Wednesday, December 21, 2011

It's informal but....

...I wanted to wish all of you who read my blog a very Merry Christmas! In the spirit of the season, I was going to post a photo of my 1-year old daughter from her first official holiday photo shoot. The trouble is, in said photo, she is nude. And for some reason, it just seems wrong to share nude photos of her on the Internet when she will have plenty of time during her early twenties to make those mistakes on her own. (Unless, of course, she takes after her demure and bashful mother. Anyone who knows me, would know I would never do such a thing. And, let's just say if I ever did, I would make sure these photos were flattering and taken when I was skinny and cute....moving on....)

Instead, I sent out photos of my daughter's exposed bare bottom to everyone on my Christmas card mailing list. I'm sure she will thank me for that when she is older.

Anywho.....Merry Christmas!

Thursday, December 15, 2011

Hairdresser molestation....

...and other awkward encounters.

Good title, huh?

Have you ever found a hairdresser that you loved so much you would put up with almost anything as long as he continued to work his magic?

Maybe my high threshold for inappropriate hairstylist behaviour stems from the fact that growing up, I had a very tumultuous relationship with my hair. And that is the only reason I can come up with for why I would have subjected myself to years of unrequited PDA's (see: middle of the day, in public, unwanted sexual groping) from Booty.

Booty (and yes, that was his real name) was a 50-something year old, 4'8 Lebanese man, with long shiny black curls, he kept tied back in a ponytail at the base of his neck. He always wore all-black. Black shoes, black dress pants, and a too tight black t-shirt. Booty wore large gold rings on both hands and also had a very long nail on his pinky finger. All the better to use for parting women's hair. And coke sniffing. But I'm not judging.

Who could judge such someone so gifted in the follicular arts?? (I just made that term up.) I had tried other stylists over the years, but Booty was the only one that could tame my tresses. It got to the point that even after I moved to Owen Sound I would book an appointment in Ottawa, when I knew I would be going home for a weekend, just so he could do my hair. Essentially I would be making a 14-hour round trip to have a permanent straightening treatment, a cut, a colour and a dash of breast grabbing thrown in for good measure.

On most visits to his salon, I would wait nervously in the front lobby. When Booty was ready for me, he would come swopping out of the back room and put his arms around me, or plant a kiss on my cheek. At first I liked it. he made me feel like a celebrity, or a supermodel. As he styled my hair, he would stop mid-blow dry to scream in English at one of his minions (the other stylists) or to bark a comman in Lebanese at the receptionist). he would then turn back to me, smile, and softly ask me something about my love life or my job. Sometimes he would stand in front of me, his face inches from mine and whisper "You are so beautiful." Sometimes he would kiss my cheek again. Sometimes he would stare into my eyes and then wink, as if we had somehow just shared a "moment". And then there were other times when he would "accidentally" grab my boob while removing the protective cape I wore during treatments. Othertimes he would push his body up against mine as he blowdried me straight. All of this I put up with because, frankly, this little Lebanese hair fairy was magical. I would smile through it all, and laugh and chucle and gently push his hands away while playfully dodging his advances. Some might call me a tease. But those of you who know the value of a good hairstylist will understand. I don't know the monetary worth of my dignity, but I was willing to pay it, in order to have pretty hair.

I finally had to break things off with Booty when he invited me, along with his 20-something year old son, to spend a week with them in Miami. I promised I would go, and we talked about how fun it would be. And then I paid my bill and left. I knew I would never be able to go back to Booty and his verbally abused employees again. A line had been crossed. The innapropriate sexual advances, the innuendo, the subtle gropings, I could all handle. But after that it just became too hard to face him.

I have tried many hair stylists and many salons since my years with Booty. My hair has never been the same either. However, the moral of this story is, what I lack in stylish hair, I now make up for in self-worth. Some days.

Things I've discovered....

...about myself after returning to work after maternity leave.

1. It has taken me 9 days to re-stock a drawer in my desk with junk food (i.e. butter creme fudge & mini Rolo bites). I may still not have bothered to find myself a calculator and/or white out....but if you need a mid-afternoon snack, I'm the girl to come see.

