death row

After having a complete loss of composure on Friday, I'm back at 'em. I joined the Y, finally, after months of procrastinating. I went to a spin class. I'd forgotten how stinky them thar things can be.

I had a unique experience on Monday. Coming home from work, I sat down next to a man heading home from a construction-type job. Maybe he was a contractor. He was wearing a big shop coat and had a big, yellow, beat-up tool box with him. The tool box was covered in greasy finger prints and dings and gouges. He looked tired.

As soon as I sat down, I swear, I felt my chest constrict and my breath get shallower. It was like he was smoking. And not holding a cigarette and in the act of smoking... it was as though he were actually a huge burning pile of tobacco, carefully shaped to look like a man. He had a terrible cough. It shook his too-thin frame, rattled around his chest before breaking out. The man must be worn ragged by that thing. He kept burying his face in his jacket during his hacking. Maybe it was just the movement or maybe it was actually the smell of the air coming out of his lungs, but every time he coughed, I got a fresh faceful of smoke.

All I could think was "I'm sitting next to a dead man."

I was glad to get off the bus.

like margarine in a skillet

That is how my meltdown went.

woe is me!!

Ah, well. Back at 'em tomorrow. Keep on clawing your way up that slippery slope of sanity, eventually you'll make it, sweaty and sore, to the top.

I really hope pregnancy can explain this one away.

I take public transit to work. I own a car, and it would be faster to drive, but due to my twenty-something need to make myself feel better about... well, myself... I take the BMW (bus-metro-walk).
Today, I caught the bus at around 5:50 from work. Not too late, all things considered. It lands me at the metro station. From the metro station, it's a nine minute metro ride til I switch modes again. The metro rolled into the station, and I plopped down, as I usually do. I'd just finished Player Piano, so I was out of reading material.
A late thirties-ish woman sat in the seat facing me. She was about a foot and a half away, facing at a right angle to me. Normal circumstance thus far. She was average looking in every sense of the word. Not tall, not short, not fat, not thin, not dressed in any way to turn heads. Bo-ring. I probably normally wouldn't have even made the distinction between her and the cinderblock walls of the metro station.
Until she reached into her purse.
She pulled out a block of cheese, white cheddar by the looks. It was about 4" square, and just shy of an inch deep. About the amount of cheese I'd use if I were making pizza for four people. She unwrapped it, and took a bite. And another. And another.
Now, I get hunger. When I get off my bike after a four hour ride, it's all I can do to keep from licking the sidewalk. But this chick just went to town on this cheese block. Bite, chew, chew, bite, chew, chew. She didn't even come up for air. "She'll wrap it up and put it away," I kept thinking. "After this bite." Bite, chew, chew, bite, chew, chew. By the time the ride was over, there was no more cheese. She ate enough cheese to make quesidillas for approximately eight ten-year-olds.
I don't know why, but this whole thing skeeved me out so thoroughly, I considered skipping dinner with my friends to go eat a bigass salad and throw out all the dairy in my fridge.

Man. People are so freakin' wierd.

misdirected rage

OK, yes. This is a rant. But it will be brief.

I am sick and tired of this stupid "romantic" notion of drinking a $100 bottle of wine out of paper cups. Mugs, fine. Simple glasses, fine. But paper cups? They always show this on stupid TV shows with no plot or cheesy movies starring fluff actors who hide the fact they can't act worth shite with airbrushing and big explosions and stuff. I loathe that sound of paper cups brushing together in a "toast" amplified through sound equipment (it's probably done later in a studio anyway... did you know that the sound of ET walking was a man walking in women's clogs on a sweater that had been left in Jello as it solidified? This is a cool fact and therefore is not my point.). I am sick and tired of this rediculous notion that someone would have the foresight to buy an expensive bottle of wine, and not the foresight to bring some freakin' glasses. Or mugs. Or bowls. But seriously? Paper? Just drink it out of the bottle, people. Please. For my sake.

Back and bad.

Ah ahm bahck from Southern California.
I am still in disbelief that Yesterday morning, I was driving on the highway, the thermometer reading 55, and today, I was skiing on the mountain, the thermometer reading -10.

Arse.

So, I wrote blog entries in my head (noIamnotcrazythankyouverymuch) all week, but I've kind of forgotten what they were about.
Brilliance!
So, I posted some new pictures on flickr. Here is the summary of my trip, in photographs.

Arrived at LAX at 1am Western time, which is 4am Eastern. Checked into hotel, passed the heck out. Drove to supplier in the morning. In this:

I realized I could never, ever, ever live in LA. For one, taking two hours to drive 24 miles is just not acceptable. For another, I can't handle the rampant consumerism and disregard for the environment. You don't see many suped-up SUV's in Montreal. That is due, I'm sure, largely to the fact that people generally can't afford them, but it really bothers me that someone would be driving a jacked-up Hummer in LA. LA! It never snows there! Ever! Why in the hell would you even need All Wheel Drive, never mind a bleedin' TANK! My friend D, from Montreal, is living in San Diego. He says that people probably drive SUVs to get through the mist in the morning. "Excuse me, sir, but we cannot allow you on the 405 unless your car comes equipped with a mist setting."
Bitches.

