July 27th, 2009 | 19 Comments »

I went shopping yesterday. I did not buy pajamas. Those who know me in real life are all gaspy, because I bought jeans. To, like, go out of the house in. I couldn’t find a top other than oversized t-shirts to reach the low rise waistband. (Is it even a waistband when it is so far below the waist? Never mind.) Anyway, no cute tops, just oversized t-shirts.

So I’m feeling kind of not so huge and fat today, getting ready for my physio appointment, even putting on makeup and A BRA. I break out the new jeans, and search for something that isn’t a hundred sizes too big.

I don’t realize how wildly inappropriate my choice of regular sized t-shirts is until I am on the way to my appointment.

I realize that the green shirt has Ho Ho Ho in red and white letters. It’s what I wear with my matching Christmas pajama bottoms.

I’m either celebrating Christmas in July or advertising that I’m an aging skank.

I really need to get out more.

Posted in it's all about me
July 21st, 2009 | 16 Comments »

I met up again last month with some colleagues that I hadn’t seen for a year, and two of them asked me if I had lost weight. I muttered that I didn’t think so, and let it go at that. How do you know if you’ve lost weight if elastic waistbands are part of your daily life I ask you?

I stepped on the scales last night and was surprised to find that I was 25 pounds less weighty than the last time I checked. (About a year ago) The scales were pretty dusty, and I was wary of touching them, as they had been living in a nook in my bathroom. The first thought I had was that they were gummed up by the dust of disuse. It’s a possiblility.

My stepping on the scale was a sort of benchmark gesture, since my physio exercises have made me feel so much better that I have been motivated to try other exercises to build up my core strength. That way, my back will not be painful, and sucking my gut in and walking with my shoulders back improves my appearance. Still in pajamas, mostly, but now with a model’s walk.

Okay. A fat, old model. But still.

I do not need wine to dull the pain in my neck and shoulders anymore. I barely take anti-inflammatories. (compared to earlier, when I swallowed them on a schedule. I still had breakthrough pain)

My blood test results were pretty good. Blood sugar: fine. Cholesterol: pretty good. Liver, kidneys: okay. Thyroid: all good.

Now the only thing left is that pesky smoking habit. It’s next.

I think I’m finally starting to emerge from the deep blow caused by my mother’s death. It feels good to be alive.

Now, if I can only keep Herman in check, I’m golden.

July 13th, 2009 | 20 Comments »

I used to make fun of my mother all the time. Shaddap, it was a mutual thing we did, lots of fun. I was sharper of wit, but she was big on schadenfreude. Which is German for ‘I enjoy your misfortune’ or ‘I’m afraid of my own shadow’. You decide. So, ma would go for the kill, and then you would hear the dirtiest laugh, which would be the creak on the hinges of hell. Ma took great pleasure in her evil ways.

We got along just great. We ‘got’ one another. I visited her most every day, so some of her evil ways rubbed off on me. When I was younger, they did not, because I was snottily superior. At age ten. She loved me anyway and I grew out of it. We were good friends in my adult years. Ma provided an excellent model for friendship. If you didn’t mind the whole mockery-with-a-dirty-laugh thing. Well, I dropped the mockery, and used my madd diplomatic skillz. The laugh? Not when I’m working.

Of many things, I would mock her failing eyesight. She would grin because she knew the same fate awaited me.

And you know what?

I have this little netbook, because it doesn’t hurt me to carry it. My neck has gotten even with me after years of poor posture at a desktop computer. The screen is so tiny that I keep a magnifying glass nearby to decipher the html, where punctuation completely counts.

Now who’s having the last laugh? Shaddap, Ma.

Posted in My dead Mother
July 9th, 2009 | 22 Comments »

I know you would never it guess it from here because of my goddess like fabulosity, but sometimes I can be a tad impatient with certain clients. Stupidity, not much you can do there. But man, what really chaps my chops is the people who have their heads planted firmly up their adorable arses. There should totally be a t-shirt.