2. I spend an equal amount of time doing actual work as I do Googling things (i.e. "Christmas punch"+recipes+alcohol), checking Facebook and reading up on celebrity gossip (all in the name of "show prep" of course).

3. Having a child kind of does something to your brain. You know when you have a bad day at work and you just wish you could quit? Well, now that I've had a baby, it sort of puts everything in perspective. I know that if I get that miserable at work, instead of stewing about it and being upset and stressed out and feeling trapped and wishing I could, if it really got that bad, I would just.....quit. But you kind of realize that really things aren't that bad. Being a parent sort of makes you realize that in the grand scheme of things, the annoying things that make your day at work, into a bad day at work, aren't really that big a deal. And while I would rather be spending my whole day at home with my baby instead of at a job, I am in an exceptionally good mood, feeling lucky I have a job where I get to share ideas, feed off other creative people, and try new things. It could be worse.

4. I'm not the only girl that pees in the staff washroom while running the tap the entire time. Hollah Daryl Morris. Co-workers do not need to be subjected to the noises resulting from the bodily functions of other co-workers. Ever.

5. I pay very little attention to what I'm wearing. I try to look nice & presentable when I arrive here at 7:45 a.m.....but usually by 8:15, I've removed any jewllery I put on that morning and my hair is being tied up in a messy bun. also, I changed into my huge winter boots at one point today so I could run some errands. That was 4 hours ago and I just realized I"ve been clomping through the station hallways all afternoon, having never bothered to change back out of them. It's not a good look.

Friday, December 2, 2011

I know....

.....that I'm not getting enough sleep.

Exhibit A - the label I made for the leftovers one night before putting them in the freezer:

Now, whenever the Boy & I say "cheese sauce", we use an Italian accent and call it "CHESSA-Sauce".

Wednesday, November 30, 2011

I heard a news story....

....about a new business in the area that was holding an open house to welcome potential clients.

Right away, I became to tremble violently, thinking of my one and only misguided and embarassing attendance at an open-house event.

My childhood best-friend and I (who I had the pleasure of reconnecting with this past summer after years and years of living in different countries and losing touch) were big animal lovers. So when I saw a poster at the local Giant Tiger advertising that a new vet clinic was opening in a neighbouring town, I just new we had to be there. In my mind I likened it to a debutantes ball. Anyone who was anyone would surely be there. It was going to be the event of the summer.

I mean, who would pass up a sweltering hot & humid mid-summer afternoon, in a new office, smelling of fresh paint, cat pee and antiseptic? Not this awkward, and misinformed, firzzy-haired, gangly 12 year old, I can assure you. And not my best friend Tina either. I convinced here that there could be some important people there, people we should know. Maybe we could even get jobs there. And if nothing else, there would be some animals on display, right? Isn't that what vet clinics were all about? The poster also advertised free coffee and snacks, but I was more in it for the possibility of getting to lay my hands on some poor creature. Nevermind the fact that we had 2 dogs and a cat of our own at home. This could lead to something big.

Imagine your 12-year old daughter walking out the door, dressed in a poor excuse for early 90's business casual (Double Whammy: pleated and baggy up top, yet still tapered at the bottom floral print, tan coloured corduroy pants, a long sleeve button up blouse, brown loafers and hoop earrings) on a summery, Sunday afternoon, happily swinging my purse, which contained nothing but a chapstick and a banana clip. Whose parents would allow this, you ask yourself? Oh, that's right. Mine.

Sidenote: Considering my fashion sense based on the above outfit, is it any wonder that the following summer my father asked me if I was gay?

I walked over to Tina's and as we admired how mature and downright rad we both looked, we waited for her dad to drive us over to the new vet office.

I won't bore you with the details but suffice it to say, the open-house was not what we expected. The 2 staff were nice and didn't get angry or even really acknowledge the fact that two demented pre-teen girls in really weird clothes were hanging around the office, without any parents in sight, doing nothing in particular. I think at one point, we began to feel a bit odd and we decided to stand in a side hallway and have a lively, albeit very hushed discussion about the row of cat cages affixed to the wall. They were empty I should point out. There were no animals in to be found. Possibly because it was an open house for a new business that had yet to start seeing patients. Anyways.

I can't say there is a direct corrolation, but this story may lend itself to somewhat explain why I went another 3 years before ever having a first boyfriend.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

I have a well documented history....

