Oh! Oops! Hang on, where is it?” “You’re probably sitting on it. Can’t you put it on the arm of the couch? Or on the coffee table? And not always under your butt?” “Ah! Look! It is under my butt!” “It’s always under your butt! It’s a good thing it doesn’t have lasers on it. 'Ooh! Oh! ' Zap!"
[Working to Charlie]: Looks like he's ready to run the speak wire. Should stick around for this or run for cover? CHARLIE: … TREVOR: You two can go have a nap if you want. WORKING: Oh, in other words, “get the hell out of here.” TREVOR: Yeah, I don’t need you questioning what I’m doing. WORKING: Questioning you? I don’t do that, do I? TREVOR: Only when I’m cooking, driving, building something, hanging something, breathing, having sex....
[Warning: People with kids or insomnia may want to skip the first paragraph]
I slept for 12 hours. A deep, dark, heavy, rejuvenating sleep. I just woke up. My throat feels scratchy and my body stiff. My head, well, it’s like I just trashed most of the documents and .jpg’s littering the desktop and while I feel lighter, I’m not 100% sure I can access all my OS files. Heh.
I’m wearing an “I love Regina” T-shirt and I’m cuddled into a fuzzy blanket my mom sent from the UK. On the TV, Dick Van Dyke Christmas Special (I think I’m sitting on the remote). The new neighbour has just hauled his bike down the stairs. He’s quiet. He gets packages from Greece, from a guy who has immature handwriting and the same last name. A brother, perhaps?
Trevor put a cup of coffee in my hand and went out to walk the dog. I think he’s relieved that strange, manic, rude woman of last night is back to someone he recognizes this morning. Before he left, he suggested we have breakfast shakes and go find lunch on the Danforth. But I don’t know – it looks like this is a Dick Van Dyke marathon. Sally just sang that she needs a man, “Santa, give me an Adam on Christmas Eve”. Ha!