It’s really a testament to my madd skillz that I can talk in code to crazies am diplomatic. Like the woman who I felt such sadness from. I told her that she had lost her job and had boyfriend trouble, which was correct. But then she lost it. Why? Because Michael Jackson was dead. While acknowledging her emotional intensity, I pointed out that his passing has no practical impact on her life, and that she might want to focus on a strategy to find employment, and one to either reconnect with, or dump the boyfriend. When what I really wanted was to tell her to give her head a freaking shake.

I’ll just gloss over the 80 year old man who wanted to know if his ex-wife put a spell on his dangly bits to keep them ever dangly. His present wife didn’t want to do without her nerve-calming activities, it seems. And the truth was that he had good circulation (it was checked out. New wife insisted.) The new wife was making up for a long dry spell, and she just didn’t spin his crank. Hence, he blamed the ex wife and the curse. Hoping I’d get him off the hook. I can’t make this shit up.

I was even diplomatic with the crazy cat lady. First she wanted to know if her cat really loved her. I chose not to give her the Warrior Woman explanation, the one where when cats are rubbing up against you, they are really marking territory with their saliva. Food source= belonging to this cat. And they don’t snuggle on you because they love you. They find the warmest, softest place to sleep. I totally told crazy cat lady that her cat loves her madly.

Then she wanted to know if her boyfriend had gone for a coffee with a female friend. I already told her that he wasn’t cheating, but she had to know every.single.detail. That’s when my diplomacy wore a trifle thin. I told her she had to let him out of the house sometime.

She didn’t care to ask if the boyfriend loved her. Just the cat.

Posted in clients, doing bidness
July 3rd, 2009 | 16 Comments »

I had a whole bunch of visuals of my trip to see Skinny Bitch. Unfortunately, they are all in my head. You may be sure that I was greeted with coloured chalk drawings, as before.

I should explain where SB lives. She has a lovely, heritage Victorian home in what has become the ghetto. Colourful characters abound on her street, although her house is fairly safe from crime because it is directly across the street from those ever-vigilant firefighters.

And by colourful? I mean mostly chronically drunk or stoned. The younger ones are the stoners. I’m not talking soft drugs like pot here. One guy was lurching down the middle of the street, his arm, and only one arm, rising with each lurch, all zombie-like. You could tell he was baked, fried, and not with it at all. In addition, he found walking very painful. I imagined that he had gotten beaten up pretty badly, or even hit by a car, considering he walked in the middle of the street.

Then there was Margot. It was kind of obvious Margot was into the booze. You don’t even have to be able to smell it on them. Old habitual boozers have strange facial expressions, have you noticed? Gotta be from some form of brain damage. SB leaves her smokes outside on the verandah, and Margot helps herself in a pinch. SB and I had gone inside to exclaim over something or other, leaving our humongous wine glasses outside. When I looked out the window, lo and behold, there was Margot, helping herself to SB’s glass of wine. Bizarre.

A bit later that weekend, Party Guy appears. He’s an older guy, so a boozer, and what does he see while staggering across the street? Yes! Two women relaxing on the verandah with refreshing beverages. He started to make a beeline for our location. I headed him off by telling him that this here was a girls only party. Sorry, Party Guy. We just didn’t think you would fit in with all our girly stuff, plus we knew you would guzzle all the wine, and probably put some kind of wino secret glyphs to mark the place as one that has wine. Also? We suspected from his condition that the prospect of puke was highly likely.

There were a few others, but the stars of the shows were the firemen. They spent lots of time standing in the open truck bay, washing and polishing the vehicles, as well as getting sweaty in the workout room, which coincidentally, was very visible from our vantage point.

You do realize how much women love to watch men work, don’t you? Especially when they get sweaty. It was heavenly to behold.

When I left, SB gave me a big kiss on the lips and told me she loved me more than her shoes.

I can die happy now.

Posted in Skinny Bitch