Is anyone having problems leaving comments? Karen - partner-in-crime Karen, not Karen-who-sings-in-a-choir Karen - mentioned she’s been having problems leaving comments. So I thought I’d better check and see if anyone else is having the same problem.
Leave me a comment if this applies to you.
(HA! I kid! Send me an email if you’re having problems - r l a r o c q u e *at* g m a i l d o t c o m)
I SAW TWO MOOSE YESTERDAY!!!
(The reason for this excitement is that I’ve lived in Northern [really Central] Ontario for over a year now, and had yet to see any live moose yet - the dead one doesn’t count!)
This morning while I was flipping channels and eating my less-than-stellar pancakes, I happened across one of those fantasy/action shows that are always popping up and disappearing almost as quickly. In this particular scene, a blandly Aryan villain was sneering at a blandly menacing bearded figure shrouded in a dark robe, shouting, “We may have lost The Blade, but we still have The Lance!”
So, I started looking around my apartment to see what could be used as an undescriptive yet accurately named weapon to threaten my enemies with. Unfortunately, I didn’t turn up anything that could cause actual harm, like The Chainsaw or The Broadsword, but I did come across the following:
The Spatula could be used to scrape my enemies off the carpet. The Fluffy Bunny could distract my enemies with its cuteness. The Lampshade could be worn as a silly party hat. The Velvet Painting would cause my enemies to stop and seriously consider my questionable decorating abilities. The Sewing Kit - yeah, I don’t use it for much either. The Printer could frustrated them with its inability to indicate exactly why it doesn’t work (I think it has something to do with the print head, but I’m not sure). The Hi-Liter could send them on a fruitless search of my apartment for one that works (the secret is that I don’t have one that works - HA!) The Yarn can be used to create a lovely multi-coloured afghan under which my enemies can huddle. And The Soap just smells nice.
And let us not forget the most dangerous of all my potential weapons - The Comfy Chair!
What weapons do you have laying around your humble abode?
Karen: “I bet it would be cool to work at an RV place.”
Me: “Why’s th– SHIT!”
My car: SCREEEEEEEECH *crunch*
Me: “Shitshitshitshit.”
Karen: “Are you okay?”
Me: “I’m fine. You?”
Karen: “I’m okay.”
Me: “Good. We’re both okay. What about the other car?”
I had my first accident last night during rush hour traffic. The car ahead of the car ahead of me stopped suddenly, and there was only enough space between them and my car for me to mostly stop. After the driver of the other car came over, we pulled onto a nearby service road. I got out of my car expecting the worst, but there wasn’t a scratch on either car. Not even a dent. The other driver, who turned out to work in the insurance industry, was also fine and was willing to let it go since neither car was damaged and everyone was okay.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be polishing my lucky horseshoe.
This post is only about two weeks late. I believe the saying goes something like “life is what happens when you’re busy living”? It’s been a chaotic few weeks, what can I say? But I think it’s about time I wrote about it, because my mom’s been sitting around all week dying to find out what I meant by “dirty dancing.” And Karen’s been dying to find out exactly how I’m going to explain this to my mother. And my sisters are just dying of embarrassment. As usual. (Hi guys!)
Karen, Karen’s friend Martie and I started out at Coyote’s. It was packed - we got there just as they were starting a lineup, but we only stood there for maybe five minutes. It’s just your average bar/club with a twist - you must be over 25 to get it. It’s a helpful policy that cuts down on the number of skanky 19-year-olds clogging up the place; on the downside, the number of skanky-30-year-olds trying to look like 19-year-olds increases. Or am I just being old and crotchety, and that’s what bar/clubs normally look like on Saturday night? I’m out of practice, you see.
Anyways, we checked our coats and squeezed our way to the bar. While waiting for the bartender to notice us, we were enthusiastically greeted by a blonde woman and her friends (”entourage”) who were quite drunk. We saw her and greeted her at least three more times before the end of the evening, which must have made us her new best friends or something. Eventually, we made our way to the dance floor, where some guy with Elvis sideburns and sunglasses was getting down. Cute. Later, some other guy had the ‘burns and glasses and was telling us how soft they were. Nice. Now go away.
The dance floor was about the size of a postage stamp, and not one of the pretty special-issue ones, either. Happily, not many people wanted to dance. Or they were dancing in the cage, which is really just an elevated dance floor surrounded by steel mesh (hence, the “cage” feeling). The other reason not many people were dancing was the weirdly eclectic-in-a-not-good-way music selection.
I admit - I’m a music snob. I can tolerate - even enjoy - a mixed playlist if there is a flow to the music. The music at Coyote’s had none of that. It didn’t flat out suck, and there were some high points (I finally got to hear the “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy” song), and some very low points (”Strokin’” - *shiver*) The rest of it. . . made no sense. It was a mix of hip-hop/r&b, pop, some rock, and country. Including “The Devil Went Down to Georgia”, another song I haven’t heard in years. I mean, it’s not a bad song and all; it just sounded out of place.
So we hung around there for a while until the music started to go completely downhill. Martie wanted to go to Zig’s - earlier in the evening, she had helped a friend of hers get into drag and wanted to see if he was still dressed up. Plus, Martie and Kris and Karen have been trying to get me to go there since last October, but I haven’t made it yet. So we cruised on over.
Right off the bat, it reminded me of a bar I used to go to with friends when I lived in Halifax (Julie and Kim will remember it - The Tickle Trunk. At least, the downstairs part. Ahhh. . . good times. Good times.) Very laid back, very informal, and better music.
Eventually, we found Martie’s adorable friend, D., who had changed, except for his high-heel boots, which he put to good use by demonstrating his model walk. Which instantly made us jealous - why is it this skinny kid can out-catwalk us three women? So we all sat around, chatting and watching the cute boys dancing.
