For the past week, I've been visiting my family in beautiful Alberta - the land of pickup trucks and blue federal election signs. My parents live in Edmonton, so we've been here for the most part, with exception of a little trip to Calgary and one to Jasper. Today is the last full day before we board a plane back to stinky Toronto. And so, since time is tight, I'll update a bit later on my return.
30 Dec 2005
22 Dec 2005
My experiences with tights and pantyhose have never been great. Some of my earlier memories are of my mom trying to get my cable-knits up my chubby child legs as I squirmed with every awful pinch of her nails. Even then, I chose fashion over comfort. Or I guess my mom chose it for me as I probably would have wanted to go to school in my bathing suit and Wonder Woman bracelets, but you get the idea.
Today, the problem with hosiery is still all about getting them - and keeping them - up. I buy the correct size of pantyhose every time (at least according to the charts on the back of the package), and yet, without fail, it seems as though they were made for someone a foot shorter than me. It's an unsexy battle to get the hosiery's crotch up to its parking spot and one that I have to fight each time I go to the washroom.
What's worse though, is when the shimmy or the roll-down happens. You'll be sitting or standing there, and suddenly the waist part will just give up and start rolling down to your hips like Frank's Slide. It's a bad, bad feeling - especially when you're in public as I was this evening at our staff's holiday dinner party.
What makes the Roll-Down particularly special is when you're sitting and your skirt's waist line is still where it should be and your panty-hose roll has rested just above your lap - creating a magnificently accented gut. Very nice.
And then, when you stand-up - you can only pray that the hose roll stays where it is (precariously at your hips) and doesn't decide to just keep on' truckin' southbound. If this happens, your range of motion gets stunted and you have to get yourself over to a bathroom pronto - all the while looking like one of those hilarious bastards in March Of The Penguins.
I'm sure it doesn't help that I buy the world's cheapest pantyhose ever - never with the control-top or control-thighs or control-the-universe features. Perhaps I should look into that.
20 Dec 2005
... and that would be me and I don't mean in the jolly, generous way. More in the round, bloated way. Just in time to see my family again, I am pushing maximum density. YARRRG.
I'm at the point where I am just so, so uncomfortable with myself. I feel gross and dumpy and just 'not right'. And it is just such a lovely cherry on top of it all to be in this state of blob for a long-awaited family visit. I am a dolt.
My family is great. Wonderful. But we can't help but make little comments when someone has gained or lost weight. And we're not very good at being subtle when we check each other out to determine whether said weight has been lost or gained. Eyes always seem to settle on that new double-chin or the makings of a gut. No one means any harm - it's just the way we are. And this is what I keep thinking about as Friday approaches (my flight home is that night). Oh, Anxiety, you come around at the greatest times.
The new job (can I still call it 'new'?) has caused me to take on different habits that are really loaning themselves to this situation. I have:
* Been working late
* Getting up and going to work earlier than before
* Mindlessly eating my lunches at my desk due to the busyiness
* Enjoying the free Diet Cokes that are provided rather than drinking water
While I have joined a gym and have been going to it faithfully, I'm realizing that my eating has turned to crap. I haven't cooked a real meal from scratch since I don't know when. It's either frozen or pre-made or ordered in or out a box. Despite many of these things being 'calorie wise' they're still all loaded with crap that no doubt keeps my body in a state of storage. On top of that, I'm eating way later than I normally do in the evenings and skipping breakfasts.
All of this has mounted into my being where I am now: paunchy and borderline miserable.
Sigh. I know what I need to do. I just wish I had been doing it sooner.
18 Dec 2005
I have trouble with gifts. I have no shortage of ideas for people, but have massive trouble sticking to spending limits. I don't know if this is because my tastes are expensive or if the dollar just doesn't stretch as far as I hope it would - but I always get more than I initially plan or promise.
It goes a little like this:
1. I buy gifts for my mom and spend $XXX - maybe just a touch more than I planned on, but 'tis the season, ho ho ho, etc, etc.
2. I bring what I bought home, make a little nest of tissue paper from the bags and nestle all the items for mom into one cute pile on the couch.
3. I step back, look at it and frown. "This pile doesn't LOOK like $XXX worth of stuff. In fact, it doesn't look like much at all!" I bellow.
4. I figure I can afford to get a little more - maybe just enough that I can get her something else to unwrap.
5. I spend $YY, bring it back, place that gift on its own tissue paper nest on the couch.
6. I then look over and the nest I made for my dad nearby catches my eye. I frown and worry, "Now mom's gifts are obviously more than dad's gifts - I need to even that up bit. I'll just need to spend $YY on dad, and it should be pretty equal."
7. I go to the store, spend $YY on dad - a bit more than I planned but it's all about Baby Jesus, claymation specials, etc. etc. - so I excuse it.
8. I bring what I bought home and readjust dad's nest to include the new things I've picked up.
9. I step back, look at it and frown. "This pile doesn't LOOK like $XXX + $YY worth of stuff. In fact, it doesn't look like much at all!" I bellow.
Repeat over and over again, cycling the names of my loved ones in that mix. I can see myself still in that horrible loop of spending right up until I'm pacing through the same three stores in the airport and am somehow convincing myself that adding maple syrup candies and a plush moose wearing a Toronto t-shirt would be a welcome top-up to Patrick's stocking.
13 Dec 2005
What the bloody hell?
Despite hectic and long work days, I have managed to drag myself to the gym 3x a week. In addition to this, I've been bringing lunches to work in the form of Lean Cuisines and other calorie-aware frozen chemicals.
And what happens?
I GAIN WEIGHT.
And not just 0.5 lbs here, or there. LIKE 8 LBS. THAT ARE STAYING. LIKE BITCHES THAT CAN'T TAKE A HINT.
I'm so annoyed. It's not like I can try to dismiss it as muscle growth either. I'm mainly just doing cardio at the gym, plus, whenever I do weights it's not impressive. It's more like I'm casually grazing on the weight equipment like a cow, not totally sure of what I should be doing or if I should put a solid effort into whatever it is I'm trying.
I'm going home to visit the parents this Xmas. I love them, but they ALWAYS notice if I've put on pounds. So. Not. What. I. Want. To. Deal. With.
And what annoys me most: It's that I'm consumed by this. How stupid. Of all things to fret about, eight pounds has my attention? I haven't even bothered to care about those poor hostages in whatever middle-eastern country. That's how bad I suck! I don't even know where the silly wankers are, but I do know how many ounces I am!
11 Dec 2005
Ever get so flattered that you don't know how to properly react? Do you shoo it and excuse it away or do you say thank you? And if you say thank you, is it like you truly believe that such flattery is really deserved? I'm so bad at reacting to that kind of thing.
This happened to me recently. So now I'm going to brag about it.
This week, my old co-workers contacted me and invited me to the company's Christmas party. That, alone, is wonderful. It's basically an invite for free booze without ever earning it. Who turns that down?
Unfortunatley, I had already made some new work-related plans so I wasn't able to come for the dinner - but I did swing by around 9:30pm and it was still quite hopping. I walked and was immediately greeted with a Cheers-esque "JEN!" as one would do with the name "Norm" if you owned a bar in Boston. I was handed a shot to down before my coat was even off.
My old co-workers are just the best. Really - such nice, nice, fun people. I was trampled by them when I came in - getting hugs and screams and people saying "we've missed you like crazy!"
And then ... holy cow: I found out that one of the reasons they wanted me there was to present an award. It was newly made Jen MyLastName Spirit Award that they were making into an annual award to be given to the person that was "the most positive influence at the office." How crazy is that?!?!
To top it off, all evening long people would come up to me and tell me how the office hasn't been the same without me and how incredibly
I'm braggy now and surely making your eyes roll - but really, is there a proper reaction to being gushed over like that when all you were was an employee and not some hottie celebrity? I kept wavering between belittling myself and blushing politely.
I think the main reason I post this is so that when I eff up and/or am given some belittling task at the new job I can look to this post and give myself a little pat on the back and think "You had a spirit award named after you and you didn't even have to go the cheerleading camp to do it. Way to go, lady."
9 Dec 2005
The other day at work I had to plug my digital camera into my computer to pull off a couple of pictures for our graphic designer. Once done, I stared at the screen looking for that little "remove hardware" icon.
Me: "Do you see that thingie that I have to click on before I can unplug the camera from the computer?"
Graphic Designer: "Hmmm ... no ... weird. "
Me: "Hmm ..."
We both sat there staring at the computer not sure what to do next.
Me: "Maybe I'll just unplug it. "
Graphic Designer: "WHAT?!?"
Me: "Well, we can't just leave it plugged in forever - and it's not even giving us the dumb thingie. Maybe it's safe."
Graphic Designer: "Your call, man. Your call."
Silently, cautiously, I stood behind my computer and put my hand on the USB cord that connected the computer to my camera. The designer and I looked at each other in a moment of scared tension. His eyes said "don't do it" but my mind was made up. I pulled the plug. We both leaped to the devices - he to the computer, me to the camera - looking for signs of life. Both were fine. Some 1980's hero music suddenly swelled, we hi-fived and went out for a Budweiser.
How ridiculous is it that we we warranted in our fears? Many a person have destroyed their iPod by detaching it from the computer in mid-charge. The heart-stopping "fatal error" message PCs slam in your face after just a few misclicks and mis-yanks of a devise have stressed out and provided ulcers to countless.
