Troy

Sigh, I had the best dream last night.

I dreamed that I had a dog named Troy.  He was a pug, and we were wandering around the Dorval airport in Montreal when Troy pooped on the floor, in front of the Cinnabon kiosk.

His poop was striped brown and white, and when I asked the Cinnabon owner if he had any bags, he claimed that he did not.  But I saw all the bags he kept for customers, and asked for one of those, and he was all like, “Sure, and here’s a styrofoam container and some utensils with which to scoop.”  So I scooped up the striped poop and went down to Rue. St. Laurent, looking for the metro, wondering if I had enough money to pay for a motel/hotel/hostel room.

Long story short: I want to go back to Montreal, and I want a small dog named Troy to accompany me on the journey.

Comfort for the Eyes, and Sometimes Ears

I’ve been having a hard time writing lately.

No thoughts in my head, no words at my fingertips, no communication to offer.  Also, I have a hangover, which makes thinking and the subsequent sharing of thoughts all the more difficult.

So I’m just going to share some things that I like to watch and hear right now:

Better Sleep with One Eye Open, Smokey

A few weeks ago,  I bought a huge recipe book called The Complete Harrowsmith Cookbook.  I guess it’s a compilation of three different cookbooks that Harrowsmith had published over the years, and it seemed like a great addition to my kitchen.

It’s a fairly daunting task to browse through the entire book, mostly because many of the recipes are repeated throughout the book in different chapters.  For example, there are three different recipes for French salad dressing, found on three different pages.  Recipes for corn muffins can be found in both the grains chapter, and the breakfast chapter.

Had I known at the time that Harrowsmith is a country lifestyle magazine, I probably would have been less surprised to find recipes for stewed beaver, moose chili and roast wild boar.

So if any of you have been trying to figure out what to do with those five pounds of bear meat you have in your freezer, may I suggest Corned Bear:

4 quarts hot water

2 cups coarse salt

1/4 cup sugar

2 Tbsp. mixed whole spice

5 lb. piece of bear meat

3 cloves garlic, peeled

Combine hot water, salt, sugar and whole spice.  When cool, pour over bear meat and garlic.  Place in enamelled pot, stoneware or glass jar.  Weigh down the meat to keep it submerged.  Let marinate for three weeks in a cool place, turning it every few days.  To cook, rinse meat under cold water, cover with boiling water and simmer for four hours, or until meat is tender.  Serve with boiled potatoes and hot mustard or horseradish.

Looking Like an Albino Raisin

I have a hell of a hangover today.

One of those hangovers where you think you might barf, but you don’t, and because you don’t barf the nausea sticks around all day.

Like a jerk.

I’ve eaten large amounts of ground beef, both in pizza and stuffed pepper form, I’ve watched many hours of television, and I’ve even been subjected to personal insults from said television.  For reals, it told me that single women in their thirties are shrivelled up losers who subscribe to Cat Fancy magazine.

Sigh.  I wish I had a magazine subscription.  The rest of it sounds about right, though.  At least for today, anyway, I feel like the walking dead.

I probably just need more ground beef.

Revving my Engine

Tomorrow night will be the two month anniversary of my ridiculous, frustrating, sometimes educational, self inflicted vow of celibacy.

Or maybe the anniversary is Sunday.  Yes, Sunday.  The last sex I had was in the morning on March 24th.  It was a Tuesday, approximately 9:30am.  The position was a variation of the (NSFW) Intersextion.  The bedsheets were chocolate brown.  My underwear was blue, lacy and not within reach.  It was sunny and really cold outside.  When it was over, I went home, brushed the tangles out of my hair and did my laundry (that’s a Tuesday thing), pleasantly oblivious to my sexless future.

Alright, so Sunday morning will be the two month anniversary of my vow of celibacy.  My vow of temporary celibacy.  I am so getting my bone on ASAP (by “ASAP” I mean “As soon as I meet someone reasonably charming, single and attractive, build up a rapport, go out on a couple dates, and get really drunk so as to squelch any lingering trauma that may have been left over from the many crash-and-burns of my past.”  In other words, I’ll be getting laid again in 2012).

Whatever, I learned what I needed to learn, I sorted out all the crap that was bouncing around inside my head, and I stopped hating all of the men who ever did me wrong.  Or right.  Or nothing.  What I’m trying to convey is that I’m all better.