So, then D. asked me to dance, which - okay. Sure, I thought, I can do this, no prob. It’s not like it’s been years since I’ve danced with a guy, but it’s like riding a bike - you never truly forget how. And how difficult can it be, really? Famous last words. Apparently, what D. had in mind was to show me how to dirty dance, which is not what I was expecting. At all. “It’s easy,” he said. “Watch!”
Wowzers. I may not be old and arthritic yet, but I’m close, and there’s no way I could recreate what he had just done without throwing out my back and dislocating my knee. Plus - I’ve just met him, and I can’t do that with a perfect stranger! I managed to stammer an excuse, promised to try next time. So I guess between now and the next time I need to practice.
The rest of the evening was a blast. We danced and sang along, and basically acted like the divas we are. If you haven’t unleashed your inner diva recently, I would suggest airing her out - it’s rather liberating.
As it was the weekend of the time change, it was after 3 by the time we got out of there. Because it was chilly and D. had a bit of a hike ahead of him (in high heels, no less), we offered him a ride home. On the walk to the car, he was describing a guy he’d met, and mentioned something about this guy’s “treasure trail.” Apparently, Karen and I must have had the same blank expressions on our faces so he explained what it meant - it’s the line of hair between the navel and the pubic bone. We looked at each other, and started cracking up. (It still elicits a giggle from time to time - hey, I’m easily amused!)
From there, we dropped D. off, and then went to Burger King for milkshakes, and then home.
And there you have it. My big night on the town.
Last night, in a fit of pique, I downloaded the song “Poses” by Rufus Wainwright from iTunes (I heart iTunes!). The preview was lovely, but it didn’t do justice to the beauty that is the whole five minutes. The song has now gone into heavy rotation with my other Rufus Wainwright songs (April Fool’s and Vibrate), and Ron Sexsmith’s Gold in Them Hills.
Now I’m feeling all moody and melancholy, and all I want to do is hang out on my balcony, wearing a leather jacket and smoking. Except that I don’t smoke, I don’t own a leather jacket, and I spend as little time as possible on my balcony because I’m afraid of heights. So, basically, I feel like I want to do those things, but will probably end up doing what I normally do when I hear those songs - namely, moping about my apartment.
(I should also mention that when my moping gets too much even for me, I cheer up with Tito Puente’s Mambo Gozon. It’s very hard to be moody when faced with such relentlessly upbeat music.)
My cousins in Nova Scotia live near a road named - I kid you not - Round Tuit Road. I can’t count the number of times I thought about going out there and stealing the sign to hang in my apartment. Really, the only thing stopping me was that I didn’t have access to a vehicle and they live waaaaay out of town.
I am going somewhere with this. It’s been a crazy week at work and domestically, and the next couple of months are going to be more of the same. So if I’m more scattered and unfocused than usual, you’ll know why.
In the meantime, this is my del.icio.us page. For those of you who haven’t heard of it, del.icio.us is a social bookmarking tool; that is, you can share your bookmarks with others. This particular page is my work-related del.icio.us, so you have some idea of the kind of things I’m working on. I have a personal one, but I can’t remember the password, so there’s not much there.
(And I haven’t forgotten about the girl’s night out post. Karen keeps asking me, “So, when are you going to post about what happened that night?” And I keep saying, “Oh, I’ll get around to it.” Get it?)
Yes, I’m still here. And yes, I’m still (still!) working on a post about Saturday. It’s not like it was exciting enough to warrant this much time and effort crafting a post, or it was so debauched that I need to do much editing and self-censoring. No, just haven’t had time.
Yesterday afternoon was spent fighting with my skirt for the recital. The fabric moves nicely, but there’s a lot of it, and it weighs a metric ton. (Granted, in Egypt they actually have weight requirements for cabaret costumes, but we’re not going that far. That said, my skirt alone would get me over the minimum limit on its own.) Then there was the waistband, a battle worthy of an epic Led Zeppelin song.
*sigh* I need to go iron my clothes for work and choke down some breakfast.
*A song from my unmisspent youth by The Look People
Originally, I’d written a whiny, angst-ridden, self indulgent post, something along the lines of, “Ooooohhhh, I had such a hard day! It was soooooo hard to concentrate on anything. But I can’t tell you why! Give me pity!” Naturally, I rejected that, and will say this about today:
Ever have one of those days where concentration is well-nigh impossible, for various reasons? I’d be thinking, “Well, I know I have to do this, but I have to do that first, and then I have to remember to do something else beforehand– what’s that? Oh, now I have to do this too, and must do this, that, and the other thing first. And don’t forget to finish that thing before the end of the day!” That I was able to find my car parked in front of the building at the end of the day was a major accomplishment.
Plus, I’m one of those people who like to obsess over the most innocuous things. Yesterday was spent fretting about something relatively minor, and I’m still fretting about it tonight. What’s the big deal, you say? My tummy hurts. Granted, it’s probably psychological - it hurts because I’m worrying excessively about it. Or I’m hungry, which is also possible, but I can’t eat because I’m so worried about it.
See? Vicious cycle.
Now I’m going to go throw 44lbs rocks at a cute Scotsman. (sarcasm)I’m sure I’ll be able to focus on the game tonight, nooooo problem.(/sarcasm)
More teasers about Saturday night: Usher vs. Alabama and dancing queens.
Ta!
Yeah. That’s snow. That’s a crapload of heavy, wet snow. So much, in fact, that we lost a tree in our back yard.
That sucks big time.
And the weather in Sudbury? Sunny and windy, and a positively balmy 8C.
My recap of last night will have to wait until tomorrow. It’s late and I still have laundry to fold. I will leave you with this teaser: cage dancing, dirty dancing, and a new expression for my vocab.
Night!