....of falling. While most people seem to have an innate understanding of Newton's law, and the ability to remain upright, I do not. Allow me to re-cap merely a few of the incidents that have occured in the past 36 months:

1. I once fell 3 times in the span between my parked car in the driveway and the front door of my home, a distance of approximately 40 feet. Granted, it was winter, my hands were full, the walkway was snow covered and my feet were what would later become known as the "Danger Boots". But still.

2. This one was only a near-fall. I was crossing the street to work with a piping hot coffee in my hand when I slipped and grabbed ahold of the nearest body, should I need someone to break my fall. Unfortunately, the nearest person was an elderly woman. No, I am not beyond bringing an osteoperosis-ridden senior down with me. I am not a good person.

3. When I fell in an aquantance's kitchen, in full view of 3 or 4 men in the adjoining living room. On this occasion, I brought down a kitchen chair with me, sent another careening across the room, but managed to not spill even a drop of the bloody mary in my hand. (I should note that unlike many of my encounters with the floor, this one had nothing to do with alcohol however).

4. About 2 hours after finding out I was pregnant I slipped in a puddle of dog pee and landed flat on my ass. The boy simply looked away and shook his head.

*It bears noting that I fall so often that people around me seem to have become de-sensitized to it and no longer express alarm or concern for my well being. Trust me, this says more about me than it does about their character.

5. Last fall while visiting some of the boy's relatives in a neighbouring town, I managed something new. I feel from a sitting position. While poising myself to get up from where I had been perched on their porch steps, my flip-flop clad feet skidded out from underneath me and I literally summersaulted down 3 stairs, absolutely demolishing two of the homeowner's potted plants in the process.

That brings us to yesterday's incident. I must preface this tale by saying that normally the Boy is one of the kindest, most thoughtful, caring people I've ever met. So please do not let the following cloud your perception of him.

He had removed our back deck stairs to access something underneath. He then reattached them temporarily so we could still get to the yard, but so they could also be re-removed if required. He assured me, however, they were safe. I believe my verbatim response was, "Good, because if anyone will fall down them, it will be me."
Not even an hour later, I would realize what a gross understatement this was. I didn't just fall down the stairs. While clearing the patio table, I inadvertently brought my heel down on the "very safely secured" (the Boy's words, not mine) edge of the top step. An eight of a second later, me & my armful of empty dishes were 3 feet down, legs splayed in the air, stairs completely obliterated, covered in mud, bruises already beginning to form.
This is when the boy appeared above me (it's always more humiliating to be berated when someone is standing above you, isn't it?) and shouted, "What the hell are you doing?!".
As if I had intentionally thrown myself off the deck, destroying a deck chair and scattering some two-by-fours in the process.
I calmly explained that it wasn't my fault, that I hadn't even been trying to use the stairs, I reminded him of the fact that while he had assured me of the stairs safety, I could have been seriously hurt and that his reaction was somewhat unexpected and hurtful.
At thi spoint he turned to walk back inside to resume whatever he had been doing before I so rudely dragged him away. Over his shoulder I hears him say, "Wipe yourself off before dinner, you've got mud all over you."

Ahh, true love.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

I came home....

...from the cottage to some disturbing news. The boy had picked up a Roch Voisine cd at a yard sale. When I asked him why (and secretly hoped he would laugh it off, indicating he had made the purchase purely for irony's sake) he said that there was a really good track on that album.

Let it be noted, that while I have never actually broken up with a guy over his musical tastes, I have certainly been turned off enough to learn of a potential mate's less refined musical appreciation, that I have immediately relegated perfectly good men into the "friends only" cetegory. I am a music snob, have been for years.

Now, I am able to make certain concessions. For instance, I understand the Boy was born almost a full decade prior to myself. Based on his being born in '72, his muscial likes & dislikes were pretty well being cemented during the early to mid-80's. This could be either very good or very bad. In his case, it's both. He likes some great bands. One of his favourites is The Cult. This is, in my opinion, good. Another one of his favourite bands is Def Leppard. This I can let slide. Now, having recently learned that he also likes a Roch Voisine song...well, this could be grounds for termination of relationship.

I'll let you know which way things go.

