I have been advised to make my blog somewhat topical. Let's start by talking about my job. We were informed via inter-office e-mail just the other day (Monday, to be exact) that our maximum hours are being slashed in half after Labour Day. This, despite a cracking good summer, attendance-wise, and the anticipation that, come October, we'll have a potentially record-breaking exhibit parked in the bowels of the mother ship for a good four or five months. The powers that be also decided it would be a great idea to continue with the concept of 'short shifts' in the middle of the day during our 'busy times', so that we have a solid 'public presence' even during our lunch time period. I'm confused. Is this their way of creating some sort of recession-chic????
Not only will most of us have to look for other part-time work to supplement our incomes, but, if they decide to give us short shifts at any point in the week, our availability for such alternative employment plummets. I'm getting supremely worried. Not only about my employment, but about the morale of my department. We are supposed to be cheerful and inspiring and enthusiastic about what we interpret to the visitors. I'm finding myself increasingly bitter, jaded and reluctant to even jump on my bike for the ride to work. I can only imagine what's going through the heads of some of my co-workers. At least the ones with brains.
It's almost time. I will soon have to bite the bullet and follow my goddamn bliss (interesting: the word 'goddamn' doesn't come up in Spell-Check -- but I digress). I've been a lazy-ass about putting in the work to do what I truly enjoy. I've been coasting for a long time now and getting used to the slightly cushy ride, but I can sense the end of the track ahead. Bloody hell. I'm actually going to have to hustle.
But first... an attitude change.
Yay!!!! I'm going to have to hustle!!!!!!
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Paving the E-Road to Hell...
So, in my lame attempts to drum up a smidgen of interest in this blog -- but not too much, mind you -- I have placed a "Follow" app near the bottom of my blog. I read that writing a post about said event is a good idea, so here it is. I'm also a "Follower" of several blogs now. Am I the only one that feels like this smacks of discipleship? Maybe I'm going too far.
The boyfriend has just started a political blog. He's all up on the machinations of our Great Leaders and wants to vent about it. And make a bit of money. So I will include his blog on the list of blogs I follow, and I'll mix it up with a few other political blogs so it's harder to tell who's my boyfriend and who just wants to be my boyfriend. There is a subtle difference, you know.
Eventually, I may gain a follower. Someone who actually kind of digs what I write and comes back for more. Shoot, I guess that means if I start gaining a following I'll have to post more often. Madre de Dios, what have I done????
The boyfriend has just started a political blog. He's all up on the machinations of our Great Leaders and wants to vent about it. And make a bit of money. So I will include his blog on the list of blogs I follow, and I'll mix it up with a few other political blogs so it's harder to tell who's my boyfriend and who just wants to be my boyfriend. There is a subtle difference, you know.
Eventually, I may gain a follower. Someone who actually kind of digs what I write and comes back for more. Shoot, I guess that means if I start gaining a following I'll have to post more often. Madre de Dios, what have I done????
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
It's About...uuuuuuh...I Forget...
This little piggy went to the farmer's market today and guess what she bought? A stinky melon, some pretty carrots, and a totally unnecessary zucchini.
The melon is a muskmelon, so named for obvious reasons. One day in the house and the whole place smells like several rats met a very bad end two weeks ago in an inaccessible nook at the back of the crawlspace you hate to crawl into. Better than durian, though, or so I'm told. The flesh itself is one of the finest melons I've ever had the privilege of eating. It's like a much better version of an insipid canteloupe from Costa Rica which was picked far too young and earned more air miles in one trip to the nearby Food Basics than I will in five years of going back and forth to Alberta. Maybe that's a bad, uncharitable comparison. Really, there is no comparison. It's superb. And grown in Ontario. How rare and exotic.
The carrots were fairly ordinary except that they looked like they had been lovingly washed and buffed. I suspect they'll taste very, very good.
The zucchini was, as stated above, superfluous. I had forgotten my purchase of two far inferior imports last Friday. On that day I also bought a superfluous case of tonic water for the G&Ts I was craving at that time. Turns out I still had more than half a case remaining at the time. D'oh!
Why is this stinky, prolific mind-farting happening? Is is a phase? Is it a sign of early-onset Alzheimer's? Am I still jet-lagged from my trip to see the folks out West? I suspect I'm in fire-extinguishing mode, which means I deal with my needs and wants as they occur, as opposed to doing a little homework first. It's an annoying form of spontaneity that strikes me as somewhat wasteful -- something my inner depression-era housewife deplores. It would be better if my spontaneity involved something along the lines of a fantastic live music show, or a deep, yet spicy conversation with a stranger about why society seems so cold and unfriendly. Gotta get to work on that. In the meantime, I'm inhaling my muskmelon and anticipating the first juicy bite tomorrow morning...mmmmmm!
The melon is a muskmelon, so named for obvious reasons. One day in the house and the whole place smells like several rats met a very bad end two weeks ago in an inaccessible nook at the back of the crawlspace you hate to crawl into. Better than durian, though, or so I'm told. The flesh itself is one of the finest melons I've ever had the privilege of eating. It's like a much better version of an insipid canteloupe from Costa Rica which was picked far too young and earned more air miles in one trip to the nearby Food Basics than I will in five years of going back and forth to Alberta. Maybe that's a bad, uncharitable comparison. Really, there is no comparison. It's superb. And grown in Ontario. How rare and exotic.
The carrots were fairly ordinary except that they looked like they had been lovingly washed and buffed. I suspect they'll taste very, very good.
