So, the excitement is building. Today GRC and Sully and Vijay are coming to visit. They will probably roll into Montreal at about midnight. They are coming and I am thrilled.

Note on GRC: I’ve been thinking about it and now that I no longer live with GRC, I can no longer call her GRC. It was short for “Greatest Roommate in Creation” but now I shall call her Max, short for “Maximizer.” That’s her nick-name.

Before Max, Vijay and Sully get here I have to clean ma petite apartemant. It’s not so messy, but I have to sweep the floor. And, I have an embarrassing amount of empty ice cream containers and wine bottles for a single person. It’s only me living there, but you’d think I was feeding three kids and two alcoholics. Really the empty wine bottles are from since I moved here and I almost always share the wine with my neighbours. I wish I could say the same about the ice cream.

In truth I am teetering dangerously close to a Bridget Jones existence, and although she clearly had a good time and got to make out with both Hugh Grant and Colin Firth in one year, I fear I will not have the same luck.

So, I made the executive decision to cut down on the ice cream and join the gym near my office. Right now the only exercise I am getting is the walk to or from work and most of this week I took the metro. With the aforementioned increase in my ice cream intake, my fitness may become an emergency. Decision made, and there is a super cheap gym right near my office. Although the gym is for women only and I like boys with my barbells. It’s only 70 bucks for six months so I’ll just try it out and see if I like it.

I made this decision and than made the mistake of watching Entertainment Tonight’s hard hitting investigative reporting on Carnie Wilson’s baby weight gain and fight to loose it, I was inspired. She’s so motivated. I later felt the deep deep same plus size model Toccara Jones must have felt when she was chastised for not loosing enough weight. I mean she is amazing looking and she earns a lot of money based on her fantastic full figure and she out and out said that she is happy with the way she looks and feels good when she looks in the mirror. But with the help of former 227 star, Jackee I think she realized that she should be ashamed of herself. Now that she has been reduced to tears on VH1 she’s finally on the right track.

How is anyone supposed to feel good about themselves when that is on the TV?
- posted by Debbie @ 11:03 AM |

 
So, this morning I was sleeping soundly, sleeping very comfortably in my bed. I don’t set an alarm, my brain just knows when to get up in time to get ready for work. As a result, I always get up fairly peacefully. It is normally accompanied by a large yawn and a stretch and then I turn to look at the clock that almost always says 7:22 am. Then I smile and flop back down to catch the extra 8 minutes that feel so sweet. You bed always feels the best just before you have to leave it.

This morning before the yawning, before the stretching and certainly before 7:22 am I woke up with a huge crash bang boom! It was 6:45 am and this was the time city workers chose to clean up a small construction project going on across from my place. I think they seriously tried to make it as loud as possible. The noise would rise in irregular intervals and when I thought it was over it would pick up again with the sound of metal dragging on concrete or the klang of a hammer on some sort of steel pole.

Guess when the noise stopped. That’s right, at precisely 7:30 am the truck drove away. I think I was personal.

I don’t know why I am surprised; my life seems to be teeming with construction. The building I work in is being remodeled. Everywhere I go I hear the building and ripping apart of streets or structures. I guess Montreal is doing well. But, why so loud?
- posted by Debbie @ 10:54 AM |

 
So, I am wearing what is perhaps the best bra in my collection. Strange thing about this bra, I don’t often wear it. I think it is because it’s purple. I also think it is one of the nipple offenders – in that you can see my nipples if the shirt is sheer or white. But, I can’t deny it the fit is divine. I look down and I am enraptured with my own breasts. The bra is almost perfect.

It may well be getting tighter by the minute as I am currently having what I call, “The bottomless Pit Day” or BPD for short. The BPD is that special day in my cycle where I eat and eat and eat and never get full. Today I had my proper breakfast of granola, fruit and yogurt, then I had a scone about an hour later, then I had noodles for lunch – a decent portion at that – and then I had a muffin and it is only 3 right now and I am so hungry I could start gnawing on the intern to my right.

Why was this day made and how do you not succumb to it? It’s not even convenient. Like, it never falls on Thanksgiving or Christmas or Easter or any other sacred or secular occasion where my family decides to make enough food to feed all and sundry. NO no, I need to eat my face off on some random Wednesday for no good reason, rely on cheap take-out Chinese, pre-packaged muffins, and day-old pastries. I have no gobs of home cooking to tuck into. There is no sugar daddy waiting to take me to some fine dining restaurant (is there ever?).

I think it is making me loose my mind because I just saw a painting of a fat baby and the first thought that came to mind was that satire by Jonathan Swift, a Modest Proposal. He came up with a plan to end starvation in Ireland. I wonder if my BPD would be too trivial a problem for him.

The BPD day will soon be over and I will be back to normal. Until then, I have plans to go to a BBQ after dinner.
- posted by Debbie @ 3:38 PM |

 
So, today I decided to wear a white linen skirt that has spent the last few years at the back of my closet. It is very pretty, but how many chances do you get to wear a while linen skirt?

Now it is raining very hard. The sky is alive with water and it's time to go home.

I have to walk outside to the metro.

My skirt will be totally transparent. Great.
- posted by Debbie @ 4:56 PM |

 
So, last night I spent a good portion of my evening at a church bingo hall. It was only a matter of time before I made it there as the church is at the end of my street. The same church who’s bells wake me up every Sunday morning and ring for about 15 minutes. They are manual, once they get started they have to run their own course.

Everything you have heard about bingo parlors is true. The smoking, the good luck charms, the ritual that provokes a win, the tables of women playing 36 bingo cards at a time. They are all there in spades ready to play. I was amazed. I was also high, but once I got in there I was in a zone. Armed with my bright orange dabber I was ready to win – right after I ate two oatmeal cookies, a coffee crisp, a bag of cheasies and washed it down with an orange pop.

From a purely anthropological perspective the hall was fascinating. This is view of the Quebec populace that you don’t often see. Also, bingo players, province wide are bound together during the Lotto Quebec game. It’s one huge close circuit televised game from Gaspe to Gatineau. From an artist’s perspective it could either be beautiful or tragic, whatever sells the most pictures. The room was actually perfect for picture taking. Reminiscent of the camera technique used for Cybil Sheppard in Moonlighting, cigarette smoke softened the room’s bright turquoise walls.

Bingo and cigarettes are made for each other. I really think that in the two hours I spent at bingo, I may have done irreparable damage to my lungs. In fact, today I feel like I ate a well-used ashtray. It was disgusting. The symphony of coughing in the room could have been written by Tchaikovsky. Every few minutes the room would erupt in coughing like a crescendo.

Second hand smoke being a work place hazard, the bingo caller barely had the voice to call the game at all. I expected and old man in suspenders and a tan coloured hat calling the numbers in a fairly animated fashion at the front of the room. Instead, the woman calling was actually invisible and perhaps in a coma. She only sounded alive when she hacked her lungs out into the microphone between N34 and B14.

Ok, the smoke and good luck charms I expected. What I didn’t expect was the how surly the crowd was. As the games progressed the crowd became more tense and agitated. Players hunched closer to their cards, each new number was greeted with small gasps or low grumbles. When someone called out bingo – no jumping no flailing arms – there was neither applause nor a congratulatory cheer. The room mumbled, a displeased mumble. They were NOT happy for the winner. When too many balls were pulled before someone won the diamond shaped bingo, the irritation was visible. There is no sportsmanship in bingo.

I didn’t win anything at bingo. I’m kinda upset about it. It was my one and only chance to win big. I mean I simply can’t go back. My lungs can’t sustain it.
- posted by Debbie @ 1:59 PM |