Thursday, August 18, 2011

It's become...

...somewhat of a yearly tradition during the annual trek to my college reunion at the cottage.

Each year, within 5 minutes of departing, a dog barfs in the car. This year, the honour was Oliver's.

Thanks for keeping the streak alive buddy.

Apparently the boy & I....

happened to come across the worst artist in the history of busker festival caricature artists.

She sketched me with an uncanny resemblance to Danny McBride.

Thanks for the ego boost lady.

Thursday, July 28, 2011

One of many ways.... permanently scar a 12 year old.

At the very least this captures the instant all the merits of going vegan start running through her head.

It may not...

...have been considered a "fine dining" establishment that we were in....but is it too much to ask that fellow patrons keep their shoes on while eating? Of greater concern to me was that this was a buffet. Was she going to put shoes on to make the trek to the food? We didn't stick around to find out.

The Jean Machine was in town...

...who knew Joey Ramone had been re-incarnated as a woman living in Grey County?

Where have I been.... ask?

Oh, just overseeing the day-to-day care and development of an infant human being. No biggie.

Anyways....during a recent shopping excursion I came across the creepiest toy I've ever seen. Sort of a wino/hobo/bunny hybrid. Yuck.

Monday, May 30, 2011

Yesterday.... almost-6-month-old had her first visit to Jason's Pub. It's not as bad as you think, I swear. It was for visiting purposes. Not drinking purposes.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Last week my car...

...was broken into and none of my cd's were even stolen. Thus, either I, or the culprit, has terrible taste in music.

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Some people ask....

....why I don't move out of Owen Sound and come back to Ottawa. But I could never leave here. Really. It's just....the people. They have taught me so many valuable life lessons.

These guys for instance....

The most beautiful discovery true friends make is that they can grow separately without growing apart. ~Elisabeth Foley

Or her....

Beauty is not in the face; beauty is a light in the heart. ~Kahlil Gibran

Last but not least....

Dancers are the messengers of the gods. ~Martha Graham

I just wanted to share...

...the best news of the day.

Universal Pictures has announced that they are developing a remake of Drop Dead Fred for Russell Brand to star in. Saturday Night Live writer Dennis McNicholas has been hired to develop the project for Brand. THR says the plan is to remake the movie in the tone of Beetlejuice, “building a universe around the concept of imaginary friends.” The original 1991 movie starred Phoebe Cates as a young woman who battles with her controlling mother and womanizing husband, and finds comfort and confusion with the appearance of her childhood imaginary friend. The original film was bashed by critics, not particularly well liked by moviegoers, didn’t make much money at the box office ($13.8 million total), but has developed a small but vocal cult following on home video.

Welcome to Grey Bruce Counties....

....home to beautiful beaches and PANTLESS FRIDAYS.

Enjoy your stay.

Monday, March 21, 2011

A photographic essay....

...of some things I've recently discovered.

1. I have a stinkin cute baby.

2. Bell Canada needs to update their snow removal policy.

3. While it breaks my heart to do it, I think it's finally time to reconsider my initial stance on not wanting to get my dog neutered.

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Admittedly, it's not the best...... In fact, you can hardly see the orthodontic device in question.

But here it is. I promised long ago that if I could ever find a photo of me with my headgear, I would post it. But my parents, thankfully, seem to have erased all evidence of this oh-so-awkward stage of my adolescence.

After a long search, countless hours, and much deliberation, it's the long awaited HEADGEAR PHOTO.

As if the headgear wasn't bad enough for an 11 year old girl to be forced to wear 24 hours a day, I also had the pleasure of sporting a really cutting edge, not to mention flattering, hairstyle.

Monday, February 14, 2011

Last week....

...I decided to try waxing. Myself.

I had gone on a big cleaning binge in the bathroom and decided to get rid of a whole bunch of beauty products I had either never used or just didn't want, and during that process I came across a box of Nair wax strips. I don't recall ever buying these but that didn't seem important. Come to think of it, I never thought to check if there was an expiry date.

Me: "I just waxed my lip and it really hurts."
The Boy: "What?"
Me: "I just waxed my lip. And it HURTS."
The Boy: "You're mental."

As I continued my whining, he asked me why I felt the need to wax my lip, presumably because I don't really have any abundant hair issues there.

