Like an Enigma, I Am

I have this confession to make about myself.

It’s something that even my closest friends didn’t know until recently, when I was forced to tell them, one by one.  Really, I was the one who forced myself, it’s a great confession, it made almost all of my friends react with a jaw-drop and a “What!?!  Mavis!!  WTF?”  It was that great.

I’ve always been an avid non-jaywalker.  I hate pointless jaywalking.  What’s the point in crossing the street halfway between intersections when you’re heading toward the next set of lights anyway?  Just cross at the lights!  Wait for the green!!  You don’t have to think about it, just wait and go.

Jaywalking, when not necessary, just seems so juvenile.  What point are you making?  That you’re invincible?  That cars have to brake when you get in the way?  Congratulations, you’re stupid.

So anyway, all my close friends know that I hate jaywalking, likely because I always bitch about it when they try to get me to do it with them.  I complain, they mock me, my voice goes shrill with indignation, we cross at the lights.

I was in the Annex recently (actually, it was ages ago, like last summer, or maybe even earlier than that, sometimes I’m that good at keeping secrets), stuck between Brunswick and Bathurst, and jaywalking like it was nobody’s business.  Back and forth, over and over again, I have no idea why I couldn’t organize my errand running more efficiently, but whatever, that’s not the point.

Point is, I realized during one of my many crossings that day, that I actually jaywalk all the fucking time.

I guess I just don’t like doing it around people. I think it’s a trust issue.  I have a lot of issues, trust issues, commitment issues, attention-needing issues, moustache issues, procrastination issues (I was in the middle of doing something productive before I came over here to write this stupid post), bike riding issues, sexiness issues.  Lots of issues.

Don’t make that thought, I know you have issues, too.  It’s called “being an adult who isn’t mentally retarded”.  Get into it.

A Razorblade Apple That Shreds My Very Soul

Halloween is my favourite party night of the year.

The costumes, the hedonistic camaraderie uninhibited by Puritan Christian values, the grabbing of Porno Jesus’ strap-on, or the Virgin Mary’s fake tits for that matter, that’s my little slice of heaven.

Which is why it pains me to admit that I will NOT be taking part in the festivities tomorrow night.

It really, really pains me to admit it, which is why I didn’t admit it even to myself until today.

You see, I’m really broke, I have about twenty bucks to my name, not including my toonie and loonie collection, which might bring me up to ninety bucks.  Or my separate collection of dimes, nickels and pennies, which would bring the grand total up to $114-ish (I have a lot of small change kicking around, I’m saving it up for a Coinstar shopping spree).  And while I realize that I could certainly make a night out of $114, I still choose to stay at home.  I don’t want to be that girl, the one who pays for her twelve dollar taxi ride in nickel rolls.

Also, I have to work early Saturday morning.  Too early to go out in full heathen style the night before, at any rate.

This sucks donkey balls. I hate you, Friday night Halloween!  I hate you too, early-in-the-month overspending on sweaters and such!!  And you, Sunday night drinking fest, where I spent all my money on Irish Whiskey and pepperoni sticks.

So while you all get to go out and drink from the teat of Babalon, remember me, the one who first acquainted you with her divine nipple tricklings, and feel sorry for my spinster soiree for one.

And do me a favour: cook your own fucking brunch at home when you wake up on Saturday, because I don’t want to look at your stupid hungover-from-the-best-night-EVER faces.

Yep, it’s a bad bad week in Mavisland.

Sunburned in Hades

I went to Circa last week.

Ugh.

And while I’m of the opinion that merely visiting the place should have been punishment enough, apparently I was wrong.  Some jerk stole my coat while I was there.

This particular coat was magical, too.  Not only did it have a pair of lovely pink gloves tucked inside one of the pockets, but it also had the power to make me look fantastic.   More fantastic than I look in any other coat in the WORLD!!!

Picture, if you will, Nosferatu in a wig.  With some dental work.  That’s what I looked like in this coat, and I can’t stress how badly I want a time machine to take me back to a week ago, so that I could have worn my stupid H&M jacket instead.  The cockslobbering shitface who stole my coat would be much more at home in a mundane shopping mall creation such as that.

So I’ve spent the week not really thinking too deeply about the coat, but I do, on occasion, recall that night with much angst and regret.

I am, as it turns out, experiencing a grieving process about the loss of my favourite coat.  I recognize this grieving process from having dealt with the death of two childhood pets and a favourite great-grandmother.  Mind you, I haven’t yet cried about the coat, and don’t really expect to, but my great-grandmother lived to be almost ninety, and this coat was mine for only a couple of years.

Of course, if I had the choice, I’d trade in that coat to have my great grandmother’s final year not take place in a nursing home, where she was thoroughly and vocally miserable.  But I can’t do that, because some cockslobbering shitface stole my beautiful magical coat.

At least I took the fancy jewels out of the pockets first.

Childhood Hairrors

As a child, I refused to associate with the moustache and beard crew.

I was afraid of men with facial hair.

Unfortunate, because my own estranged father had a moustache, so whenever I was forced to visit with him (and yes, it was forced, I don’t know why I was so afraid of him, he was always nice to me, but I couldn’t stand to be around him.  This might be proof that kids are assholes), I would always stage some sort of elaborate temper tantrum brought on by sheer terror.

I have no idea what it was about facial hair that got me so riled up.  I like it nowadays.

