Moving is so much fun

I found 14 cat toys under the stove.

This is a test of the emergency Usher system

Lots of dialogues

The GGW weekend (the expected 30 hours, all told) was about as wild as could be. We actually did discuss the merits of different moisturizers. A few of the ladies got a massage from a tall, lanky, pretty young professional masseuse -- damn her tall lanky prettiness and lack of visible bulges or wrinkles. I did not get kneaded, because I didn't have the money. Also, I don't like people touching me. Also, I can spend $55 on food and it will last longer than one hour.

Since I've just now decided that almost nobody IRL will be allowed to read this, especially RL friends, here are some of my dialogues from that weekend.

- The coffee sucks. People think this is coffee? Oh, right -- we're in Ontario.
- The hot tub is full of hot jetty goodness that I imagine could be a lot of fun if you were alone.
- My sleeping quarters: the Hostess's teen's room. I don't merit a comfy couch or a pull-out bed. I get anime posters and a chart on Kamasutra positions.
- The lady who wanted 11 kids and is now 50 with no kids has plenty of advice for those of us with kids.
- What's with the baby talk, 45-ish other lady? How has your husband managed not to kill you in your sleep thus far?
- They all have more wrinkles than I do.
- Everyone's all excited over how much weight someone has lost. She still has a few 10s to go.

God, that sounds catty. But this is all the shit I never say out loud, see? Instead of letting it fester, I loose it hereupon unto this blog. It's very cathartic.

Shout-out to my sib smkeatr, Brampton's hottest firefighter EVER. He's the first family member to get the URL to this-here-thing. I know smk is the very soul of discretion, so I can trust him. Also, we share an affinity in our feelings about the Stork.

*sigh* Yeah, she's pushing 77, but does that give her license to slag me at every opportunity?

Any more dialogues? Well, yes. It's been a week, after all... there's lots of stuff.

I'm moving into a new house in... ack... four days, up in the mountains. (They're pretty low-range as far as mountains go, but hell, it sounds good, eh?) If I weren't me, I'd be sick with jealousy at my good fortune. Nice house, lakeside, heated indoor pool, jacuzzi, view out of my bedroom window that makes you want to fall on your knees and weep in gratitude. Four days. Then I turn into a country mouse.

I am moving in with a friend who lives with chronic pain -- life dealt her a bad card a few years ago in the form of a spinal injury. But one of my (secret) mandates is to get her to stop binge-eating. She is a dear, sweet, generous soul but she is digging her own grave with her teeth. I do not want to fall into the "saviour" role and chastise her for what she eats; I have been trying to lead by example during my many visits, and will continue to do so. This requires much biting of one's own tongue when one sees $200 worth of imported German chocolate disappear in the space of a few days.

So: one of my ongoing dialogues up there goes something like this:

Me: (watching a TNG rerun) This is a classic episode. ("Put the box of wheat thins down! An entire box of veggie thins per day, even with 37% less sodium, does not count as the recommended daily portion of actual vegetables!")
Her: Munch, munch.

I have to be devious. Devious can be fun when accomplished in small doses. But I can't help but wonder how much tongue I'll have left in 6 months.

No cougars here.

Off to suburban Ottawa for the next 30 hours to spend time with a gaggle of girls. As I told Kat, our hostess calls it the Girlz Gone Wild weekend. If we get really crazy, the application of toenail polish may be involved... and possibly facials! My head spins at the insanity of it all. Me, I want a hot tub soak or 10, and I hope they have good coffee.

I welcome myself back

I got rid of the old blog because it detailed 3 years of addiction and frankly, I shudder even to think of it.

Nobody knows at this very instant that this new blog exists. I shall whiz through all my regular reads and let them know, however. Then I can welcome back all the Cs and Ks -- very odd how many of my old blog-buddies have similar names -- if they deign to return and read.

Other than them, this will be so restricted, even my own mother won't be allowed to read it. She didn't like me even admitting I have a mother, so how paranoid is that? Maybe from now on I'll call her The Stork. Even though she'll never read this.

Aaiit, so here' s the deal: I have no idea what this will be about, except I do carry on an awful lot of private conversations in my head, generally aimed at annoying strangers. I will not pull too many punches, although I will strive not to offend. I will allow myself to use bad words, because I do it in real life. I'm tired of censoring myself. I think a well-placed "fuck" when used for emphasis is really good.

Just remember: these are my thoughts, everyone has thoughts (I think), and therefore they will be here. I lost my first entry somewhere on my computer, but this will do for now.

Or maybe not...

They don’t get it until you spell it out

With a spike through the head. That men can really be so clueless is a slight shock to me, because I figured that after rejecting his advances – first gently, then violently pulling away – he’d get it, but no. I thought my body language was clear. I thought my continuous refusal to put out was clear. I thought that several years – years! – of just-friends was clear.

But no, it took a friend to tell him today that lattégirl is not romantically interested in him, now or ever. I hear he is crestfallen. Now he doesn’t see how we can be friends any longer.

How very Age Fourteen.

Now what am I going to do with the Christmas presents I got him? They’re all so nice, I’d like to keep them myself.