Frankie Laine died this morning, at the age of 93. My dad absolutely loved Frankie’s music – in fact, he was probably his hero. They actually got to know each other and become friends, which is pretty cool. Here’s hoping they’re hanging out somewhere, raising a toast to eternal good times.
RIP, Frankie.
Undoubtedly there is some concern that I am the astronaut in question, but I assure you that I have not been arrested for any sort of murder, attempted or otherwise. I’d also never be involved in anything so tacky and common as a love triangle – no, I’d go all out for a love rhombus or even a love oval. Nope, no incarceration for me although the day is still very early. Who knows what my afternoon and evening will bring? There is hope yet that I’ll end up in a jail cell before the end of the day.
The Mazdabator is in the shop yet again, this time on ICBC’s dime. We’re hoping our landlord will make the idiots upstairs pay the $300 deductible – we’re not really in a position to afford it, since we just paid $900 to repair the damage that happened in Whistler. The fight was caused by the friends of the idiots upstairs, and they apparently live in a dream world where they aren’t responsible for the actions of their guests even though the resulting episode caused damage to the building, property and a vehicle belonging to a fellow tenant. This dream world must be pretty awesome. I’d love to be able to decide that I’m in no way responsible for the drunken naked rampages that stem from activities within my home.
I’m actually pretty disillusioned about the entire thing. Ed is on the jolly side of pissed off – he’s getting all the damage repaired and some stuff done that he’s wanted for ages, whereas I will be holding off on things I want/to do so we can spend more money fixing up the car. The landlord did mention to Shan he was going to TRY to make the idiots upstairs pay the deductible, but he didn’t say anything to us or to Ed when they spoke yesterday. Previous attempts to get the idiots upstairs to do anything – warn people in advance when they’re planning on holding a party, refrain from allowing your guests to smoke in the hallways, apologize for any of the problems caused by their friends, stop having building-wide parties on weeknights at 2am, realize you are not living in a dorm room – have been met with utter non-compliance and contempt. I hate the idiots upstairs. I wish I could wish terrible things upon them.
The one bright spot in this entire mess is the rental car we got. Instead of the smelly loaner car from Ed’s mechanic, we got a rental car that is shiny and new and decidedly odour-free. It’s a little Toyota Yaris, and it’s very fun to drive. I’d been thinking about cars lately (because Ed won’t shut up about them), and the Yaris was on my list of cars I would consider if we had need to be a two-car family again. I get to try it out without having to go to a dealership which is a bonus, and it’s fun to have a small car again. It’s similar to my old Metro, but much fancier what with the power steering and brakes and all. Still, we don’t need two cars, so I will just enjoy the non-smell and continue the countdown until I can ride Sally again.
I have put the wheels in motion to get myself a MacBook. I have a name for it and everything.
Why is it snowing?
Why have all my clients been suddenly struck with terminal cases of stupid?
I am outrageously grumpy. I will make myself feel better by giving away some of my stuff, and perhaps eating some chocolate.
I wish I wasn’t so bad at making flesh friends.
That sounds worse than it should. Basically, I have a lot of people that I’m friends with on the internet and I’m grateful for them all because they’re awesome – but they’re also far away and I’ve never actually met them. I have very few good friends I can poke in the flesh on a regular basis – in fact, I just went from one to TWO – and sometimes that makes me sad.
Maybe I should go make close personal friends with the people participating in the drum circle next door. I bet they’re totally the kind of people I’d want to tell all my secrets to.
I am not the most patient of girls, and every second I go without informative email makes me vibrate with angst – what if they’ve changed their mind? What if my request for incidental coverage pushed them over the edge? What if the Soul Sucker found out about my imminent return and put a stop to my unmarketable fat girl groove? Oh, stress. I like it much better when I’m not completely freaking out.
I tend to not mention my travels until I have all the details in my grubby little hands, but I need to do SOMETHING while I’m waiting for info so I will just spill the beans: I am going to Las Vegas next month to attend the 2007 Consumer Electronics Show.
I’m excited enough about going to the CES, but for me the real thrill is that Creative asked me to come back for a second year to provide commentary for the Fatal1ty shootouts that run throughout the event at the Creative Labs booth. This is the first time I’ve been asked back to do coverage, and I almost broke my neck with delight when I received the email asking me to work with them again (I went flying downstairs to tell Ed, who was at Josh’s place, and my pants were too long and I almost tripped on them causing death). I really did have a blast working with Creative last year, and I’m annoyingly beyond giddy at a) the chance to work with them again, and b) being asked *back*. They liked me! They really liked me!
As usual though, I’m also spending a lot of my time freaking out. I still don’t have hotel information, and have convinced myself that I’m going to have to sleep under the booth and shower in the Bellagio fountains. I asked for incidental funds this year because last year it wasn’t negotiated and I had a hard time coming up with the money to cover taxi and transit fares, let alone the occasional meal I ate. Logic tells me they will pay me for my work, since they did last year – but until get confirmation, I will assume otherwise and worry about it since I have to take a week off from work to do this gig and I don’t have paid vacation time.
