Downward Spiral

And things in my apartment building, which I pay a large amount of money to live in, continue to degenerate...

The Fulfillment of Fantasy, But at What Cost?

On Saturday night, around midnight, I finally turned off my radio and climbed into bed. What is it about settling down for the long sweet haul of sleep that suddenly brings in to sharp focus every single noise being made in a two block radius? Not until I had rested my head on my pillow did I notice (okay, so I was really distracted beforehand) that there was some sort of domestic dispute going on in the apartment next to mine. There was a chick yelling and swearing, and then a dude yelling, though at a much lower decibal, back. So, having grown accustomed to such things in my year living just off Stony Plain Road, I popped my flourescent orange earplugs in my ears and drifted off to sleep.

Speed forward a couple of hours to about 2am when I am jolted awake by the sound of blood-curdling screams coming from the above-mentioned neighbouring apartment. I've actually wondered before about where the term 'blood-curdling' actually stems from. Well, now I know. It was SCREEEEEEAM. Half a second pause. SCREEEEEEEAM. Half a second pause. It sounded like the woman next door had been strapped to a table and was being systematically hacked into by a man with a hatchet. Or a woman with a hatchet... you never know. So I fumble around in a blind panic (literally, it was really dark) and dialed 911, shaking like a leaf and wondering if I was going to get through in time.

I've only called 911 once before, and I can't really remember how it went, but this time I had to go through the main operator, telling her what was happening in a frantic voice, only to be passed through to the police. I'm sure this is efficient, but what the hell? Really, do I have to explain the situation twice? I can only hope that the second person I talked to, from the police division of 911, had dispatched officers right when I was first patched through. Anyways, I tell him what's happening, and he walks me through everything very nicely and patiently, and then tells me that help is on the way. Yay! So, just as I hang up (the screaming has been continuing this whole time) the horrible shrieking stops, and turns into a chick yelling and swearing, and a dude yelling back.

ARRRRRGH. Needless to say, no murder was committed. In fact, as soon as the police started knocking on the door of the possible victim, all sounds ceased and the cops were questioning whether or not I had the direction of the sounds right. But, after I assured all five (FIVE! Woot woot!) of the manly officers that yes, indeed, the screaming was from next door, it sounded like it was right in my freakin' ear, they went back over and I can only assume that they settled things because I did hear a murmur of strong and official voices through the wall.

I just have to say that this kind of shit really pisses me off. Because, first of all, I had to spend (after already spending a half an hour perched on the edge of my bed, cellphone clutched in hand, ears perked for the sound of further violence) another hour and a half trying to calm myself down. Second of all, the time and effort of five very nice and kind police officers was wasted. And third of all, just, ugh. And for what? Because some stupid assholes decide to get drunk and start a fight with eachother? For all I know, that chick was screaming because the dude was packing up his shit to leave.... I sure as hell would have, from the sounds of her. So, now, even though I guess I did the right thing, I'm going to be less likely to follow the same course of action the next time sounds start coming from that direction, a) because it's likely to turn out the same way and I'd really just rather not lose the sleep over it again, and b) because I really just don't give a fuck.

In Search of Home

My favourite part of my job – which I’m pretty sure I’m okay to blog about – used to be entering divorce documents. I don’t know why… I mean, they’re pretty depressing, really. But I liked getting to see pictures of the people involved, and I liked competing to be the data entry operator who entered documents for the shortest marriage ever… oh, and I liked to see the age differences between the couples… that was occasionally VERY interesting.

But, all of the family law-related documents are on the provincial side now, so I don’t get to see anything along those lines, any more. My second favourite kinds of documents used to be the affidavits of value… they are the documents that are done by home appraisers who go in to a house that is being repossessed by the mortgagor and determine the worth of it. I like those because, again, they have pictures. But, I’m finding that I don’t enjoy entering these as much as I used to. In fact, I’m finding that they make me sadder and sadder, because firstly, there are A LOT of them. Which means there are A LOT of people who are in the process of losing their home right now. It’s not really a surprise that this is happening, as when Edmonton had its big boom and housing costs skyrocketed, everyone was saying how in a couple of years all the people who purchased homes at those unbelievable prices weren’t going to be able to keep up with the payments… and, I guess its true.