I remember the days when I used to turn off my computer with it's on-off switch. No shutting down, powering down, or safe mode garbage. Just flicking the switch - one minute I'd be playing Burger Time, the next minute the computer would be sleeping. And the computer didn't mind! When you'd start it back up, it didn't give you a bitchy notice of having improperly turned it off followed by a hypocondriac-esque checking of all its systems to see if anything was wrong (and making damn sure that you waited and worried with it).
I bet those computers from the 50s were super hardy too. You could probably toss one into a flatbed of a truck, go 4x4'ing and plug it back in and it would still be as happy as a clam. Bigger than a refrigerator and only able to do one Grade 5 math problem an hour, but at least it could take a shit-kicking - or in the least - handle being unplugged.
6 Dec 2005
So, thanks again for the thoughtful words of encouragement. So kind. They really do mean a lot.
My parents seem to have already turned their attentions toward "normal" and are asking about Christmas, getting eager to have yours truly home and to finally meet this boy that I've tricked into liking me. So I'll follow their lead and focus on some happy things on the horizon.
I'm ready to have less showers, too, mainly because our bathroom is truly, truly gross.
A few weeks ago (or maybe a month ago?) we informed our landlord, Charmaine (whom Patrick has dubbed "The Charmaniac"), that the hot water tap in our shower wasn't shutting off properly and that the knob was kind of loose. Well, the knob is now completely useless and we now have to turn the hot water on and off with a pair of pliers. It's like we're this hillbilly couple that considers faucets too "fancy" to be bothered with.
The pliers, however, are only somewhat effective. Try as we might, there is still a little stream of hot water that runs day and night in our shower. This small amount of water manages to heat and steam up the bathroom, making it feel like Humid August Day In Toronto In A Box. It's our own tropical oasis in the winter - complete with - wait for it - vegetation.
Yes kids, I'm referring to the psychedelic ceiling of mold we now enjoy. All the colourful rings paired with whatever poison mold leaches is handing out some heavy tripping potential. Maybe it explains why Patrick enjoys snacking so much. He's, like, the slowest pooper ever which means that he spends way more time in that toxic place than I do. I guess he's just bound to get the munchies.
The Charmaniac has yet to get on with our request. I'm hoping the insane water bill that's coming her way will get her attention.
4 Dec 2005
Back in 2001, my dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer. He had an aggressive surgery to take care of it - and for the most part, it worked. He did have some PSA levels show up in his post-op screening, but they were very, very low. Early this summer, his PSA levels began to increase and his doctor suggested that they get nabbed with radiation treatment.
A couple days ago my dad got his latest PSA screening results back. The hope was that the PSA levels would be down, or better yet - at zero. Instead, the numbers are up. And somewhat steeply up. This means that the area they were radiating (the prostate bed) isn't the culprit. The cancer is now somewhere else - and unfortunately, they don't know where and they don't know how to eliminate it.
He now basically has to wait it out until things get "bad" at which point he'll take on some rather quality-of-life depleting hormone therapies to keep it at bay.
My parents are trying to take it in stride. They're making plans for all sorts of trips and experiences in the coming while so that they can "enjoy it while they can." But the very thought of them living with this awful looming reality that 'things are going to get worse' floods me with every awful, sinking, gutted emotion out there.
I am not a pretty crier. My nose somehow expands and turns red, my eyes puff up, my skin gets blotchy. I gurgle and choke and snot up. So when I'm on the verge of bawling, I jump in the shower so that I at least have some privacy while looking and sounding gross. To put it mildly, I've taken a couple extra showers these last few days.
I am trying to see the good in this. My dad is not 'sick' or in any pain. He actually has no symptoms of cancer. He IS able to enjoy today. With continued research, they may be able to screen and treat what he's facing. Should you be inclined, a donation to the Canadian Cancer Society would be of enormous help - if not to my dad, but to anyone that has to deal with this fuckface of a disease (and I would literally have to sprint for the shower again if I were to find out that this dumb little post actually got someone to do such a generous thing).
Thanks for listening.
3 Dec 2005
Here I am, one week later, in the same state of non-blog. Sorry, gentle reader.
The reasons are 90% work-related. Things are hysterically hectic - really, you have to laugh at how crazy things are. Seeing as laughing is much less painful (not to mention the fashion aspect) than tearing out your hair, I choose that option of dealing.
The pace and the amount of shite happening has also proven to be most effective in weeding out those individuals who can't deal with warp-speed stress. Since I've started the job (which was Oct 24), four people have quit and one person got canned. Two of the four people who quit, quit in their first weeks of starting. Their departures, naturally, have only added more fuel to the ridiculous bonfire that us remaining folk have been trying to control. Somewhere, Susan Powter's Spidysenses are giving her convulsions.
And the craziest thing of all of this? I'm liking it. There's just so much to do, so much to get done and so much to solve. I loves fixing and organizing - and that's pretty much what I'm doing all day. The HR Nightmare of '05 is just one more opportunity to fix something. It's one more horrifying hurdle that makes victory just that much more sweeter.
So, now that I've truly convinced you of how wonderful it is, anyone interested in working with us? There are openings!
27 Nov 2005
I admit - I suck!
I've had a few late days at work so when I get home, I can't even bear to look at my computer. Not can I think of what to blog about. Certain co-workers have provided me with lots of blog-worthy material, but as you know, I can't outright discuss it for fear of being discovered as the two-faced mega cow I am, so I hope to find a way to weave those stories into other ones someday soon.
As for my day-to-day realities, they've pretty much been the same: crazy people on the subway, a running tap in our shower that the landlord keeps forgetting to fix, not sticking to my diet, Patrick eating ice cream at strange hours of the day and night, and now - the onset of the holiday season.
I got my first dose of holiday shoppers yesterday when Patrick and I went to see Harry Potter in a theatre that is unfortunately in a mall. I love to shop. LOVE IT. But holiday shopping with holiday shoppers gets me all jaw-clenchy. Fantasies of turning my fist into a crowd-dispersing battering ram become a real temptation. It's not just the sheer masses of people (and yes, that is horrible) but the quality of individuals in those masses. They're awful!
They're screaming things into their cellphones like "LISTEN! DECIDE NOW WHAT YOU WANT TO GET YOUR BLOODY SISTER FOR CHRISTMAS AND STOP WASTING MY TIME. I'M FUCKING TIRED OF ALWAYS HAVING TO WORRY ABOUT DECIDING WHAT SHIT TO GET FOR THE FAMILY. MAYBE THIS YEAR I'LL STAY HOME AND YOU CAN DEAL WITH THIS HOLIDAY BULLSHIT! I DIDN'T RAISE YOU TO HAVE SUCH A HORRIBLE, SELFISH ATTITUDE!"
They're people that have no concept of keeping their children within arms reach and yet glare at the random stranger who has unintentionally become a wall of ass that said children have run into head first.
They're people that cut you off and then walk at such slow speeds that it can't even be considered walking anymore. It's more like toddling - where a person lazily shifts their weight from one foot to the other like a pendulum that ever so slowly propels themselves forward.
I could go on, but I'll save it for another post. Unless I can do all my shopping online this season, I have a feeling there will be much more of this to come. Le sigh.
22 Nov 2005
This morning Patrick got his wisdom teeth yanked out. I stayed home from work in order to flag a cab for him home, tuck him in and make him soup. At least, that was the vision.
Instead, I got him home and he popped the wonderful prescription painkiller, Percocet, and has been a spazzy, happy clam all day. To my complete annoyance.
You see, I’m still sitting here working (on my cell and using e-mail) just as much as I would if I were in the office. The difference is that I have Sir Giggles McChatty beside me.
He’s been eating melted cheese and ice cream while playing the clip from Family Guy where Brian dons a banana suit and does the ‘Peanut Butter Jelly Time’ dance/song over and over again. Furthermore, Patrick was watching a documentary on the Iraq War. I find that annoying in itself, but even more - in this film, someone sings a particular Islamic song that Patrick has noted (quite accurately, I’m afraid) sounds a lot like Rhinestone Cowboy. Rhinestone Cowboy is a song that people know the title verse to only, so when they get the song in their head – as Patrick has – all they do is repeat “Like a rhinestone cowboy .. dun dun” over and over and over again.
This is going on as I’m on the phone to the client talking about the looming deadline for a product launch.
"Peanut Butter Jelly! Peanut Butter Jelly! Peanut Butter Jelly With a Baseball Bat! Like a Rhinestone Cowboy – dun dun …. Like a rhinestone cowboy …"
Kill me now. Or at least give me one of those magical pills.
21 Nov 2005
... it's a tie!
This weekend was a lovely blend of sloth and 'doing stuff' - so I'm pleased.
I managed to:
* Tidy up the place
* See my good friend Will for brunch
* Do a bunch of things for a spreadsheet for work
* Take a longish walk during the beautiful weather we had yesterday
* Pick up a couple things at Shoppers (my middle name should be "Optimumpoints")
* Wear real, non-stretchy pants the bulk of the time
* Order in
* Pay my bills
I managed to not:
* See Harry Potter (boo)
* Go to the gym
* Do real grocery shopping
* Get up early
* Look attractive
* Avoid catching bits of TBS movies (Legally Blonde, this week!)
All in all, a good weekend.
19 Nov 2005
The weekend has arrived. This is always good, but as always, the weekend brings on the epic battle of my being: The Struggle of Opportunity vs Sloth.
* Sewing the buttons on my now much needed winter jacket
* Looking for a new shirt I’m interested in
* Cleaning the home
* Going to the grocery shopping
* Heading to the gym
* Seeing Harry Potter
Sloth time means:
* Avoiding all of the above except maybe the Harry Potter movie
* Letting my gut hang out and grow
* Wearing stretchy pants
* Watching whatever movie TBS decides to rerun for the millionth time
* Ordering in
* Not leaving the house, except maybe to purchase alcohol and/or candy
Which will win? Will Sloth continue its 84-week winning streak? Stay tuned to find out!