How could I tell him the truth? That I thought it might be fun or satisfying? That the pretty little box with the cartoon lady on the front made it look more like a board game than a painfully harsh beauty product? Even the strips themselves were lime green and were dotted with little multi-coloured sparkles. Cute, right?

I had never tried waxing before. I was curious. Adventurous even. I felt as though I were the Jacques Cousteau of hair removal!

Me: "The strips were really small, I didn't think they would work on my legs."

Sometimes, it's a wonder I'm not single.

Happy Valentine's Day everyone.

I was perfectly happy....

....spending the last decade or so despising Enrique Iglesias & his msic. And then he had to go and put out two super catchy singles. Damn you Enrique, for ruining our dynamic.

Sunday, February 6, 2011

Remember the time.... were at the grocery store and you saw the harried father, trying to wrangle his toddler away from the cereal aisle, a nanosecond before the chold dissolved into a screaming, heaving pile of snot on the floor of the supermarket?

"Tsk, tsk," you thought. "What a mess."

Or the woman at the bank, on the verge of tears, fighting to keep the hysterical edge to her voice at bay, as she argues with the teller, "I know I had enough money in this account for that bill..."

"Get yourself together lady," you think to yourself haughtily.

Well, a few weeks ago, I was that person. The scene-causer. At the DMV of all places. I can look back on that afternoon now and laugh. At the time though, I was seconds away from having security called on me.

You see, my car had been towed to a lot in Trenton (this, I assure you, is a story in iteself). Anyways, I discovered, in order to get my car back, I would need to get a new sticker for the plate. This meant Trip #1 to the DMV.

Of course, the lineup was comprised of about 20 or 30 people ahead of me. But I waited. And the head of the DMV was a lovely woman, who went to each person in line before they got to the counter, ensuring they had all their paperwork in order.

"Very efficient," I thought. "I bet that saves a lot of time and cuts down on unecessary waiting in line, only to get to the counter and discover you are missing an important document."

The woman assured me I had everything I needed in order to get my new 2011 sticker. So I waited. About 40 minutes later I finally get to the front of the line. A sweet looking older woman calls me to her wicket. I explain to her that I want a new sticker for my car. She asks for my license. And the plate number. She informs me I have some outstanding parking tickets that need to be paid before she can issue me a new sticker. I tell her I was aware of this.

"Hm, quite a few tickets," she says.

"Yes, I know."

I pay my fines. "Quite a few" was an understatement.

I tried to look on the bright side of things, however. I would be starting this driving year with a clean slate. No fines. New sticker. Great.

"Alright dear, just one more thing before I assue your new sticker..."

Then the woman then asks for my insurance. I handed her the papers my insurance agent had been so kind to email me that very morning. I'm not going to lie, I felt a little proud of myself for being so prepared and bringing them on the off chance they were required. (Even though, I should point out, the woman in line had not told me I would need them for this transaction.)

"No dear, sorry, I need the original copy" said the nice woman behind the counter.

"Oh, no, you see, the original copy is in the car in Trenton. I can't get the original. But this is just as good. Believe me, I spoke to my insurance company this morning and they said, this is as good as teh copy that is in my glove box." I smiled sweetly, feeling confident I knew what I was talking about.

"No, I'm afraid we can no longer accept emailed policies. We need the pink copy. It's a new thing." I can see I'm dealing with a real Take-Charge-Marge here.

"What do you mean, "a thing"?? What is a thing? Is it a law? Is it a rule that has recently been implemented at this particular licensing branch? I don't understand." I am vaguely aware my voice has gotten a bit louder, but I blame the fact that being in the DMV always makes everyone a bit on edge.

"We just need the pink copy, Miss. I can't accept this one, I'm sorry." She fixes me with a steely gaze. Clearly, she is in no mood for having to explain things to a frazzled, and slightly snippy, woman. I notice she is no longer calling me dear, and has started using "Miss" instead. We've started down a slippery slope now, I can tell.

"What is the difference?! This is a white copy - virtually identical to the original pink one - that was sent to me directly from my insurance company!" Cue my voice jumping 5 or 6 octaves.

"Miss, I'm sorry, there is nothing I can do for you without the pink copy." With this she abruply gets up and walks away, disappearing around a corner and returning a few seconds later.