The zucchini was, as stated above, superfluous. I had forgotten my purchase of two far inferior imports last Friday. On that day I also bought a superfluous case of tonic water for the G&Ts I was craving at that time. Turns out I still had more than half a case remaining at the time. D'oh!
Why is this stinky, prolific mind-farting happening? Is is a phase? Is it a sign of early-onset Alzheimer's? Am I still jet-lagged from my trip to see the folks out West? I suspect I'm in fire-extinguishing mode, which means I deal with my needs and wants as they occur, as opposed to doing a little homework first. It's an annoying form of spontaneity that strikes me as somewhat wasteful -- something my inner depression-era housewife deplores. It would be better if my spontaneity involved something along the lines of a fantastic live music show, or a deep, yet spicy conversation with a stranger about why society seems so cold and unfriendly. Gotta get to work on that. In the meantime, I'm inhaling my muskmelon and anticipating the first juicy bite tomorrow morning...mmmmmm!
Monday, August 10, 2009
Stealth-love
From my friend's brother, in response to an article she sent about father-son affection:
"I’ve taken to kissing my father…
"I don’t know how – or why this happened. Perhaps it was the effect of the evangelicals and their “Promise Keepers” movement or perhaps it was my envy of the Southern European cultures where men kissing men does not have to be followed by an immediate move to San Francisco . Yet I remember the day when I first kissed my father. I had been saving up confidence and courage and promised myself that I would. Of course not on the lips for that would be too familiar. No, I would kiss him on the cheek.
"I had become particularly good at hugging him and after years of affectionate squeezes, his ramrod-stiff posture had softened and he began to hug back, to even haltingly whisper “I love you too Arthur.” But till that day, the kiss had evaded me. Yet with apprehension flying like a flag I kissed him. His cheek felt like a new toothbrush, one never soften by use, with his 2 days of growth repelling my lips… and it was not as I imagined.
""He did not revile me in Clint Eastwood-esque fashion nor did he welcome this gesture with a stronger hug or a returned kiss. No, I don’t think he has kissed me for about 41 years. Yet while he seemed set back by this, he mumbled a soft thanks and his face painted a puzzled grin.
"That was 3 years ago and I have not quit. No one has made any movies about it and I doubt Art & Knut will be featured in any news paper or periodical. But I am glad I have begun to kiss my dad. He is far from the perfect father and he still has not kissed me in return but he seems to love the fact that I love him and that I am willing to scale the wall of this social norm to grace his cheek with my warmth.
"And through this exercise, I have learned that there is another man I must kiss yet he is much younger. His mom egged me on and I had to figure out a way to kiss him, sort of like a commando raid. So occasionally, with Navy Seal stealth, I sneak up on this fellow (usually while his mom is distracting him) and then plant one on his cheek while punching him in the stomach or something like that… He doesn’t get mad about it either and seems to wear these kisses like a badge of honor. I guess not too many step-sons get kissed by the “interloper.”
"So now, I am a Father-kisser… and am a Kissing-father… and life seems just a little better for it."
I, too, occasionally kiss my father, who, unlike Knut, is somewhat affectionate when greeting his offspring, giving us rib-crushing hugs -- if not much else in the physical sense. I think the kisses also surprise him, with a little softening in his demeanor when I pull away. It's a small thing, but it leaves a substantial impact.
"I’ve taken to kissing my father…
"I don’t know how – or why this happened. Perhaps it was the effect of the evangelicals and their “Promise Keepers” movement or perhaps it was my envy of the Southern European cultures where men kissing men does not have to be followed by an immediate move to San Francisco . Yet I remember the day when I first kissed my father. I had been saving up confidence and courage and promised myself that I would. Of course not on the lips for that would be too familiar. No, I would kiss him on the cheek.
"I had become particularly good at hugging him and after years of affectionate squeezes, his ramrod-stiff posture had softened and he began to hug back, to even haltingly whisper “I love you too Arthur.” But till that day, the kiss had evaded me. Yet with apprehension flying like a flag I kissed him. His cheek felt like a new toothbrush, one never soften by use, with his 2 days of growth repelling my lips… and it was not as I imagined.
""He did not revile me in Clint Eastwood-esque fashion nor did he welcome this gesture with a stronger hug or a returned kiss. No, I don’t think he has kissed me for about 41 years. Yet while he seemed set back by this, he mumbled a soft thanks and his face painted a puzzled grin.
"That was 3 years ago and I have not quit. No one has made any movies about it and I doubt Art & Knut will be featured in any news paper or periodical. But I am glad I have begun to kiss my dad. He is far from the perfect father and he still has not kissed me in return but he seems to love the fact that I love him and that I am willing to scale the wall of this social norm to grace his cheek with my warmth.
"And through this exercise, I have learned that there is another man I must kiss yet he is much younger. His mom egged me on and I had to figure out a way to kiss him, sort of like a commando raid. So occasionally, with Navy Seal stealth, I sneak up on this fellow (usually while his mom is distracting him) and then plant one on his cheek while punching him in the stomach or something like that… He doesn’t get mad about it either and seems to wear these kisses like a badge of honor. I guess not too many step-sons get kissed by the “interloper.”
"So now, I am a Father-kisser… and am a Kissing-father… and life seems just a little better for it."
I, too, occasionally kiss my father, who, unlike Knut, is somewhat affectionate when greeting his offspring, giving us rib-crushing hugs -- if not much else in the physical sense. I think the kisses also surprise him, with a little softening in his demeanor when I pull away. It's a small thing, but it leaves a substantial impact.
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