16 Nov 2005
Because of new crazy work, a well-instilled sense of laziness and bad timing, I haven't seen one of my best friends since my birthday in September. This realization feels awful.
We've both been wrapped up in our own stuff, so no one is to blame - but it's scary how people that used to see each other every day (we were roomies for two years) can become virtual strangers. He's precious to me (not quite in the fondling a magical ring and falling into a pit of molten lava for it way, but precious all the same) and it hurts to think of our relationship fading. People talk about marriages "needing work" - in my case, it seems to be friendships.
I e-mailed him a few days ago and he got back to me tonight - we're now planning to see each other for brunch or lunch or dinner on Sunday. I'm looking forward to it. I need to make a priority to put more effort into my friends. I like my friends so crazy much - which is why I'm really confused why I put so little maintenance into them. I think it's because the lot of us are so easy going - we just figure there's no hard feelings, no need for big updates - just getting together when we can.
I'm starting to believe that just isn't enough. Quite frankly, they deserve better.
Putting more effort into going out/keeping up with friends is my New Year's Resolution, effective immediately.
Sorry for the un-funny blog entry. The next one will be dy-no-mite.
14 Nov 2005
I went to la gym this evening.
I swear I'll stop talking about the gym shortly. Either because I'll get over the fact that I'm going or because I'll have stopped going altogether. Har.
Anyway, it was another gymming by bus. Again, my hellish mode of transportation rolled by just as I was getting within sprinting distance of the stop, and since running (let alone running fast) in public goes against every jiggling fibre of my body, I accepted my fate to go get physical, physical.
The problem with going to my gym after work is that it's really busy. I despise a busy gym because you can never do exactly what you want. In an ideal world, I'd go to the particular machines I wanted in the order I wanted and spend however much time I needed complete with nice little rests between sets. Ok, actually, in an ideal world, I'd be hot and slender and would owe it all to a steady diet of Dynamite Rolls, hot dogs, Skittles and beer. So, I guess what I mean, is that in a more reality-based ideal world, going to the gym would be completely user-friendly.
Since that ain't the case around 6pm, I'm instead forced to just grab whatever machine is available, use it and pop over to another open machine in a truly non-sensical order. I'm kind of like Frogger - hopping around to the empty spaces like a big spaz except that there isn't really much of a plan or goal involved (not to suggest that Frogger's achievement of crossing the street was that sane either. Just stay in the pond, fool!).
I'm attempting to go to bed early (like, right now) so that I'll slowly train my body to be able to handle earlier morning wake-ups so that I may go to el gym before work and possible make the most of my silly workout attempts. We shall see.
13 Nov 2005
What you may not know about my site is that in the precious coding I’ve inserted a little program that lets me see how many people come check out the page and if they linked from another page to do so, including using web searches.
I tell you, just getting to see the truly strange and random things people Google makes blogging so worth it. It’s like having access to everyone’s dirty little secret that they dare not ask out loud.
This week, someone found my site by searching for a very bizarre thing: appetizer that looks like a tennis racquet.
I don’t know why you found my site with that search, or why you’d even want to search for something like that, you culinary kook, but I’m sorry that you didn’t find the answer to your question here. You probably landed on the post that had me in my pink tennis skirt. I can’t recall talking about appetizers in that post, but I was probably thinking about them, as always.
Hopefully this picture I found will help you, even though I think it looks kinda dumb and reminds me of the kind of 'crafty snack' we would be encouraged to make as children by that Saturday morning cartoon guy that was dressed in Western wear ("I hanker for a hunk-a, a slab, a slice a chunk-a, I hanker for a hunk-a CHEESE!"). I'm not sure what tennis-based prop the popcorn is supposed to represent, but the red ball of god-only-knows is a gourmet tennis ball. Yarg.
11 Nov 2005
So, you know of this gym thing I am doing, right?
Well, I don't normally go two days in a row but I was lured into doing it recently. The other night when I went, I was told "Don't forget about Member Appreciation Day, tomorrow!" and was handed a little flyer.
On this bright green piece of fun lay two words that distinctly got my attention: Complimentary Refreshments.
I cannot possibly tally how many functions I have attended because of the complimentary refreshments. I've done boring art shows, bad store openings, random social gatherings ... all in the name of spinach dip. The number would be staggering. Finger food, drinks, samples - I love it like a hillbilly loves his cousin.
The mere thought of whatever dinky food and drink the gym was planning had totally sold me on coming in. I literally got up at freakin' 6am just to enjoy whatever shit they had. I endured the early morning transit rush, got to the gym and found a elliptical machine and got going, all the while scanning the room. First, I saw someone come in with a bunch of balloons. "Good," I thought "very good - it's starting" another ten minutes of sweat passed and I saw the staff members bring in a table to the area. "Excellent - all the better to place the refreshments," I thought.
AND THEN .... nothing. Nadda. They put some fucking brochures on the table and put up a sign advertising that their rip-off exercise clothing was on sale.
Where were the cute sandwiches? Nicely sliced fruit? Cheese squares? Dammit, I wanted to be appreciated via Complimentary Refreshments!!!
What's the freakin' point of coming for a workout if I'm not going to scarf down crap afterward?
9 Nov 2005
Yay me, indeed.
After completing a rather full and busy day at work (9am to 6:30pm) I was left with a choice: To gym or not to gym. That was the question.
I knew I should go, but I didn't want to. I wanted to drag my ass home, have dinner and watch my Martha. But, I put the money down on this membership because my body needs to be active. Both were compelling feelings, so I did what any sane person would do: I left it up to fate.
I told myself that as I was approaching the gym, I'd see what the bus stop was looking like. If it appeared as though I had just missed a bus, I'd go the gym. If it looked as if one was about to come (ie: a bunch of people waiting), I would just catch it and forego the workout.
Turns out that fate wanted to see me do crunches tonight. As I rounded the corner to where both the stop and the gym were, I was greeted by the site of the bus pulling away. The gym it was.
I'm glad it turned out the way it did. I only did 40 min of cardio & some ab exercises, but I was amazed by how quickly all of my swirling thoughts of work melted away. THAT was nice. However, I was starving afterward. I picked up a sandwich at the nearby grocery store and began demolishing it once I cleared the nest of shopping carts at the store's entrance (had it not been a faux pas to just start eating in line at the check out, I would have done that).
Despite feeling great for having gone after work, I'd like to try getting my gym time done in the morning. Getting up at that hour will suck, but I'm not exactly fond of dining in parking lots and coming home after 9pm, either. Go figure.
8 Nov 2005
Ok, so ... I have not gained "TEN FUCKING POUNDS" but I have gained, all the same. This sucks, but was totally deserving because I didn't actually do much in the way of weight gain prevention let alone weight loss promotion. My bad.
I'd love to blame Patrick for this, as he continues to bring home chips on a weekly basis, but it's not like he forces them into a feed bag and straps it on my face. No, I do it to myself and need to smarten the fuck up. I need to just snap out of it and stick to the bigger, long-term priority over the short-term yummy, lazy, fatty pigfest known at our place as Saturday and Sunday.
Yesterday, I joined the gym. The money I dropped will not be revealed here, but it was sick. Tomorrow, I plan to actually go forth and use this gym membership. I just need to do SOMETHING, and the gym that is 2 minutes away from work is a hard thing to ignore (ha, who am I kidding, I RULE at ignoring obligation and work). But I will go. I need to form a habit, that for once, is actually positive and healthy, rather than those that make my breath stinky and my thighs expansive.
7 Nov 2005
Ever wish that you could turn to the loud, screaming, milk-smelling man beside you on the subway and ask "can you just go be crazy somewhere else, please?"
I now have a horribly long transit ride to work, which is fine in the morning because it appears that insane people don't get up that early. But on the way home, it never fails that some troubled soul decides to let loose a few seats away from me. I know I should feel bad for them, but mostly I feel bad for me.
The guy today on my way home kept loudly announcing various football scores and tv shows and then went into strange tirades about being a dog that needed to be freed. Pretty much everyone was doing their best to act like it wasn't happening. He was in full madness mode when two big, beefy guys that had that DO NOT FUCK WITH ME look came on the subway car and sat nearby. And what do you know, the crazy guy promptly shut up.
Ooooh - look who's not tough enough to be crazy now?!? That's right, bitch! Maybe you should go back to the library until you're ready to play with the big boys, huh?
6 Nov 2005
Today I spent much of the afternoon partaking in my favourite hobby - shopping. What is it about consuming that I love so much?
I had grabbed a few items and was waiting in line at a change room when I was witness to one of those horrible things that you can't believe still happens in today's day and age. There are certain things that you figure all women realize is a no-no, and yet it occured today in the most disturbing of ways. I will explain:
A woman (maybe early thirties) stepped out of her change room and caught the attention of a sales clerk. I was still waiting in line, but was in the direct line of sight for the exchange.
Woman In The Change Room: Hi, um, would you be able to find me these pants [ed note: she was wearing them] in a size smaller please?
Sales Clerk: You sure?
The woman seemed a bit taken aback by this and hesitates. My heart stopped.
Woman In The Change Room: Yes ... um, I mean, if it isn't too much trouble.
Sales Clerk: (giddy and smiling) Heehee - oh no, no trouble! I just meant you might want to keep the size you have on now so that you can still wear it in a few months!