Proof: I ran into a guy I dated very briefly the other night, one who had angered me to no end, and I actually said hi, and I even let him hug me (at arm’s length, with my face turned completely around, holding my breath the entire time so as not to inhale any of his essence.  And after he walked away, I thought to myself, “That is by far the most unattractive man I have ever dated.  Serbian Sailor, you’ve been officially replaced.”).

That’s some major evolving on my part, if I do say so myself.

She Doesn’t Kill Bugs

Normally I’m not a fan of blog posts about pets.  No one gives a shit about your stupid pet except for you, so it’s usually a wise move for a writer to avoid regaling the world with anecdotes about Mr. Meowersons vs. That Creepy Bug that Looks Sort of Like a Beetle But Isn’t.

However, this post isn’t so much about my cat’s foibles as it is about her imminent mortality.  She’s going to be 11 this summer, and lately I’ve been noticing her age.  She moves more slowly, sleeps more often and generally just acts like a rickety old pet.  Fuck, I don’t want her to die, but I know she’s going to, and I don’t want to deal with the mess when it does happen, but I know I’ll have to.

It’s funny, when your life continues to do the same thing over long a period of time, sometimes you forget that it’s all impermanent.  Nothing stays the same, and nothing lasts as long as you expect it to.

Sewing up my Fate

For those who know me, it will come as no surprise to hear that I’ve decided to change direction in my studies once again.

Yep, I am, and always will be, a flake.  I’m so damnably, impoverishingly cute.

When I found out that the certificate courses I had been taking would not give me an actual degree in anything, and when I subsequently found out what sort of income I’d be making even with an actual college degree in something mundane and semi-quickly attainable (when compared to what I make waiting tables), I decided to take the road less practical: Fucking Fashion Design.  It’s all I ever wanted to do anyway, and if I’m not going to make a feasible income off of my education, I might as well learn some technical skills that can improve my art.

Yes, I still want to go to school.  I have been bitten by the education bug, and I want to LEARN, dammit, even if it’s just about pants.  I don’t care about getting a degree in fashion design (that’s as practical as getting a degree in cross country skiing, or trumpet playing), I just want to get better at what I’ve been doing for the past six years.

Some people think it’s noble to shun financial stability in favour of artistic endeavours.  Mind you, those people are usually wiping their asses with hundred dollar bills and have never experienced a welfare office waiting room, so there you go.  It’s all about the grass being greener.

Whatever the case, I’m doing what I actually want to do, regardless of practicality.  That shit’s overrated anyway.

Quitting Smoking Log: One Month

It’s been an entire month since I last smoked.

I feel fucking great, and I look like a total fox.  Contrary to what I’d previously suspected, I haven’t gained any weight at all.  In fact, all of the exercise I’ve incorporated into my life has transformed some of that weight into muscle, and has rewarded me with a killer pair of getaway sticks.

My complexion and hair are more vibrant, and my features have softened, making me look like some kind of vixen under a soft focus lens.

My confidence has improved, which I didn’t think was possible (or necessary), but there it is, better than ever.

The only time I ever crave a cigarette is when I’m either bored or writing, which means that the cravings are really easy to bypass.  If I’m bored, I just do something, and if I’m writing, I use either bubblegum or scotch to grease my wheels.  Sometimes both.  Judge me all you want, my conscience, much like my lungs, is as pristine as a nun’s twat.  A sexy nun, who’s still coughing up some leftover smoker’s phlegm.  Out of her twat.

I ran out of bubblegum.

Just so You Know

I post different versions of this song on facebook all the damn time:

Blood

My nose is bleeding.

This happened a lot when I was a kid.  Whenever the seasons were transitional, Spring and Autumn, I would get nosebleeds.  Something about the dryness of the air vs. my sneezy disposition.

This never bothered me beyond minor annoyance (it always happened in the middle of the night!  On a school night!!) until I saw an episode of Six Feet Under where they claimed that people bled to death from their noses more often than one would expect.  And as much as I’d like to admit that I don’t take HBO shows as seriously as that, I totally take HBO shows as seriously as that.  Anyway, it sounds like a real fact, doesn’t it?

My nose is now no longer bleeding.