Like a Dead Man Walking

I'm outta here!

Oh, who am I kidding... nobody reads this anymore, anyway. Maybe I'll come back. Maybe I won't. But for the time being, I'm gone gone gone.

a run for his money

"I don't get that guy," I said, putting down my fork. "He has got to be one of the most miserable people I know."
"Oh, I don't know. Sometimes, you give him a run for his money."

There it was, laid out on the breakfast table between my apple-cheddar crepe and his bacon and eggs. I am a miserable person.
Miserable women run in my family. My Aunt A, my mom's sister, who always wanted kids. She married a guy in the 70s so he could run off to Canada and dodge the draft. They never had kids because he didn't really want them, and around her fiftieth birthday left her for a 25-year-old cocktail waitress. Now, she lives alone in an apartment downtown, spends at least two days a week with my mom and dad, and works at a job she hates.
My mom's other sister never married. She found a partnership with food and is quite heavy. She's done some amazing things in her career... really, really incredible things, but she works too much. After her long days, she comes home to her two cats and cooks a gourmet dinner, which she then proceeds to eat.
My mother, bless her heart, has sacrificed so much for my brother and I. We had a stay-at-home mom. But all we heard our whole lives was that she could have been a lawyer, could have been a human rights advocate. She's got some awesome accomplishments under her belt, but I think she feels that, at the end of the day, she has under achieved.
My brother's sister is in a loveless marraige with two terrors for children. The last time I saw her, I remember looking into her eyes, resting under her perfectly coiffed hair and surrounded by very tasteful makeup, and thinking "she looks dead inside."

My life is pretty goddamn good. Really, really goddamn good. My parents put me through school. I did well enough in school to get an engineering degree. That's turned into what pretty much everyone would call a "good job." I have friends. I have hobbies. I'm busy.
But, there's this beneath the surface, sneaking feeling, that something just isn't right. I know that a lot of that is that I'm fed up with Montreal. It's time for a change of scenery, that's for damn sure. But I think there's a big part of me that just won't let myself be happy. I don't know why... maybe that Catholic guilt thing? (I'm not Catholic, but you know, I have some friends who are.) I have an inability to trust people.

But, all that aside, I don't think I'm miserable. I think I'm OK. My friend's a moron.

OK, fine, you're right, I'm a bitch.

Ah well.

ouch

Maybe someone can help me be objective here.

This weekend, one of my coworkers organized a mountain biking weekend in East Burke, Vt. About three weeks ago, he sent an email out saying he was having a hard time filling the cabin. So, I forwarded it on to two of my biking buddies, M and J. M and J are a couple who introduced me to East Burke and have since moved almost two hours away. They wrote back and said that they couldn't that weekend, but would be in touch about when they would be in Montreal next.

So I went to East Burke.

We had an epic ride yesterday, and after about 35k, I was exhausted and out of water, so I headed out with two of the group to get some lunch and chill out for a bit. Rolling back and chatting on the road, about 100m from my house, I stopped.

Parked in the road, was their car.
No, I didn't mistake it. They have some pretty distinct stickers on it (ie, "your sport sucks").

They actually came to East Burke, six hours from home, on the weekend I invited them, and didn't even so much as CALL?
So I left a nasty note on their windshield. "M/J, POOR FORM! I can't believe you're in East Burke! If you don't come by the cabin to say hi before you leave YOU ARE ON MY SHIT LIST!" I drew a map, and left it under their windshield wiper. I had a leisurely lunch and headed back to the trails.
When I got back, their car was gone. The people who had stayed at the cabin said they hadn't stopped by. I checked my cell, they hadn't called.

I honestly can't come up with a single plausable explaination for this except that they just didn't want to see me.

So, ouch.

But I don't want to end on a sour note. It was a great weekend. I rode some 70km of trail. I felt like myself again. I smuggled 4 bottles of wine and a six-pack of Woodchuck back into Canada. All this for eighty bucks? I can't complain!

Today was not a good day.

Someone opened up fire in a cegep in downtown Montreal, killing one woman and injuring something like 12 other people. He was then shot by police.

Earlier this week, someone opened fire in a hotel in Toronto a friend of mine was staying at.

A lot of my friends went to Dawson. Thankfully, they're all older now, but 10,000 parents had a moment of terror today. And someone lost a daughter.

What is the world coming to?

why you little....

It's no secret that I hate doing dishes. Loathe. Despise. With all that I am and all that I will be.
But, this summer, after The Great Roommate Fiasco of 2006, I made a pledge to myself.

I, M, hereby solemnly swear that there will be no fruit flies in my kitchen this summer.

A perfectly spic and span kitchen, for me, is an unattainable goal. But a weekly spritz and wipe of the counters, dishes every other day (or so), and a general putting-awayness... this was a goal I thought I could succeed at.
And I did! I did, for four months, no fruit flies! Then, along came last night. A quick bowl of chili on the way out the door, and a moment of carelessnes... a pot and a can left out, unrinsed.
And this morning, the telltale cloud. 15 or 20 of those little bastards must have been just lying in wait for me to make a mistake. Waiting, watching, plotting... ever so patiently. Then, they fly in while I'm not looking, have a mad orgy and BAM! I wake up in the morning and there's a damn army of them.

I have failed, ladies and gentlemen. God help us all.