The woman looked even more baffled and started to flush. I didn't understand what the sales clerk meant but it sounded 100% awful and I couldn't tear my eyes away.
Woman In The Change Room: Umm ... I think I'd still like to see the smaller size, I think they'll fit better.
Sales Clerk: If you say so, but I know your little secret! I can always tell!
At that, the sales clerk patted the woman's little gut and smiled and went to go get her the requested size.
The woman was frozen for a second in complete and utter confusion and then it hit both of us at the same time: the sales clerk mistook her to be pregnant.
The woman made a little gasping noise and scuttled back into her change room and I could hear her frantically taking off the pants and presumably putting her own clothes back on in order to get the fuck out of there. I was shown my own change room at that point, so I didn't see her leave, but I know she did before the freak sales clerk returned because she was calling for her without answer.
I still feel horrible for that woman, and had I been able to do anything for her I would have - although I think the best thing I could have done was act as if I was not witness to her nightmare (which I really tried to do, really. Tried).
Why is it that some people think it's ok to guess/ask if people are pregnant?!?! I won't even give up my subway seat unless the woman does the obvious Yes-I'm-pregnant-so-get-the-fuck-up-and-let-me-sit-down moves: She puts her hand on her lower back to indicate it's sore and puts the other hand on/under her tummy in a protective way. That is the universal sign for pregnant. If you do not see it, do not assume. Ever!!!
Wherever you are Woman In The Change Room, I'm sorry you encountered such idiocy. You didn't look pregnant, and I agree that you could have gone down a size in your pants. Maybe even two.
4 Nov 2005
= The number of times a group a try-hard 20-year olds mentioned the word "emo" while on the subway. The also talked about The OC, Stillepost and a few other lame things that I can't clearly recall because I was spacing out from disinterest.
I can't wait until I'm in my thirties and can officially distance myself from 20-something poo-talk.
1 Nov 2005
10 lbs. 10 fucking lbs. THAT is what the scale keeps insisting I've gained this week. Now, I know that I can't have possibly gained 10 lbs of fat, and I have the added knowledge that this is a time of water retention for me - but STILL!
I'm quite sure I have gained some fat-based weight because:
a) I have not been tracking points all that well / at all
b) I have gleefully been eating shit in the form of candy and chips on the weekend
c) I've been having a bit more to drink lately (not in a Liza Minelli way but in the more-consistently-having-wine-with-dinner way) and I know how quickly that adds points
d) I no longer have my nice walk from work that I can pretend is daily exercise
I do all this bullshit more and more even though I know my 'goal dates' draw closer. It's just not worth it to eat that crap and I even recognize that fact at the time, yet for some reason I act like I don't care and just sabotage myself continually. Why???
I'm considering joining a gym as there is a good one near my work - and as I say this, I roll my eyes. I do this all the time:
1. I get all desperate/motivated and join a gym
2. Stick with it for three months
3. Something interrupts my ways (crazy work, illness, crazy life)
4. I derail completely
5. I announce "I'm just not a gym person and that's ok" and then pay money each month for a service I don't use until the annual contract is up
6. Months and months (or even years) pass and I slowly start to look gym-ward again.
It would be frightening to see how much money I've put toward weight-loss stuff (books, equipment, gym memberships, WW stuff, exercise videos). Frightening - and I think part of the reason I do it is because once I plunk money down on something, I immediately feel accomplished, as if I had dropped 20lbs right there. Which of course I celebrate with a glass of wine a piece of cake. BECAUSE I MAKE SUCH GREAT SENSE.
31 Oct 2005
This whole Halloween thing completely snuck up on me. New job has my brain preoccupied in new, horrible ways so when my friends called me Saturday to see if I was coming out with them for dress-up goodness, I was blindsided by the nearness of Oct 31 and that whole concept of "fun."
Because I just can't pass-up an opportunity that has grown-ups using their imaginations and a willingness to look silly or funny or horrible (and slutty! So many girls do slutty!) in public on purpose - I ran around my place as quickly as possible and pulled an outfit together so I could join in.
Something to know about me: I love the whole 50s housewife culture. I find it fascinating. And sometimes, I find it fun to bid on on eBay. So, because of said fetish, I was able to become a 50s housewife lickity-split. Anyway, I met up with Siobhan, Jaimie and Tina and we drank lots of lychee martinis and champaign and went to Rec Room where we met Nils and Anissa. Pics will follow.
Today I was blindsided again by Halloween as it is actually today and I'm reminded that Halloween isn't just about dressing up as a sexy kitty or "Hunter S. Thompson After Having Been Blown Out Of A Canon" and getting trashed. There are a bunch of cute little kidlets out around neighbourhood begging for goodies. And guess which house is going to get egged? That's right, our grumpy-ass home which is candy-less and has its porch light off because we never even thought to care. We suck badly.
Maybe if I pretend this wine that I'm drinking is blood, the Great Pumpkin won't wield its ugly wrath our way.
27 Oct 2005
... did Miss J look a bit like Oprah on a bad day in last night's episode of America's Next Top Model?
26 Oct 2005
I think someone in my new office wears Exclamation! perfume.
I was in the hallway, got a faintly familiar whiff of something and was transported to grade 7. Memories of listening to Bel Biv DeVoe on my Walkman while my friend shoplifted lipstick from the Shoppers Drug Mart just completely came flooding back.
I didn't even know that they made this stuff anymore.
25 Oct 2005
It being Tuesday, I meant to also post that I am the exact same weight (11 lbs down, seems like forever) as I was the last time I officially weighed myself. I am pleased with this because I haven't really been tracking as a I should.
Man, I really SHOULD kick this more into gear, seeing as Christmas is only two short months away and I kinda envisioned myself looking all foxy by then. Ok. Must get stern. After this glass of wine.
So, Day 1 of my new job was yesterday. It was a swirl of new faces, new acronyms and various looks of pity upon seeing my confused-but-trying-to-look-enthused face. I wish I could fast-forward this next month and get over the disorientation and just work. Alas, this too is part of that steep learning curve I knew I was getting myself into.
Good news: I have an office.
Bad news: It has no natural light and is absent of everything but a desk and a computer - nothing on the walls, nothing in the room. And the paint colour makes it look like a band-aid.
Good news: It has potential. I do believe I'll bring in my Orlando Bloom calendar and Tiger Beat the place up a bit.
See, I turned that around into a positive. Yay me.
24 Oct 2005
This is too early for me. (I woke up about 25 minutes ago). This week will be all about finding the proper timing needed to get up, shower, change, piss around on the internet and most importantly - take the demon transit system - to get to work on time.
I have a feeling I'll be returning to coffee.
21 Oct 2005
Today was my last day at Job circa July 22, 2002 to Right This Second.
Before I continue, I should explain something about my workplace: it’s gay. No, not in that derogatory sense that kinda describes all workplaces, but actually homosexual. To say my company is homosexual makes it sound like my office is attracted to other offices and walks around particular parks looking at the crotches of other companies in the hopes of a late-night rendezvous. What I mean to say, is that my workplace’s mission statement is specifically about fostering the gay and lesbian community and being about as sex-positive as an organization can get. Of the forty-five people that I worked with, I was one of only three people that was prude enough to consider herself straight.
My job was doing marketing, community outreach, organizing sponsorships, doing events and activities like our Pride float and as a side thing, I also did social aspects for the office (like peoples’ birthdays and the holiday party). I was a busy girl who interacted with a lot of people.
I explain all this now because the rest of these points will probably have deeply confused you if I hadn’t.
So, I present to you – An Ode To My Workplace ...
Things I Will Miss About Work:
- Being in a board meeting and hearing the words “cock”, “cunt”, “dyke”, “faggot” and “ass-pounding” being (positively) used without anyone batting an eye
- My most marvelous ‘big boss’ (my supervisor’s boss) who was simply the best manager I have ever worked with and was the kind of person that you want to emulate one day
- All the great ‘truetone’ cellphone rings everyone had that ranged from “Lucky Star” to “Hollaback Girl” to “Toxic”
- Our incredibly, incredibly drunken and fun parties
- Being there when my coworkers won the right to get married (and then watched them scoff at the idea of them personally settling down. In the words of one of my coworkers, “Get married? Hellll, no! There is just too much fine ass out there just waiting for me to discover it.”)
- 90% of my co-workers. What bright, funny, passionate, wonderful people they are.
- Neffer, a baby chihuahua that belonged to one of my coworkers, who would be brought in every week to completely distract everyone from doing their jobs
- Having meetings with people named Sofonda Cox and The Mistress of Pain
- The fact that I had the bizarre power to announce to the entire staff that in the afternoon, everyone will stop working and come to the kitchen to enjoy a cocktail in celebration of it being “kinda fall-ish” - and it would happen! Really
- Being the “office pet” on account of my breeder ways and nice rack
- Being trusted with so much of their company. They really let me expand and learn and grow and become so much better than I was three years ago
Things I Will Not Miss About Work:
- The never-ending meetings that would often result in never-ending nothing (that's everywhere though, right?)
- The hardcore lesbian porn that wallpapered the women’s washroom
- Dealing with certain obnoxious, arty drama-queens from the community who had no clue and no desire to know how a business transaction was supposed to work
- Having a legitimate reason to Google “skatting” (and to have Google come back with “did you mean skating?” Oh, Google, you are so naïve. Promise me you’ll always stay that way).