"Look....look! what if I just photocopy this one onto pink paper? Would that be acceptable?!"

No response. Not even eye contact.

"I want to speak to a manager."

"Miss, I just spoke to my manager. I'm sorry. There's nothing more I can do. I told you, it's a new thing."

This is where things really start to go downhill.

(I should explain, before you read this, I have never, ever, lost my temper with anyone serving me in a customer service capacity. I feel pretty confident in saying that most people who know me would agree that I am normally exceedingly polite and quite friendly. I am not proud of my behaviour this day, but I want to preface the following bit by saying that I had recently given birth, my baby was in the hospital, I was without a vehicle, had not yet received my maternity benefits...i.e. broke, was living out of a suitcase for the past 2 weeks, and was pretty much on the verge of busting down the barrier bordering on insanity. Now this does not excuse my behaviour, but I thought you should know.)

"A thing?! A THING?! Stop saying that! I don't understand. That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard!"

This is where the woman, unknowingly, does something that really pushes me over the edge. She places the NEXT TELLER PLEASE sign on the counter in front of me and turns away from me pretending to be couting the dozens of hard-earned bills I had just handed her to pay my fines.

It suddenly occurs to me that I am "that person". I am the "scenario" they were probably given to act out in a role playing exercise when they were doing on-the-job training at the DMV head offices. "How to Deal with Unruly Customers". Or, in this case, you could supplement "unruly" with "hysterical", "dangerous" or "mentally unhinged".

"NO! NO! You can't ignore me! I AM NOT LEAVING HERE JUST BECAUSE YOU PUT YOUR LITTLE SIGN UP!" This is where I started to cry. Not just tearing up in frustration. Like, good hard inappropriate sobbing. Something that should only ever be done under the most extreme cirsumstances, and even then, only in the privacy of your locked bedroom. Not in the middle of a provincial service office at lunch time.

She continues to ignore me however. I can, out of the corner of my eye, make out the dozens of faces of th epeople waiting in line behind me. The stare at me in shock. In my mind delirious mind though I imagined they were staring at me, awestruck, admiringly.

"Wow, it's about time someone finally stand up for all the little people. These DMV folk always thinking they are so high & mighty," I imagined them thinking.

In my mind, I was no longer the unstable crazy lady causing a scene in the DMV. I was standing up for all the little my people. I was not going to sit back and let my brothers & sistes be treated like this. The unjustice had been going on for too long. I was a modern day Robin Hood. Or something folk hero-like anyways.

"NO!" I screeched again. My voice not even sounding like my own. "You don't understand! I am not leaving here until I get my sticker!" I slammed my hand down on the counter for added emphasis. The tears continued flowing. The other tellers stared at me.

"I want that money back then!" I cried, pointing at the bills I had just used to settle my fines. The only reason I paid the fines was so I could get my sticker....and you won't give me a sticker. So give me my money back!"

My sweet old lady continued to ignore me. Now she got up and walked away, stopping to whisper something to her supervisor.

I suddenly realize resistance is futile. My mind is going a mile a minute. How I can now walk away, mortified, ashamed, beaten, with the hopes & dreams of all these people in line behind me resting on my shoulders?

With the sudden realization that security was probably being called I make a hasty retreat for the door.

Trip #2
I went home utterly dejected. It being 4:20 p.m ., my insurance company was about to close for the day for the day. After much pleading and snivelling on the phone, my insurance broker (who is from a town 2 hours away might I add) was lovely enough to put me in touch with a local, non-affiliated insurance company. The plan was for her to email this other company my policy information. They could then print it out on a pink slip for me, free of charge. I spent th enext 15 minutes makin approximately 14 phone calls to work out the finer points of this arrangement between two competing insurance companies. Fortunately, at about 4:40 p.m. everything was worked out and I had precisely 20 minutes to get to the end of town where the insurance company was to claim my pink slip before they closed and then make it back to the DMV (which, miracle of all miracles, was open until 7 p.m.)

The woman at the insurance company was a sweetheart, and even stayed a few minutes past closing to make sure she had the proper information all typed up on that much covetted piece of pink paper.