Two Great Tastes That Taste Great Together?

Hangovers suck.

The headache, the fatigue, the panic attacks, the general feelings of discomfort, all of these symptoms have been discouraging me from drinking excessively as of late.  But I drank last night and am now hungover.

And you would not believe the case of Hangover Horny from which I’m currently suffering.  But let’s not get into that, I am a lady don’t you know?  And even if I wasn’t a lady, I certainly shouldn’t be mentioning that my previous attempt to, ahem, take care of business only served to whet my already impressive appetite.  Apparently I’ve been neglecting the, ahem, in box for quite some time, and am now swamped with, ahem, business that needs to be addressed.

I don’t think I’m ready for this, I’m just going to go watch more Desperate Housewives and coo over my newest love, Rex.  Oh yes, my darling Rex, with the dog name, the dimples, the lovely sweaters, the charmingly receding hairline, the mysteriously absent eyebrows and the -SPOILER-inevitable death (I’ve seen parts of this show before, I know where it ends up).

Hmm, maybe I don’t want to watch the death of a dimpled fictional character after all. Why couldn’t they have made a second season of Freaks and Geeks?

Oh, I want a hug.

Just Another Dream

I think that actually having these stupid haunted house dreams traumatizes me more than whatever their core cause may be.

Knowing that they stem from something in my real life that isn’t sitting right with my subconscious, usually a person or situation.  And not knowing who the person is or what the situation could be that is causing these haunted house dreams.

Life was so much easier when I had a concrete nemesis.  Sigh, those were the days.

My friend was with me in this most recent dream adventure.  We went up to my bedroom to get away from the other people who were hanging out in my dream house (some sort of friendly party), and we used the back staircase to get there.  Once we got up to my bedroom, I remembered that it was haunted, and I told my friend that I didn’t want to sleep there.  And I noticed that there was a yellow cushion on my dream bed, which was of some significance in the dream, but means nothing to me now.

And at some other point in the dream, whether it was before or after, I can’t recall, there was some sort of sex going on.  I was fellating a vague acquaintance (not the friend who was with me in my bedroom), and his nipples were swaying back and forth like sea anemone.  I remember wanting to continue with the sex, but not in the storage room, which was where we were at that point.  Some sort of insecurity about my asymmetrical boobs, too.  Which is kinda strange, considering I was messing around with someone who had sea creatures for tits, but whatever.

Raiding the Coop, or Hiding in It?

Really, I’m somewhat disgusted with myself.

I stopped riding my bike.  I think I have some kind of phobia about city riding.  All summer, I forced myself to ride, and although I managed to sculpt some killer gams, I never got over the fear.

I prefer walking, simply because it takes less concentration, and I can listen to music while doing so.

Don’t get me wrong, there were many things I liked about riding a bike; not having to deal with the TTC, or the general public, getting places fast, those killer gams, did I mention those yet?  Here’s a picture of them in their prime:

Photo by Daryl Banks

I’m such a fox, why do I have to be such a chicken?

Identity Crisis

I went to an art gallery the other night.

My friend was interested in a painting, but didn’t want to pay the full price on it.

The gallery owner was dismissive at best, leading me to think that he didn’t believe he actually had a potential sale.  I suggested that my friend contact the artist directly, in case the painting didn’t sell during the show, she might be able to buy it from the artist at a reduced price.

Then the gallery owner called us peasants and told us to leave.

Now without getting into the rumour that this gallery owner wasn’t even the artist’s dealer, and therefore would NOT be losing any money if the sale were to occur off property, I have to express several concerns.

First of all, I’m concerned with his use of Old French insults.

Times have changed since the Renaissance.  We’re taller, cleaner and have longer life expectancies in most parts of the world.

And we’ve come up with more accurate insults, too.

A peasant, defined by the Merriam Webster dictionary:

“1: a member of a European class of persons tilling the soil as small landowners or as laborers ; also : a member of a similar class elsewhere 2: a usually uneducated person of low social status”

None of this applies to me.  I don’t till the soil, and by Old French standards, I’m quite educated.  I am a labourer, and of low social status, but there are terms that better define my lowly position in society.

Such as Proletariat, also defined by Merriam Webster (and all following descriptions will also be from Merriam Webster, just so you know!):

“1: the laboring class ; especially : the class of industrial workers who lack their own means of production and hence sell their labor to live 2: the lowest social or economic class of a community”

The working class.  Someone who needs to work to survive.  It’s usually crappy work, like waiting tables, for crappy wages, like waiting tables.  At least it’s not retail; similar work, one third of the income.

So where does this guy get off calling me a peasant?  I’m not a peasant, and even if I were, he certainly isn’t a member of the aristocracy:

“1: government by the best individuals or by a small privileged class 2 a: a government in which power is vested in a minority consisting of those believed to be best qualified b: a state with such a government 3: a governing body or upper class usually made up of a hereditary nobility 4: the aggregate of those believed to be superior”

No sir.  At best, he could be Bourgeois:

“1 : of, relating to, or characteristic of the townsman or of the social middle class 2 : marked by a concern for material interests and respectability and a tendency toward mediocrity 3 : dominated by commercial and industrial interests”

But I think the best description for a man of his stature would actually be Petit Bourgeoisie:

“: the lower middle class including especially small shopkeepers and artisans”

Which, as an artisan, also applies to me, so now I’m really confused.