- Being constantly asked for change by all the homeless people (and “home less teens”) each and every day who practically lived at my office doorstep
- Trying to pull off events on a not-for-profit budget
- The not-for-profit pay I got
- The clogging of “my” neighbourhood by gaggles of tourists during Pride
- Hearing Cher’s “Believe” at least once a week
- The guy that came to our lobby and acted as if he had a gun and the two bomb threats we received on account of my company being the kind of place it was
- All the bloody rainbows
- That time that we lifted up the couch to move it somewhere else, and an empty bottle of lube and a broken broom handle fell out from the cushions
- Dancing to bad, bad club music in the middle of the day down Yonge Street in a gross costume, next to an embarrassing float (this float is quite the story that I will someday tell) in front of roughly a million people - while stone-cold sober.
And so, I have left for what I hope to be bigger and better things. Oh, don’t cry for me, Gaygentina. We will see each other again.
19 Oct 2005
"So, I prefer not to have a serious boyfriend and he prefers not to have a serious girlfriend, right? Well, I always seem to have a serious boyfriend around my birthday, and my birthday is next month. So, we're getting serious whether he wants it or not because I don't want to curse myself."
- As overheard while riding on the subway in Toronto
18 Oct 2005
I sent an e-mail out to my coworkers along with people that I work with outside the office, and in a truly dumb move, said in that e-mail "if there was anything you were hoping to have me look into for you, please let me know now because I won't be around after Friday"
I have roughly 30 new e-mails containing new requests for me to do. Between now and Friday.
I knew that this week was going to be a bit busy, as I need to organize things and create records of all those everyday things you don't even think about because you've been around long enough to just do it (swooosh), but I didn't really expect to take on a silly amount of new projects.
The thing is, I can actually complete these requests, for the most part, by Friday - but I'm not totally sure if I want to spend my last week putting the pedal to the metal (which is a really "tough guy" way of describing what I'd really be doing - moving my mouse around for several hours). So, I'm left with a conundrum: do I spend this last week kicking ass and making life very sweet and easy for my former employer (but elevating my stress level far more than I'd like), or do I pull the classic I'm-going-to-do-what-I-want-to-do-because-it's-not-like-you're-going-to-fire-me attitude that one gets to have only a few times in their life.
Le sigh, indeed.
Oh – and I totally forgot that today was a weigh-in day much like how I forgot how I was going to try to stick to my eating plan this entire week. Oops.
16 Oct 2005
B&E are leaving their posh condo to live in the basement of Ester’s mother’s house. I understand that there is economic benefit to that, and that Ester’s mom is a nice lady, but I suspect that this decision boils down to one thing: masochism.
I long suspected that these two were into being punished. You pretty much must be if you’re to put up with Patrick for as long as they have. Anyone who knows Patrick knows that once he gets talking about his favourite subject, boring-ass Ontario and Toronto politics, you pretty much want to shoot yourself in the ears. And yet, they continue to subject themselves to him on a weekly basis. Masochists!
(Aww, Patrick, I kid, I kid! After all, it’s wrong to make fun of you.*)
Moving into Chez Ester’s Momma’s sealed the deal, though. They must have envisioned scenarios of Ester’s mom unexpectedly popping in to offer the Korean-version of Tang and Rice Krispies at the most inopportune moments. Just think of it, Barry. You could be sitting down there, completely unaware, vulnerable and singing along to the theme song from The Princess Bride and just when a single tear rolls down your cheek, you’ll see her from the corner of your eye: Stopped dead in her tracks, a look of disgust paralyzing her face as the bowls of kimchi she brought for you fall to the floor.
Momma Will Be Witness To All Your Private Horribleness And Humiliation, And You Will Have To Face Her Everyday. And despite you and Ester understanding this, you choose to do it. Masochists!
Aw, well. Good luck, kids! Enjoy the move, suckas.
* 1950’s Housewife Tip #2: A man should always be respected. If you disagree with something he does or if one of his habits irritates you, it is your job as his wife to bury your negative thoughts away and assimilate to his way of doing things. Remember – he’s the head of the household – and that includes the thinking part. Belittling a man with criticism or mockery is not only unladylike, but a disgusting display of disrespect. Now, get back in the kitchen and bake him a pie, bitch.
13 Oct 2005
So, I got a new job. Most people know it already, but I wanted to wait until there was an official announcement at my current workplace before I blabbed it here. I accepted the new position about a week ago and gave my resignation then, but the way things operate at my current place means that there’s always some kind of delay in letting people know and getting things done - just as it always has been for pretty much everything.
It’s so weird leaving a place because people start saying such nice things about you, to the point that it kinda makes you sad to leave. I had it good where I work. Naturally, there were times I wanted to throttle people, times that I wanted to burn my desk and drop-kick my computer, times when I whined about needing to win the lottery and times that I was sick to my stomach with the insanity of it all. But today is one of those times that I’ll only think good things of the place.
The ‘big boss’ (the Publisher & Ed-in-Chief), whom I've always loved working for, wrote a really, really nice e-mail to all the staff letting them know that I’m leaving. It was all glowy and sweet and considerate and made me sound like the heart and brains of the place. Then he took me out to lunch and we chatted about my new position, what I think the future of the department should look like, and had all sorts of laughs about the craziness I’ve been witness (and accomplice) to while working there for the past three years. To top it all off, he announced that it was high time that the company have a big party, and he’d like to throw one in my honour. How can you beat that? It almost makes me want to come back just so I can quit all over again.
But besides the little tinglings of sad that I’m feeling, I’m also terribly excited about the new job. It’s working as an Account Executive at a full-service marketing/advertising agency on what should be a challenging and interesting international client.
Along with more cash (duh), this new position is going to give me something I’ve really needed lately – a change of pace and a bit of good excitement. There are things that I’ll get to work on that I already enjoy doing at my current place, but a whole whack of stuff that will be new to me, which is great. I’m already having trouble sleeping at night because my brain refuses to stop thinking about it all, a clear symptom of Keener-itis.
I’ll post more about this stuff soon. Till then I’ll be rather busy with work, wrapping up all sorts of projects that we didn’t intend on finishing until closer to the end of the year (my goodbye gift to them, I suppose). My last day there will be next Friday. First day on the new job will be next Monday. Yowza!
12 Oct 2005
One of these e-mail quizzes that end up taking an enormous amount of time...
1. First Name: Jen (but never Jenn)
2. Were you named after anyone? Jennifer is not a family name, it’s a 70s name.
3. Do you wish on stars? If I said yes, I’m pretty sure that would make me a Disney character.
4. When did you last cry? I got all weepy the other day when I heard a particular Cat Stevens song ... maybe I was hormonal? DON’T LOOK AT ME!!
5. Do you like your handwriting? Indeed I do, although since becoming completely dependent on the computer, I find I hand-cramp a lot sooner now when I handwrite, and that detracts from how much I like it.
6. What is your favourite lunch meat? Roast Beast.
7. What is your birth date? September 23.
8. What is your most embarrassing CD? Just one? I think I’ll go with Aquarium by Aqua. I think I got it because I thought I could work out to it. Sad.
9. If you were another person, would YOU be friends with you? Well, I’d certainly want to be, but it depends on how great I was as the other person if I were to accept that person as my friend. You follow?
10. Are you a daredevil? Hah. So. Not. I refuse to run down the stairs more than one step at a time (really – that’s friggin’ dangerous).
11. Who is your favourite cartoon character? Old School: Original Spiderman (he had such cool music), New School: Andy French from Mission Hill.
12. Do looks matter? Only an ugly person would ask that.
13. How do you release anger? A few rounds with the punching bag, man. Ha - kidding. I bitch, like any sane person does.
14. Where is your second home? Alberta, baby.
15. Do you trust others easily? I guess I’d like to but it takes a bit of time before I tell a stranger over the phone my bank account PIN number.
16. What was your favourite toy as a child? A little bear named Bobby. Funny, I thought about him the other night and actually felt bad because I had no idea where he was (somewhere in my parents home, but probably all alone in some tuberware bin, crying and singing that incredibly sad song Sarah McLaughlin did in Toy Story 2). Oh man … DON’T LOOK AT ME!!
17. What class in high school do you think was totally useless? For me, personally: Advanced Math. To the world in general: French (Hee!).
18. Do you have a journal? You’re looking at it.
19. Do you use sarcasm a lot? The easy answer would be a sarcastic one, but everyone expects that. Yes. I’m sarcastic, a lot.
20. What are your nicknames? Muffin, Jennimuff, J-Lo (eck), Slutbucket.
21. Would you bungee jump? Did you see the comment about the stairs? No!
22. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off? My shoes rarely have laces, so no.
23. Do you think that you are strong? Physically or emotionally? My physical strength is truly laughable. Being asked to carry something or having to run for a bus are two of my greater fears. Emotionally … I don’t get it. Is it asking me if my emotions are strong or my ability to control them?
24. What is your favourite ice cream flavour? I don’t discriminate, I love all ice cream equally – well, except that bubblegum crap or “Tiger Stripe” (orange with black liquorice flavour – that’s disgusting and should be shot).
25. Shoe Size? I’ll range anywhere between a 7.5 to an 8.5.
26. Red or pink? Pink. I’m such fucking a girl.
27. What is your least favourite thing about yourself? I could always use some more cash.
28. Who do you miss most? My family, as a whole (all are in Western Canada).
29. What personality traits do you dislike in other people? Smugness, chronic-complainers/whiners, total bullshitters that think you're stupid enough to buy it.
30. What colour pants and shoes are you wearing? Pants are camel (without the toe), shoes are tan.
31. What are you listening to right now? Nothing really – I guess the hum of the computer
32. Last thing you ate? Popcorn (last night)
33. If you were a color what would you be? I am a colour. It’s beige.
34. What is the weather like right now? Overcast, will probably rain later.
35. Last person you talked to on the phone? Probably Patrick. He called me for no real good reason, as usual, just to say hi. He’s so wasteful.