I thanked her profusely and ran down to my dear and patient grandfather, who insisted we go straight back to the DMV to see if we couldn't get this taken care of tonight.

Being that it was well after 5 p.m. now, there was still a line up but not quite as daunting as the previous trip. I waited my turn, feeling much better than I had a mere few hours earlier. Mainly due to the fact that my "dear" friend who had attempted to serve me in earlier in the day was nowhere in sight. Sweet relief.

I was finally called to the counter by a woman who looked to be in her early twenties. I explained to her what I needed, that I had been in earlier to pay my fines, and was sent away because I didn't have the hallowed "pink copy" which I presented to her with a flourish.

"Ha. Now what are you gonna do?", I thought smugly.

"Perfect," the girl said cooly as she began to read over the form with a fine tooth comb.

I waited. My throat began to close. I started to sweat. What was taking so long?

"Yeah, miss, I'm sorry, I can't accept see right here? Yeah, right here, this VIN number she's typed on this pink form doesn't match what I have in the computer."

"What?" I stutter, grabbing at the small piece of paper in her hands. "Let me see that."

I pulled out my white copy that had been so cooly rejected earlier in the day and put the two side by side on the counter. Sure enough my white copy's VIN number ended in 49. The pink copy ended in 94.

This time there were no tears. This time I forgo all the theatrics. This time, I simply drop my head into my hands and lean on the counter. I stayed like this for a good 20 seconds. Less dramatic, yes. But I think I conveyed my feelings accurately. Then I gathered up my paperwork and walked out.


The next morning I gto straight back to the insurance agent and explained the problem. She apologized profusely.

"Oh, it's no big deal, at all!" I said cheerily while smiling as convincingly as I could. I felt my face cracking though.

I then schlep back to the DMV for th ethird time in 2 days. I feel confident this time nothing can go wrong. I wait nervously in line again, butterlies in my stomache, hands shaking.

"Next please."

I look up.


It's her.

Tentatively I approach that now familiar face. There is not even a flash of recognition. That extra second is not needed for her to place me. She knows me. Oh, she know exactly who I am.

"So dear, how did we do?" she asks calmly.

I roll my eyes and laugh skittishly. "Oh, you have no idea! HAHAHA." Dry, hysterical laughter emanating from my lips. Again, I don't even sound like myself.

I take a deep breathe. "Look, I'm really sorry about how I behaved yesterday. That was totally uncalled for. I don't normally -"

I stop mid sentence as I see her turn away. What could be wrong now?!? I feel the panic rising in my throat. I realize I have been holding my breathe.

"Here you go miss. Here's your sticker."

"WOOHOO!!!", I cried, shattering the relative silence of the small office as I snatched the sticker from her hands.

At this point, I kissed it before holding it aloft for all to see. I was no longer the brave soldier, taking a stand for my fellow man, against the big, corrupt DMV. I was rubbing my hard earned success right in their envious little faces.

Yes, I can honestly say, I am no more proud of my behaviour in that moment, than I was the day prior. Shameful. However, I can also say I have never been so happy to be handed a small, white sticker in my entire life. I felt like 10 years had been added to my life. The weight of the world had been lifted off my shoulders.

And I get to do it all again 9 months.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

I don't remember....

....the chapter in "What To Expect When You Are Expecting" on projectile vomiting.


Wednesday, January 26, 2011

I've been listening..... a lot of books on tape lately. Now wait - there is a perfectly logical explanation for this. I've been doing a lot of driving, you see, and I really enjoy a break from radio now & then.

The only problem is, every time I get out of the car, I find myself narating my actions. Only in my head, thank goodness. But still, I can't seem to stop and I'm getting concerned.

But I probably won't stop listening to books on tape. I'm completely hooked. See what happens when you are forced to give up alcohol and nicotine? It's not pretty folks.

I've decided....

...that now might be a good time fo rme to try to pick up a new language. I'm planning on buying some "Learn-To-Speak" on cd so I can listen to them in the car. I was thinking German, although that's not very practical. Maybe Spanish. Or Japanese.

I also decided I really need to get back to writing. I'm going to branch out from just blogging, to maybe working on some short stories and essays.

Since I will hopefully be bringing my premature baby home from the hospital this week, it seemed like a wise idea to add something else to my plate.