So, I came in about an hour late for work today. I have to say it was pretty sweet. Standing outside the building was this deadly attractive guy who I ended up talking to. More like I couldn’t stop my lips from moving nor could I stop squeezing out sound so I stumbled over several sentences when really all that was required was “The guy from the restaurant wont be here until 11.” Never mind that he already knew this fact, and was happily reading dime store trash while basking in sunlight on our Adelaide St. curb. The cute boy is actually a new waiter, this is just some of the unnecessary information I gleaned while making an ass of myself. Picture me trying to negotiate my purse, coffee cup and tongue while bent over looking for the right key then attempting to un-luck the door. I’m like a gazelle.
This guy was surprisingly attractive. Well, it is a surprise that he was attractive to me. Generally I am not into his look. He is white haired blonde – I am talking almost Village of the Damned blond. But I guess there was something about him standing in the sunlight and his total indifference to my blather. By the end of my moronic monologue he looked at me in the only appropriate manner – like I WAS a moron, and I practically ran down the stairs into my office.
It’s a good think embarrassing situations don’t bother me. I bounce back easily as long as the embarrassment doesn’t involve bodily fluids.
Anyway, the weekend is here – prepare!
So, I am thinking about taking a trip next February. I’m thinking the last week of February and the first two weeks of March. I will most likely travel alone. So, that means that I will go with G.A.P. or Trek or something. It’s my desire to go to Turkey and Syria. I hear the call of Istanbul and Damascus. After some preliminary research I see that there are not a lot of trips to these areas in February and March. Plus, heat is a must and the strange Belgian intern says that it is only about 10 degrees in Turkey in February. This leaves South East Asia. Sounds great, but it would cost a lot of haul my tail out there. Also, I could spend some time in Central America but my urge to smash the Spanish speaking patchouli soaked Canadian hippies from Vancouver who sip mate while wearing native Central American woven sweaters and bushy beards is just too risky. What’s a girl to do? People give me some suggestions.
Also, if you are a single handsome man reading this and you will have some time to spare next February and March you should come with me. Think of the fun we could have.
So, it has become clear to me that I can’t function without all my bras with me at all times. Well, not at all times, but I think I need to have all my bras with me wherever I am staying. I went to Montreal this weekend and when I opened my little suitcase at my friend’s place I realized that I brought with me all the bars in my current bra rotation. All of them. Several of them were totally un-wearable with the shirts I had brought with me. Still, in the suitcase they went and I didn’t even think about it. As I sat on my friend’s bed clutching no less than nine bras, half of which were of the pink frilly lace or transparent variety, it was clear: I have a problem.
I also realized that if I were to compare my body to our country, my hair would be Quebec. There are a few reasons why I feel this way. One is the fact that my only wash my hair once a week or so. However, the main reason is that my hair, like Quebec, while a part of a whole being lives by it’s own rules, always looks like a party, and gets pissed off easily. I have a massive head of hair that often makes it’s own decisions. Since my body includes my hair, I have to make it happy by spending ridiculous amounts of money, time and energy on it’s maintenance. For years I would go to the hair dresser and spend loads of money straightening it only to head back to the salon for several “touch-ups,” so that my hair would look a certain way. It demanded constant attention, but was never happy. Finally, I abandoned the straight perm and while my hair is happier it is still a diva. And a diva is ALWAYS high-maintenance.
So, I’m back from
Anyway, I really feel that
While walking along