36. The first thing you notice about the opposite sex? Depends entirely on who they are and what freakish features they have.
37. Do you like the person who sent this to you? Sure.
38. Favourite Drink? Red wine, because I’m such a pretentious prick.
39. Favourite Sport? Tennis! (again, because I’m a prick)
40. Hair Color? Dark brown.
41. Eye Color? Deep brown.
42. Do you wear contacts? Nope.
43. Favourite Food? Sushi (especially Dynamite Rolls) – this answer also lends to my being a pretentious prick.
44. Last Movie You Watched? I wish I had a cool answer but I really don’t: Monster-In-Law. Poor Patrick rented it for me. I suck. I know.
45. Favourite Day of the Year? Probably Christmas. Not being religious means that I don’t have church dragging it down.
46. Scary Movies or Happy Endings? I guess happy endings, but I prefer the type that aren’t 100% clichés and that rules out about 90% of them.
47. Summer or Winter? NO – Fall.
48. Hugs or Kisses? Again, depends entirely on who’s offering.
49. What Is Your Favourite Dessert? Oooh – so many! Chocolate cake, pecan tarts, Saskatoonberry pie, maple syrup straight from the jug … dare I go on?
50. Favourite Movie? Some Like It Hot, followed closely by Gidget.
51. What Song Was Recently In Your Head? Judy Blue Eyes by Crosby, Stills & Nash.
52. Living Arrangements? Living in sin in a rented 2-bdrm apartment.
53. What Book Are You Reading? The New Brand World. It’s a marketing book and again, lends to the pretentious prick theme I have going for myself.
54. What's On Your Mouse Pad? Gross. It’s a Dell (mouse pad), dude.
55. What Did You Watch Last Night on TV? The Biggest Loser (you are what you watch?)
56. Favourite Smells? My Chanel No 5 perfume, cloves, the smell of fall, candles on a birthday cake being blown out
57. Favourite Flower? Flowers are all lovely.
58. Rolling Stones or Beatles? Beatles!
59. Do you believe in Evolution or Creation? Evolution – as to what started evolution, I have no idea. The Beatles? (No, that was Revolution …)
60. If you became a multi-millionaire overnight, what would you buy first? Breakfast.
11 Oct 2005
First things first, my weekly, uncool weigh-in: By some gracious Thanksgiving Miracle, I am down 1.6 lbs. I’m now essentially down to where I was a couple weeks ago (11 lbs gone). Completely undeserved, but I’ll take it. I now need to really keep on things if I’m to meet my goals.
In other news (and the part that relates to today's post's title), because it’s budget season at work, I’ve been contacting all sorts of people looking for quotes on all sorts of products and services. It is stunning how horrible some people are at sales, to the point that I’m embarrassed for their companies. I am not a salesperson, yet I’d like to think that if I were, I would know to:
- Use real, complete sentences and not fill an entire paragraph with ellipses and hope that they fill the void that verbs and nouns usually take up
- Spell simple words correctly (I shit you not, in one quote, the rep wrote “I estamate one weak until delivery”)
- Not to send back a useless, info-less e-mail response to my original e-mail that asks me to call them (Dude, I’m e-mailing you for a reason. Respect my chosen communication method. I don’t want to bloody chit-chat)
- Answer questions that get asked (wow!), especially when they’re really obvious and numbered and bolded in an attempt to draw attention to their importance
- Refrain from sending a canned response that has nothing to do with what was being asked. There’s no way that this company or industry is so busy that it can’t customize their e-mails. Or, you know, read them.
- Remember the person’s name, especially seeing as it’s in the e-mail address (although I can totally see how someone would confuse ‘Jen’ with ‘Mandy’, as happened in my case)
- Avoid pretending to be the client’s best friend / sorority sister / 12-yr old daughter by using fake, overly excited language and punctuation marks (“Hi Jen!!!! Thanks so much for your request!!!! This is going to be such a fantastic investment for you, I just know it!!!! LOL!!!”)
9 Oct 2005
I told this story to some people the other night so it's all fresh in my brain and ripe for making it even more public. So here I go:
Back in 1995, a friend of mine was working through a student co-op program in her MP's (Member of Parliament) office. Basically, she had to answer phone calls from the constituents who wanted to bitch about the government. As you can imagine, she got a lot of calls from old people, angry people and the kind of people that believe that anything that interests them, from health care to the temperature of McDonald's apple pies, is a "right."
Anyway, in 1995 Canada was hopping with debate on account of the Quebec Referendum. For those that can't quite remember, the Quebec Referendum was a public vote in the predominantly French-speaking province of Quebec that asked the people if they wanted to move toward a process that would allow them to be separate and sovereign from Canada. The most memorable thing about it was immediately after the votes came in, the leader of Quebec and the separatist movement, Jacques Parizeau, got all drunk and blamed immigrants and ethnic people for the loss, on live television. This was right on par with Canadian politics because getting wasted and making crazy statements is a favourite among the leaders of our provinces.
So that's the background. During the time leading up to the vote a very angry (and probably old) man called the MP office where my friend worked and started blasting her about how ungrateful and horrible Quebec is for even considering leaving Canada. The man continued on and on and on to the poor 16-year old volunteer (who was working for an MP in ALBERTA, not Quebec) about what wretched people these separatists were until he was pretty much spent.
"You know what," he finally sputtered, "it comes down to just one thing."
"And that is?" my friend asked.
"If English was good enough for Jesus Christ, it's good enough for them bastards," and he promptly hung up the phone.
And that, my friends, is the logic of a politically-interested voter. If anything should encourage you to lose the apathy when it comes to voting and politics, it’s the knowledge that this guy and a handful of his friends are more than willing to make the decision for you.
It’s been a few days since I last blogged (sorry), although it hasn’t been for lack of interest but largely lack of time. I also have something a bit big going on (good big!) that I need to hold off on posting about for the moment and that certain something is part of the reason why I’m so busy right now.
Anyway, here’s a little recap of what’s been going down between Wednesday and today:
- Celebrities seen in person: 3
- Delicious potluck dinners had with friends from high school: 1
- Dreams that involved Buffy characters: 3
- Dreams that involved Rob Schneider: 0
- Instances I realized it was too damn cold to wear open-toe shoes anymore: 3
- Instances I didn't care because my open toes are too darn cute: 2
- Conversations with my parents: 2
- Times I heard “don’t just think outside the box, there is no box”: 3
- Times I wanted to start kicking nuts: 3
- Career decisions made: 1
- Tears shed while laughing at Jon Stewart’s performance at Massey Hall: 7
- Lovely guests that had to endure our Futon From Hell: 2
- Times Jim from Martha Apprentice was captured making his ‘I’m disgusted’ face: 4
- Times Martha kicked ass by overruling the boardroom nominees: 1
- Instances I overheard a conversation that included “It’s been a while since I took biology, but I’m pretty sure that birds get a visit from Aunt Flo too”: 1
- Drinks had: 17 (AA anyone?)
- Weight Watcher Points Consumed: I AM FUCKED?
5 Oct 2005
Yesterday when I was walking home, this little skeezy guy was taking out his trash and felt the need to cat call me.
“Mmm mmmm,” he said, making exaggerated mouth smacking noises, “Looookin’ gooood. Mmmm…Yahhh,” as he eyed me up and down very obviously.
*Insert yacking barf noise here.*
For the record, I was not “lookin’ good.” I was carrying heavy bags of Diet Pepsi for the addict at home, feeling very sweaty and pissy from my walk and was trying to push myself through the thigh burn. It was the end of a humid day, a day that involved me spilling some of my Lean Cuisine pizza on my top and cleaning some miscellaneous dirt from under my fingernails with a thumbtack. I was not a heavenly vision and really just wanted to get home, unnoticed and unoggled. His comments, while supposedly positive, only made me feel more gross and annoyed.
Even worse, the remarks were coming from a man that looked to be my height (men who are my height = gross, perverted, dirty midgets) whose hands had just been making busy with GARBAGE. Ooh baby.
What is it that these men expect us to do when we they say these things to us?
Do they think we’re flattered? Do they think we’ll turn and be like “Hey, thanks! You’re not so bad yourself – wanna go for a drink sometime?” I’d bet that they actually know that it makes most of us feel weird and they get off on our repulsed reaction because, for them, at least it’s a reaction. These dudes probably get ignored by women on a regular basis and will take anything they get, even if it’s negative.
I think next time it happens I’ll stop and ask.
4 Oct 2005
Tuesday = weigh in day. Today, my friends, I sadly report a gain in my girth. A 1.4lb gain to be exact. Yesterday I sneaked on the scale and was down .2 lbs, but not this morning. All the different techniques to step on scale (feet close together, feet far apart, feet making a ‘v’) didn’t make the weight go away.
The main culprit for this sneaky gain was probably the gourmet meal Patrick and I enjoyed late last night:
We began with an appetizer of savoury salt & vinegar chips that danced in our mouths like bold, crisp butterfly wings. Our entrée was a feast for the both the eyes and palate. Boiled to perfection, we dined on the finest hotdog weiners, nestled in fluffy white Wonderbread buns. Each hotdog was garnished with delectable Heinz products that were purchased at a charming convenience store in the neighbourhood. Always the food connoisseur, Patrick added whimsy to his meal in the form of generous amounts of mayonnaise. For dessert, we were treated to a mouth-watering handful of chocolate chips that melted in our palms with delicious excitement. The meal was complimented by a bottle of intensely rich, oaky red wine that was not only a treat for the taste buds, but also the wallet (eight bucks!). All this was enjoyed in the reclined position on our couches while watching the heroic and meaningful adventures of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on DVD. 5 Stars.