Anyway, after three days of getting up, sitting in traffic, working all day, sitting in traffic, eating at a restaurant which I didn't choose (and therefore invariably ended in "... seafood palace," or "big stinkin' pile of dead meat") and having a conversation I don't care about (see the aforementioned post about fishing... add to that powerboats and kids, and I've had more productive times talking to the wall.), back to the hotel, pass out, repeat... I was glad to get the hell out of there and shoot down to San Diego for a day. I've got some friends from Montreal that ended up down there for one reason or another, so it was good stuff. Friday morning I went for a run. In shorts and a tank top, and I was sweating. It was beautiful. I'm telling you, if I lived in that climate, I would be so rediculously active. I brought my new itty-bitty camera with me, so my run was me trundling along for five minutes and then taking pictures.... but it was great.

After running, I trundled off to the San Diego Zoo. It was a relatively lax day, but was still full of people. None of my pictures from that are particularly exciting, but they're all up on flickr. Plug.


I love monkeys. Did I ever mention that? Because I do. Monkeys rule.

One thing I was adamant about was seeing the sunset over the ocean, so I dragged D out to La Jolla. Holy snotrag, it was beautiful. So, all in all, I took about 300 pictures in less than 24 hours. I could never ever live in LA, but San Diego is definately something I could, you know, make work if I had to.

So. Of all my 300 odd pictures, here is my favourite.

And, now I'm back in the arctic tundra. Actually, I think I have some nifty pictures of ice that I may or may not get around to posting. But that's for another day. Happy January 21st, everyone, how are those New Years resolutions going?

tick tock

Top ten things I have learned on this trip, in five minutes or less, because that's how much time I have left on this internet card.

10) If there is a slight chance you will be shipped off to California for work, pack your bags early, because they might put tell you at noon that you have to be on a flight at five.
9) Southern California is, like, 45 degrees warmer than Quebec.
8) Travelling with four married men in their fourties, fifties, and sixties, can lead to slightly uncomfortable situations.
7) If you shut up and observe, you'll learn more, and people will think you're scary. Or shy.
6) If you wear a suit, people take you seriously.
5) They have irons in hotels.
4) You shouldn't pack your laundry when it's wet, even if you do have to catch a flight.
3) I have less than nothing to contribute to conversations about fishing. Especially after 45 minutes.
2) After dark, even in ritzy Marina del Rey, you can't go running, walking, wandering, exploring, photoging, or doing anything interesting at all really.
1) Business travel, even though it's paid for, is way less fun than vacation. However, company credit cards are fun.

Back in the frigid wasteland on Saturday night.

Look out for the couch!

This week has been full-tilt, don't stop, don't breathe. It's like Lemon has been playing in the background.
I feel like that Jamiroquai video, where the floor is sliding around under him, and the furniture will suddenly shoot away from the wall and he dances around it. I realized, finally, that the thing that's under my skin and gnawing away at me is that I have nothing to hold on to. I've systematically destroyed friendships and relationships. My job is challenging, and I am not rising to the occasion, and I'm putting myself through emotional hell because I can't seem to get my act together. I haven't been as active as I'm used to being. My relationship with my family is strained. I have no passion.
Now, it's not as bad as all that. I'm not despairing or anything. Despair can be a verb, right? No matter. I just feel ungrounded. Really, really ungrounded.

Like the Jamiroquai video.

Anyway, then. I'm moving in the right direction. I've realized the problem. S. Problems. I know I have a massive amount of work to do on... well, honestly, every aspect of my life. Hell, I can't even be consistant with updating Blogly. I need to get active (again). I need to drink more water and less coffee and wine and beer. I need to take classes so I can learn how to lead effective meetings. I need to learn how to manage stress and separate myself from my job. I need to learn not to take professional things personally. I need to learn French, and stop being so scared to be bad at speaking it. I need to find passion. I need to get a wrist support for my keyboard at work so my wrist problem doesn't get worse. I need to work on my relationships with my family and my friends. I need to dump on other people less. I need to clean more. Revision: I need to clean, period. I need to learn my own limits. I need to learn to control my temper. I need to learn to control my temper. I need to learn to control my temper. I need to learn to control my temper.
I just wish I could step back, and look at my life, and say, "well, I'm a royal fuckup, but at least I'm doing that right," and there would be one thing. Just one. Uno. Un. Ichi. Ein.