That would be enough stress for anyone, but I’ve only just begun to delve into my large sack of mental issues:
I get serious performance anxiety when I have to cast, and terrible stage fright until I’m in the zone. I’ve thrown up with nervousness before, and I know I’ll be spending time between now and January 8th with my stomach in knots for fear that I will suck and make a total ass of myself.
THEN! Because that is just NOT ENOUGH ANGST FOR ME! There’s MORE:
You can’t market Mama Cass! CES 2006 was the event where my high from doing a great job and all the wonderful praise it brought me came to a crashing and crushing low, courtesy of someone who does not work for Creative Labs. I will undoubtedly be interacting with this person again, and the very thought of it fills me with every emotion an actor can display: fear, loathing, anger, scorn, various negative thoughts about myself, the urge to wear nothing but brown leaves. I will smile pretty and make nice because that is the professional thing to do, but it will also be a struggle to keep from a) punching him (not likely) and b) hating myself (very likely) because I know what they think of me. So many conflicting scary emotions, capped off with a whipped topping of delight – and all because one person chooses to judge me based on my cover and not the contents within.
I win, though – Creative asked me *back*. :D
Sour beef makes me sad.
It’s hard enough to find something to eat in Yuppie Town that doesn’t come with caviar and a Lexus or cost more than my annual salary without having to worry that the food you DO order is going to come out all wrong and nasty. I ordered a sausage roll (it was that or the fois gras truffle platter), but she gave me a veggie roll instead. I want my sausage. This is the second time I’ve been foiled in my quest for sausage, and I am just as unamused now as I was then – less, in fact. What a rotten Friday.
Alla and I are planning a mass mutiny at the Space Station. It’s the Friday before Christmas, and no one seems to be in any kind of festive mood at all – everyone here is quietly and diligently working away instead of falling down with liquid happy. Our plan was to have an office party today that would be large with the merry, but our brilliant ideas were shot down in Scrooge-flavoured flames. The rest of the city is getting off early today to start their holiday season, but we’re still sitting here in our cold, silent, undecorated office. It’s depressing. We’re plotting to storm out and leave early, space be damned – we want to have some fun, even if we have to go find it ourselves.
We’re also a little pouty because no one thought to remember us in the spirit of giving to your minions this holiday season. It’s not like we were expecting diamond tiaras or shiny gold lamé space suits or anything, but any gesture at all would have been nice – a card, a candy cane, a festive kick in the ass with a lead boot. It’s so un-merry around here I could cry, and Alla and I are both feeling a little unappreciated. We want some love, damnit. People would be surprised at the benefits reaped by just a little foresight and calculated thanks – even the smallest act of appreciation makes for happy employees. It’s not that we’re UNhappy, but .. y’know. Everyone likes to feel valued and remembered.
Oh well. I have a bottle of holiday spirit at home in my fridge; I’ll just leave work early and go appreciate myself until I’m exhausted and out of lube.
My robot feet are not doing their job of “keep things from getting worse”. They worked wonders for a while, but lately it’s been pretty damn hellish to be any part of me below the ankles. At this rate, I’m going to be in a wheelchair by the time I’m 50 – I’ll be one of those scary, droopy fat old ladies you see wheeling around in a motorized cart with a smiley face flag on the back and a carpet bag tucked between my feet (which will be spilling out of my K-Mart sneakers like so much fleshy sausage purchased from Discount Bob’s Meat Wagon Mart).
This fucking sucks. I have to literally plan my life around how much walking will be involved – tonight, for example. The wind storm has shut down much of the city, and I opted to forgo the car in favour of transit. After work I’m meeting up with Ed and Josh to explore downtown and do some Christmas shopping. I am looking forward to it (I never get to wander downtown), but at the same time I am filled with dread – my feet already hurt, just from walking around the office. I know I’m going to be limping within an hour, and tonight I won’t be able to sleep because the pain will be intense.
I hate this. I hate my feet. I hate the fact I can’t be fixed, and I hate the fact that the inevitable surgery will a) cost me $2500 per foot, and b) won’t fix things completely if at all. I am angry and sore and I feel like a fat load of crap that can’t even walk two blocks without needing to stop because the bones in my feet are on the verge of breaking back down into the primordial ooze from whence they came.
Fuck.
Disclaimer: You may have heard this story before. If so, I apologize – after almost six years of daily updates, I sometimes forget what I’ve written and therefore repeat myself. I don’t think I’ve told this story in its entirety though, so I will now tell you my shameful secret!
Ready? Here we go:
For all my verbal skills and penchant for using seven slyly descriptive words where a smaller one would definitely suffice, I’ve been hiding a fairly large secret from all but my closest friends. My own family doesn’t even know; so deep is my cavern of secrecy. However, in the spirit of the season I now invite you to explore my depths. Won’t you please come a-spelunkin’ in my caves?
Ed took this (completely unedited except for cropping) picture with his cell phone:
I am scared of my devil cat.
delicious juice dot com 