3 Oct 2005
Pretend you have some place to go. Some place new. Some place that you absolutely must be at by 2pm. Pretend you rely on the Toronto Transit Commission. If you’re me, this means that you need to leave wayyy earlier than you should because, without fail, the TTC will FUCK YOU OVER.
Ways in which the transit system tried to sabotage me today:
* Had to wait for my connecting subway for about 5 minutes (average is about 1 to 2 minutes)
* The fucking subway STOPPED SERVICE and unloaded everyone at Runnymede Station. Once we all got off the subway, we had to wait about 7 minutes for a new one to come get us
* The subway did an exaggerated pause at Old Mill station. Sitting us there for 4 minutes (average is about 15 seconds)
* Got to my transfer station (Islington) and SURPRISE! I missed the bus I intended by catch by 2 minutes
* Had to wait 20 minutes for another bus
* Once the bus came, the driver went on his break. In other words, I got to stand there, looking at my watch every 2 seconds while waiting for the bus that was idling right in front of me to get a driver
* Because the subway was ‘double filled’, so was the bus. This meant that every other stop had people ‘dinging’ to get off. This = time
The end result? I reached the doors of my intended destination with 6 minutes to spare (ie: exactly on time, but god, did I ever stress out). Had I had my way with all the early-leaving, I would have got there half an hour early, but would have spent that time in the lobby preening my hair, thinking of nice things to say and calming the fuck down.
I need a car.
30 Sep 2005
I recently took an online aptitude test. I've probably taken about six of these in my lifetime, starting at the age of 12 and the number one answer has always, always been the same:
Clergy / Nun / Pastor
What's funny is that these tests never ask you "Are you religious?" "Is your faith important to you?" or "How do you feel about being celebate?" – which I think would be just a bit of a factor for someone deciding if they want to work for THE Man.
Being agnostic pretty much rules the life in the clergy out unless I chose to go on to form the Church of Uncertainty or the Cynical But Cautiously Hopeful Of An Afterlife Temple.
It does make me wonder what about me seems so suitable for the clergy, despite that whole lack of religion thing, so I made a Pro-Con List:
* Get to hear people's secrets (not just at confession, but I bet all those pews offer some good coverage for eavesdropping)
* Get to impart advice all the time (wee!)
* Instant respect without having to kill people
* Can make up silly rules like "no dancing to rock and roll music" and base it on something-or-other to do with the devil. Then get into a rumble with some new kid from the city that just wants to cut loose and kick off those Sunday shoes
* All stain-glass, all the time
* If you testify at a trial, everyone HAS to believe you (Mwahahaha)
* I could get people to call me "Father" and later joke "Who's your daddy now?"
* Finally could start identifying with the characters on 7th Heaven
* Your friends would feel bad swearing or making sex jokes around you
* Old people would probably always be hovering around you
* Major dry-cleaning bill from all of those exorcisms
* Being lumped in the same pile with the "crazy" church types
* Your parish would be weirded out to see you at the grocery store in your low-rise jeans and clingy top.
* Lots of weekends would be wasted doing weddings and funerals, oh – and that mass thing on Sunday
* Having to keep kicking out those freeloading Mamas & Papas during the winter months
* Would start identifying with the characters on 7th Heaven
You know, that pro list is lookin' pretty sweet. Maybe I need to find me a religion that mostly fits and get those resumes out …
29 Sep 2005
I’m in a mood to rant about some work experiences, but because I’m committed to keeping my job, I won’t. What I will do is bitch about this Jim dude from the Martha Apprentice show because he exhibits some qualities that I can’t stand seeing in any corporate culture.
So this is just about Jim. From the show. Just him, got it?
Jim is an untalented, loud-mouth douche bag. I can accept that some people are full of crap and utterly useless in most regards, but what destroys me is that our society has a masochistic tendency to award these ego-inflated fools with jobs, money, promotions and camera-time on national television.
This Jim guy needs to be punched in the throat. He thinks so much of himself that he’s actually delusional. His internal dialogue probably consists of his own booming voice saying things like "YOU. ARE. THE MAN!" while songs from the Top Gun soundtrack play in the background.
He’s one of these jackasses that can’t remember what it’s like to say something genuine, disagree with the boss to the boss’s face or actually listen to what someone else is saying without using that person's air-time as a chance to prepare what he wants to say.
On Martha, he’s picked Dawn as his arch-nemesis and literally talked/ranted/brown-nosed his voice hoarse over it. People like Jim try to create group-enemies so that everyone else is distracted from the fact that he sucks and offers nothing to the team. Jim is the type that will echo everything a boss says when the boss says it and act like he’s been saying those things all along. In reality, he’s never even thought anything close to what the boss said (let alone been expressing it to a team) and has only been filling the air with pointless, vague buzz-phrases like "synergy, people - let's see some synergy!" or "hey, don't just think outside the box - think as if there is no box to begin with" and punctuating these sentences with finger pistols and clicky mouth sounds.
I already liked Dawn (her favourite saying is “you can’t polish a turd” – how can you not like that?) but Jim's dislike for her makes me like her more. I’m thinking that Jim knows that Dawn, with all her turd knowledge, can see and smell a bullshitter when it’s before her and this threatens Jim. I want her to take Charles's gnawed, damp cigars and shove them up Jim's over-exposed nostrils. Faster dawnycat, kill kill!
And the clincher? The sign that this man is true evil? He wore a blazer with jeans in this episode. I bet you a vat of decoupage glue that he’s envisioning Dawn with brown nipples (just follow his snarkville gaze!):
I hate him! I hate him! I hate him! ARRRRHHRHHRHRHRHHRHRGGGH!!!!
You see, TV just really riles me up.
28 Sep 2005
On the walk home after my birthday, Patrick and I came across a Planned Parenthood centre. For whatever reason, I felt compelled to stand by its sign and do my ‘I’m pregnant’ pose. Patrick took a picture of it which is now gracing his website (and now mine). I get why I would stick my gut out, but what I don’t understand is the face that I’m making:
Apparently, in my mind, pregnant women glare at you while sucking in their cheeks, pushing out their lips and doing something really weird with their nose that is reminiscent of Michael Jackson (circa 1982? 1984? I don’t have my Face of Michael Jackson Flowchart with me) that make them look kinda unhuman. For some reason, that’s my impersonation of a pregnant woman and I don’t know why.
Maybe I'm pretending that I've been hired as a big warning sign to spook slutty teens: "Not using protection? THIS IS WHAT YOU'LL LOOK LIKE, TRAMPY!"
I don’t know. I’m a mystery to even myself.
If it wasn’t for the short lifespan and garbage eating, I think I would very much enjoy being a fly – just so that I could hang out on that proverbial wall and casually listen to other people’s conversations all day.
Rather than pray to Mother Teresa, Pappa Smurf or whoever it is that reincarnates people into creatures, I have found my eavesdropping salvation via iPod. All you need to do is sit somewhere in public, pop your headphones on, put a crossword puzzle in front of you and let the listening begin. The key is to put the iPod volume to nadda and tap your pencil or straw to a beat so that people think that you’re very consumed by your music. If you do this, the people around you will carry on with their ridiculous private conversations right in front of you, completely unaware of the fact that you are feverishly listening and noting every syllable for future blogging.
Once, two late-twenties/early-thirties guys plunked down at table near me one morning to enjoy coffee and fatty baked goods. The conversation started off normally enough and I was about to turn on my iPod for real when the guy wearing a blazer and jeans (that’s right – blazer – not a jacket – a blazer - with jeans. On a man. Not in 1984) started to bitch about a woman he was seeing.
Blazer Man: Yah, I guess I put her on too high a pedestal. She just seemed like the total package.
Non-Blazered Man: Sure.
Blazer Man: I’m at the point where I want something more serious, long-term – but things have to be just right, ya know?
Non-Blazered Man: *Grunt/Mumble Noise*
Blazer Man: It’s just that …
He looks around to see if it’s safe to talk. I remember again to tap my pen to a beat to comfort him and he looks satisfied with this and continues.
Blazer Man: It’s just that her nipples are really brown, man.
Non-Blazered Man: Ugh! That sucks.
Blazer Man: I know!
When I heard that, I had to try real hard not to twist my face and blow my cover. It would never occur to me that nipple colour would be a big concern to men, let alone a deal-breaker.
Blazer Man: You’d never guess it, eh? If she was black, yah, I could imagine it – prepare myself, but not her.
Non-Blazered Man: That sucks.
Blazer Man: I guess another one bites the dust, eh?
And they say there aren’t any good guys left.
26 Sep 2005
Confession Time: One thing I love about staying home on a work day is being able to watch Dr. Phil.
With that admission, I’m sure any respect/coolness stock I had garnered from anyone out there has just plummeted like a Balrog in the Mines of Moria *oh, and there it drops again* - and I do understand. That’s why it’s called a guilty pleasure.
But c’mon! When the man isn’t making analogies that compare people’s personal issues with possums or rocking chairs or whatever the hell Southern thing he’s going on about, I do think he makes sense. I guess I just like that there’s a guy “tellin’ it like it is” and laying the smack-down on effed up, deluded people who go on national TV thinking they’ll get sympathy / vindication / attention / record deals from sharing their dirty, crazy laundry. If you want to be coddled, go on Judge Judy, chumps.