Due to chaos and lack of resolution at work, I am being dispatched to "drop in" on one of our suppliers in California. It's not going to be fun and games. At all. But if the problem turns out to be worse than we think (which I have a sneaking suspicion it is), maybe I can swing it so I can see my friends in San Diego. Hopefully we'll finish work on Thursday night or Friday morning and I can stay the weekend. I don't know how one swings that, but I'm gonna try.

Virtual insanity....

Go rent Dot the i.

Don't read the box, don't ask anyone about it. The less you know, the better off you are.
It's some good shit.

I need to get to bed, but I know that's almost pointless. These last few days, since I got back after the holiday shutdown, I've been at a final exam-level of stress. A level of stress I hoped I'd not feel again. I wake up four, five, six times a night. I'm giddy and moody and tired and on the verge of tears... I'm all over the place. I'm unhappy with so many different aspects of my life that tI've forgotten the ones I am happy about.

I'm fucked these days, dude. Just fucked.

It's one thing when you don't have any answers, but it's a whole other thing when you don't have any questions.

To My Dwindiling Population of Readers,

I've been a bit devoid of inspiration lately.

So, anyone have any burning questions they want answered? Go on, I've always prided myself on being an open book.

It's been a while since I came up with a top 10 list, maybe I'll ponder that at Job tomorrow.

sic.

I'm home sick. Feel like, sound like, look like crap. Why is it that days when you're a complete waste, you don't have to go to work?

However, this does give me an excuse to do my favourite sleep-time thing. Take NyQuil. Oh hell yes. I will be as close to dead as a person can get without actually, you know, dying. This is a showstopper.
I made it around the corner today to rent movies. That was huge. I rented He Died With a Felafel in His Hand. I really couldn't see too well through the blurry vision caused by trying to hold sneezes in in a public place. A guy asked me to explain to him what "heist" ment (he was French). I explained then trotted home, to pass out about 10 minutes into the movie. Movie, thus far, consists of four guys who live in a house in Australia and have philosophical conversations. Oh, and play golf using bullfrogs for balls. I think I'll give it a second run tomorrow.

Roomie is out of town til Sunday, which has allowed me to fully trash the place. I am a slob, through and through. I keep it under control with the roomie, but if I were living alone, I would definately hire a maid. I know that's lame. We never had one growing up. My parents thought it was rediculous to hire people to clean up after you. We didn't have a dishwasher, either. And part of me definately agrees with that, but at the same time, if I don't have someone to keep relatively clean for, I will not do it. End of story! Plus, you can hire a maid to come twice a month for $25 a visit, and she'll stay for three hours. Three hours of cleaning, people, that's six hours per month. I say that's well freakin' worth it, especially if she brings her own cleaning products.

This entry is a wash. I'm going to go take NyQuil (capital N, small y, big fucking Q) in the original "green death" flavour, and then I am going to pass out and dream of nothing. It will be glorious.

*

I don't know when along the line it was that I decided it had to be like this.

And I don't know why I can't change.

2006

We're almost 48 hours into 2006. Here are the brilliant things I've accomplished so far.

- 12am-5am, 1/1/06. Drank self into stupor. In fairness, drinking started in 2005. Was kissed by two men I've never seen before. Neither happened any time near midnight. Self was not a willing participant in said kissing.
- 2pm 1/1/06. Woke up.
- 10pm 1/1/06. Finished dinner. Stood, wearing coat, hat, and mits, for half an hour while waiting for waitress to get her act together to pay. Considered dining and dashing. Instead, left $31 for a bill of $30.80.
- 11pm 1/1/06. Purchased $12 travel mug. Left mug on table in coffee shop.
- 2am 1/2/06. Jolted awake, convinced I had to work today. Wrote ferschnickled blog entry. Crisis averted, today is definately a break.
- 9am 1/2/06. Did not meet friend for breakfast, as I was supposed to.
- 11am-1pm 1/2/06. Watched "Inked" and "Dog the Bounty Hunter," instead of reading or cleaning or... doing anything else, really. Managed to burn waffles (really burn them) in the process. What can I say, Inked is good stuff, I got distracted.
- 2pm 1/2/06. Am still in pyjamas, making list of how I have so far made 2006 a smashing bashing success.

Well, cheers then, everyone!

Fuck.

I'm having one of those moments. Those 2am panic moments, where even though I know today was New Year's Day, and I therefore have tomorrow off... I still can't sleep because I'm absolutely convinced that I have to work tomorrow, and I won't show up, and then I'm going to get fired. I've called the company switchboard (talked to a very confused and bemused security guard, who said he didn't have any information on whether the staff was in tomorrow), I've texted people (whose phones were off), and sent emails. I need confirmation that tomorrow is a holiday, damnit.

I hate these fucking moments. What I need now is sleep.

Happy fucking New Year.