When I was in high school, my parents filed for bankruptcy and we lost our house. At the time, I guess I wasn’t as upset as I would be now because I was more happy that my parents were finally getting divorced. I guess that’s what happens when you witness the kind of relationship that my mother and father had with eachother… divorce, losing the house, losing our dogs… it was all okay *lol* But, when I think about it now, when I think about having a home, making a home, and then having circumstances change and having to face the prospect of losing that home… its terrifying!

I’m pretty big on the idea of ‘home’… ever since we moved to Edmonton when I was 12, I really haven’t felt like I’ve had one. After we lost the house we moved so many times it was really hard to develop any sort of connection with any of the places we lived. Even now, knowing that come May of next year I’m going to have to move again, I can’t really feel like I’m putting down roots. Which is what really makes me feel bad for these people who are losing their houses… they thought they would be able to make a home for themselves, and it didn’t turn out that way, after all. That’s gotta be pretty heartbreaking for them to deal with.

Blame the Economy!

Dani and I went shopping at "THE MALL" last night (which everyone who is anyone knows is referring to West Edmonton Mall) which was fun. For the most part. I'm incredibly poor right now, and not at the height of the self-confidence game, so a pretty forceful and clamoring part of me kept insisting that I shop and spend money (that I do not have) because buying things makes me feel happy. But, I couldn't buy anything to make me feel happy, because I have no money! It was a very difficult outing. Fun, because hanging out with that kooky Doube Deuce is always a good time. But, you know, difficult. For those other reasons.

Anyways. here are the Top 5 Things I Wanted to Buy Yesterday But Couldn't Because I Have No Money:

1. Tote bag from Old Navy
















2. Frame from Anthropologie









3. Halter top from Ricki's








4. Ring from American Eagle









5. T-Shirt from Old Navy

That Time of the Year

As most of the people in my life have been made very aware of in the past couple of months, I am an allergy sufferer. And, while having seasonal allergies is nothing akin to being burdened with a serious illness or disease, it is not a walk in the park, either. In fact, there are few things that are as capable of eroding the self esteem of a woman as allergies. After all, it if incredibly difficult to feel attractive when you are not only experiencing allergy symptoms -- the itchy, watery eyes; the scratchy throat; and ah yes, the runny nose and sneezing -- but reinventing them, which is what it feels like I have been doing. When my left nostril has turned into a faucet and my eyes feel like they've swollen to twice their natural size, I have to wonder how it is that anyone can even bear to look at me, let alone reside alongside me in the same office, apartment, or even concert hall.

So, then I woke up this morning and found a weird blotchy bit on the side of my right cheek bone. Either a spider bit my cheek and laid eggs under my skin. Or, I'm pretty sure the transformation into mutant is complete.

Sigh.

Bee!

The screen that fits into our kitchen window is missing one of it's little holdy-in-er things, so when I open that window it is literally wide open. Bagheera came close to falling out of it once, even! But, you know, other than the slight chance of injury to the cats, it works out alright. Except, today, as I was eating my egg sandwich, the most ENORMOUS bee buzzed THROUGH the open window and IN TO THE APARTMENT. Not moving half as slowly as I should have been, I jumped up from the couch and slammed myself against the balcony doors in terror. The bee did it's lazy buzzing dance around the light fixtures in the kitchen, and nearly caused me to crumble in hysteria as it flirted with entering the living room. Thank the lord it didn't. Eventually it slowly zzzzed and swung its ginormous body back towards the open window, and then through it. I raced across the room and slammed the window shut, my heart beating like crazy. And then I shuddered one of those whole-body shudders that run through you when you've just witnessed something truly horrifying.