The thing is, Dr. Phil really just blabs opinions most sane people would also formulate for themselves. What makes him interesting (or maybe, what is a tell-tale sign that society has gone to pot) is that he somehow has been able to build a multi-million dollar empire by offering common sense commentary. How bizarro is that?
Yesterday was another day of tennis, but this time it was singles matches. Needless to say, I got destroyed by my opponents but somehow still found it fun. I’m going to snoop around and see what kind of indoor tennis clubs there are in town so that come next season, I’ll surprise the shit out of everyone by being mediocre rather than full-out crappy.
Today I’m paying for my tennis-ways. The body parts that are sore are as follows:
* Back (upper & lower)
* Scalp (my headband was too tight and all pull-y on my hair)
My body (minus my left arm and hand which didn’t do anything but mock the rest of me) feels like I went hard-core mountain climbing when in reality all I did was chase a ball around for a combined time of maybe an hour. I am one big heap of pathetic.
How is it that as a child, I could run around ALL DAY, pull myself up on monkey bars and head-butt into pretty much anything and everything – and be totally fine and act as if nothing significant happened – yet as a supposedly stronger version of myself (el adult), the simplest show of movement takes me straight to Acheville and becomes blog-worthy?
24 Sep 2005
Today is almost as good as my actual birthday because I get to roll around in birthday leftover goodness.
Patrick has a wee hangover, so we opted to spend the day in watching loads of Buffy, eating point-smothered food (I am sooo gaining weight this week) and looking at all my lovely presents.
I was quite spoiled this year. I’m the proud owner of a new tennis racquet and some tennis related paraphernalia, gift certificates to such wonderful places as Banana Republic and The Keg, roses, orchids, perfume, a kitty brooch, a necklace, some DVDs I’ve been wanting, a bit o’ cash, a fondue set, some bubbly and a fancy-shmancy digital camera from my parents (which still has to arrive as it was back-ordered).
I was also spoiled in people. Some very near and dear types came out to raise a drink in my honour (or just used it as an excuse to get wasted – which is still wonderful and something I wouldn't judge) – so many thanks to my Patrick, Nils, Thomas, Simon, James, Anissa, Will and Boris. Merci beaucoup.
I'll pop some pics up in a bit. Right now, too lazy. Maybe this means it's the Year of the Sloth?
23 Sep 2005
Today is September 23rd. Since I don’t normally mention the date in my blog, it’s gotta mean something really significant, right? Ha, ha – WRONG, YOU IDIOT. It’s merely my birthday. My 27th birthday, in fact. I think twenty-seven sounds like a pretty good year, despite what so many rock legends managed to do to themselves at this age. I promise I will neither increase my drug usage nor take any Neil Young lyrics too much to heart this year, just to prove to everyone that twenty-seven isn’t so bad.
To celebrate, a small handful of friends and I will be having dinner and drinks at a local restauranto-bar thing. I expect to have a nice, mature, casual time. Not too much fuss. Of course, now that I’ve said that I’ve just jinxed the plan and will somehow end up drunk to the tits and singing Chicago’s “Glory of Love” in public – possibly into a microphone (but now that I’ve said THAT, we’re back to the casual evening I’m intent on having. Excellent.).
Bonne fête to my fellow are-we-Virgos-or-are-we-Libras? birth date sharers.
That startled, wet monkey above would be me nearly 27 years ago.
Happy Birthday, baby!
22 Sep 2005
Because a lot of agencies, advertisers and companies with money are doing their 2006 budgets right now, everyone wants to schmooze them with launches and media blitz things that involve booze, cute appetizers and gift bags. Due to the nature of what I do, I get invited to some of these now and again. However, I always manage to beat the glam out of these things by doing something totally uncouth.
Take the other night, for example. I only knew a small handful of people at this particular launch but since people are in a mingle-mood, it’s perfectly acceptable to chat with people you vaguely know and then get introduced to other people and chat with them, and so on. Since not everyone is comfortable making small chat with strangers, the free booze comes in real handy.
Anyway, I had just finished inhaling some mighty tasty shrimp and my second glass of wine when the person I was with excused himself to greet some la-de-da type. Now, I’m quite content to be on my own usually – but it can feel pretty darn awkward to stand in the middle of the room with a (third) glass of wine with nothing really to do (or pretend to do) as people are yapping in clusters around you. So, I decide to walk around ever so casually in the hopes of bumping into someone I know.
I’m making my way through the crowd when I hear a man say my name (my full name) very clearly (almost slowly). So I turn to the voice to see two men looking at me smiling and (gah) I have no idea who they are.
Of course, in Schmoozeland, you can never admit that, so I look at them all excited-like and am like “Hi! How are you!?!” They politely greet me as I desperately start racking my brain to figure out who they are. Finally I remember that one of them is this super flake I dealt with 2 years ago from a local theatre company. Supremely proud of myself, I start asking about the theatre.
The guy looks at me like I’m on crack. Shit. I am so wrong on who this guy is and now I’m going to have to admit it. “Sorry, you just look so much like BLAH who's a producer over at BLAH.”
“No, I'm not. Actually, I don’t think we know each other at all,” he says to the crazy lady.
“Oh. Sorry! You just seemed familiar," I say. "And actually – err, I thought you called me over, so I just assumed ...."
He gets this embarrassed look on his face, "Hah - not really. I was just asking my friend here why someone" [gesturing very obviously toward a woman nearby] "would bother bringing such a big purse to a little event like this.” I then notice the poor dear was schlepping what looked like a garbage bag with a strap under her arm.
“And I said,” his snotty-faced friend quipped, “maybe we should ask [My Full Name],” as he eyed my perfectly-fine-and-not-at-all-too-large-purse-thank-you-very-much and NAME TAG.
Rather than belting them right there, I ended up just giggling and trying to act all ‘happily appalled’ (“Oh, you two are EVIL!”). I shortly thereafter saw my fantastic and exciting imaginary friend waving to me from the other side of the room, so I excused myself to meet up with her.
Naturally, these two dragonladies had taken their nametags off earlier in the evening so I can't even do my normal act-of-revenge (Googling them and placing their e-mail addresses on every spam list imaginable).
I'm so not cut out for this crap.
21 Sep 2005
Take this Zoloft ad, for instance. I'm not belittling anyone that deals with depression (and if you feel personally offended, I earnestly apologize, it wasn't my intent) – but these ads are warped.
Let's look, step by step:
This little dude, who appears to be a WKRP-listener named Molly, is content. She is one with the bee. If looking at a bee makes you smile, you're a Zoloft success story.
Molly has the two factors that make every woman feel happy and complete: a season she likes and male companionship. But this must be pre-bee Molly because for some reason she's not happy. Huh? Doesn't she know that everyone is supposed to be happy all the time? SOMETHING'S WRONG.
Molly's identical twin boyfriend has noticed that she no longer jumps up and down with unbridled joy at his presence, so SOMETHING MUST BE WRONG. And it must be Molly's fault.
I'd like Molly to name one hard-covered book that would talk about Zoloft. Name ONE, Molly. Oh, you can't? I bet I know why – it's because you learned about Zoloft in a magazine, you liar! You just don't want to admit you get your "facts" about a serious medical condition from an ad that was sitting next to an article entitled "How Low Can Your Blouse Go?"
Because our society it so fucked up, Molly and her co-worker, who I have named Droner, talk designer drugs around the water-cooler. What happened to talking about … god what do people talk about around a water-cooler? Survivor? Anyway, naturally, Droner is plugging Zoloft pretty heavily – probably because he doesn't want Molly to just take a break, go on stress leave, and have the boss dump Molly's work on Droner. Ah, yes, Droner has it all down to a science now: Get Molly on Zoloft. Molly keeps working. Less work for to Droner. Droner gets more water-cooler time. Droner hearts Zoloft.
Never in my life have I ever seen a doctor wear one of those head things besides in episodes of The Flintstones. Is it an egg? Is it a head lamp? Is he spelunking (maybe he’s Molly’s gyno?)?
Why is this all about the doctor and the boyfriend noticing a change in Molly? What does Molly think? Hey, Molly. Molly! MOLLY! Yes, you. Tell me; are you one with the bee?
Yarg. That is SUCH as Sex and the City finale.
It looks like Molly got a happy ending, but when I turned the page, it seems as though there's actually a director's cut to this story:
BAM! Holy crap. I won't summarize all of it, but it seems like there was a lot more to Zoloft than Molly’s story cute-sied up for us. Suicide, infertility, 'abnormal bleeding' (as opposed to the everyday bleedings, I suppose?), seizures … man, I can see why Droner didn't mention those things to Molly.
What's that? Droner didn't know all the facts on Zoloft?
Geez, despite all of Droner's wisdom, maybe he didn't actually know what he was talking about. Now that you mention it, Droner isn't all that qualified to diagnose a condition and recommend a specific drug for it … isn't he the guy that takes, like, five water-cooler breaks a day? But he somehow knew all of Zoloft’s key messages … Just like Molly (and me! And you!), I bet he learned about Zoloft in a magazine … Hmmm, maybe drug companies shouldn't be advertising drug options to everyday people because ….? Because?
Oh, right, everyday people don't know shit about pharmaceuticals. What everyday people do know lots about is shopping, and when a consumer decides they need something, they'll ensure they get it. Perhaps, like Molly, they'll find out more facts on their own, self-diagnose and then insist to their doctors that they need said drug (who do we really think brought up Zoloft first in the doctor's office, hmm? Maybe Zoloft-hungry Molly?). Oh, Pfizer, how crafty of you!