As I sat back down to finish my lunch, I tried to figure out what it was about bees and other insects and arachnids that so effectively struck terror into giant human beings. And I think I came up with something. See, bees don't speak English. I mean, I can't just say to the bee, hey dude, you're creeping me out and invading my life space - can you just, you know, leave? I can't just tell the bee that he's freaking me out, and I'm liable to act all crazy if he gets any closer, which is exactly what I would do. And when I start acting all crazy-like, I can't say, well Mr. Bee, this is all your fault! Instead, the bee thinks, danger and danger, and is liable to come and sting me! And you know, it's just a huge big matter of miscommunication!

Where there exists a language barrier, there exists a huge element of unpredictability - you have no real idea what the other creature is about unless you can find some way of telling eachother just that.

*shudder* It seriously was the biggest bee I have ever, ever seen, though. Truly terrifying.

When You Are Engulfed in Flames

So, I've decided to think of Dani and I's recent vacation as the "Trial and Error Trip", with a strong emphasis on the error part. Before we left, we were subjected to a fusillade of advice on how to survive Las Vegas. Drink lots of water, wear sunscreen, bring comfy shoes, and stretch before heading out! Well, not the last one, but someone SHOULD have said something! Not that we would have listened, 'cause we didn't listen to any of the other advice, either.

Our first full day we spent walking the part of the strip with New York New York, Excalibur, and the Luxor. We also explored Paris, and our own resort. While our shoes weren't 6-inch high stilettos, they might not have been the best choices for hours of being on our feet. As a result, by the time we made it to the Bellagio that night for our first view of the fountain show, neither Dani's feet nor my own were in good shape. I will say, though, that while my left foot required 3-blister-bandage treatment, Dani's poor tootsies did most of the suffering:

By Tuesday morning our feet were a little bit better, thanks to a tub soaking and many medicated bandages. Unfortunately, the rest of our legs decided to fuck with us (pardon my French) by seizing up and stiffening oh most awkwardly. We ended up hobbling around like gibbled 90-year-old's.

But on Wednesday, our bodies were almost back to normal. Feet? Good! Calves? Good! Best part? It was pool day! Or, at least, pool half-a-day. After switching spots once, we nailed some prime real estate around the pool and commenced sun tanning and splish-splashing. The cool water of the pool sure came in handy as the sun was so hot I swear my hair was sweating. I'd take a dip when I couldn't handle the relentless weight of the sun on my skin any longer. Then, refreshed and fortified, I'd lay in the sun a little longer. Unfortunately, sunscreen comes off in the water. Even more unfortunately, sunburns have a tendency not to reveal themselves until AFTER the fact. The following is a picture I took of myself in the sun, an hour and a half or so before the screaming agony set it:

When I got out of the bed today, it was the first time I could bend without wanting to scream in about 24 hours. Is the face above one belonging to an idiot? Some days, yes. But, on the plus side, Las Vegas IS an amazing city. We saw so much that was so unbelievable, and that made the suffering worthwhile.

Travel Picture How-To

This is what happens when you let someone else take your picture. Ew! But... unfortunately, this is actually what I look like! Pretty much warts and rolls and all. Sigh. The bad part of coming home after a vacation is looking at how fat you are in your pictures! Ugh. Who wants to see the real me?

That's why I have perfected the art of the flattering self-portrait! The key to a satisfactory image of one's self? The right angle, scope, and perspective. Showcasing the strong point of your figure is ALSO helpful...

Raining on Sunday

Sundays are probably the one day of the week where I feel the most, I dunno, out of sorts, I guess you could say? It is usually the day where I have little to nothing to do, and while that can be a good thing - especially today, as I feel like warmed-over poo - it can also work against me. A restless mind doesn't need so much time on its own!

The morning didn't have a great start as I woke from a dream that stirred up some old emotions. You know, the kind that are better off avoided until you can afford the therapy you'll need to get through them? I'm not sure where the dream came from - possibly the peanut butter sandwich I had just before bed. Regardless of it's origin, these old memories and feelings and possible regreats have managed to stick with me since I first opened my eyes, and has weighed a little heavy on my heart.

Then, after getting up, I bid a quick farewell to my brother as he left to meet up with his new sweetie before heading in to work. The whole 'my brother having a new sweetie' thing is definitely not the problem... she sounds great, he deserves to be happy, and I selfishly hope I get to meet her before she leaves the city for the summer. What does make me sad, though, is that he gets to meet up with this girl, sit across from her at a table in a coffee shop, talk with her, hold her hand, kiss her good-bye... he gets to be with the girl who makes his heart swell and spin, and, well, I don't. And the four-year-old inside of me who wants what everyone else around her has stamps her foot and says "not fair!"

This would be the part of the lamentation where Kelley would say, "That's what you get for liking someone who lives in a different city." She'd also have a few other choice things to add to that, but she's still working on the FULL lecture so I shant get too far ahead of myself.

The point IS, I get lonely on Sundays. And I don't like being lonely.

Not For the Faint of Heart (or stomach)

After I got home from work this afternoon I opened up all the windows and the doors on the balcony to let in some fresh air - I can't get enough of the stuff! I feel like the cool crisp spring breeze is cleaning out not only the musty pet smell in my apartment but also the musty ache of winter from my very insides. I was sitting in the sunny spot with Asia, the little kitty, watching Bagheera sniff his way around the living room, when I noticed something odd about his, ahem, rear area. I cooed at him and called him over, and when he was within arms reach, delicately arranged his feline body so that I could raise his tail and get a closer look. My stomach totally dropped when I realized he had what appeared to be a length of rubber band trailing out his little poop-shoot.

Bagheera is TERRIBLE for eating anything and everything. I think I've mentioned his affection for ribbon and its consequences in an earlier post. Anyways, I cried out for my brother who, thankfully, was home to assist. He had me pin Bagheera down as he commenced the removal of the rubber band, and it was NOT fun, for any of us! I hate physically restraining my pets, my brother certainly didn't relish removing something from someone's ass, and poor Bagheera... well, he wasn't enjoying himself much, either. Fortunately, it was over relatively quickly and all is well with the cat. But, just look at the wound he gave me! Little bugger.

Sad Girl

The last thing I do on my way to work in the morning is turn on my cellphone. Maybe a true cellphone user wouldn't turn their's off to begin with, but I do. Sometimes I like to be beyond reach. Turning my phone on is not my favourite thing to do, because I can't help but be a little afraid of what might be awaiting me. Anyone familiar with my family knows that this little phobia isn't unwarranted... having been on the receiving end of some pretty harrowing phone calls in the last couple of years makes me naturally wary. And, unlike my brother, I have given my number to the source of those distressing phone calls... our mother. I am also the only one of us who has given their number to our dad, who is another source of unrest... but for different reasons.

This morning, when I turned on my phone, I received a multimedia test message from my father. This is the first time I have heard anything from him since receiving the misspelled, uncapitalized, unpunctuated holiday wish that he texted me on Christmas Day. Oh, unless you want to count the meangingless emails he fowards to everyone in his Hotmail address list. Today's text was a picture of my 6 year old half-brother, perched on the edge of a desk and waving. Waving at... who? Me? That's not very likely. The kid barely knows who I am. I doubt that if you filled a room up with girls he could pick me out from the crowd as the one who shares some of the same genetic material as him. Though, we do have the same nose.

It doesn't make me happy to hear from my dad. It makes me sad. It digs up all the disappointment I've kept successfully buried since the last time he was in touch. It gets me feeling all those emotions that I'm not fond of feeling, the ugly ones that I like to live without. It reminds me of how badly I want a good father, and how, unfortunately, I just don't get one.

Game Little Rooster

I got up this morning and opened the blinds, as per my usual AM routine. I like to let in whatever light exists solely for the benefit of the cats, as they are usually the only ones around to enjoy it. So, I opened the blinds and noted to myself that while it didn't look very clear out, at least it wasn't snowing.

Then, I left about a half an hour later to meet my godparents for breakfast at the diner just down the street and this is what I found awaiting me:

Yes, that would be snow. Coming down. In buckets. Blah. But, being the game little rooster that I am, I simply flipped my coat hood up, tied the stringy-things together in a bow under my chin and forged ahead.

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When I got home and looked out on the balcony, my brother's snow-covered flipflops seemed to say it all... WTF?