Bow to the Queen

What do the Queen and Santa Claus have in common? Me.

BOO!

That’s right. There is a direct line of divinity extending from the Queen (‘cause she’s royalty, she’s gotta be first), then to Father Christmas and then finally to yours truly.

Am I royalty? I’d like to think I am, but no. I am an extraordinary soul in an ordinary body living in a crazy-ass world. It happened this past Sunday. I knew I would see the Queen, if not from afar, but I would have a cheery hello and a jaunty wave.

I was at the horse races for the afternoon – the Queen’s Plate – and the track was full of suits, dresses and plumage. Hats. I wore one, the Queen wore one. Even the bathroom attendant wore one, although more utilitarian than fashion plate.

My friend The Girl and I were on our way home, hats flapping in the wind racing into the car through the sunroof. We were taking a detour to Acton to feed and water a friend’s cat when I was distracted by a chin of white. I looked, looked again and then looked a third time. It was Santa and he was riding a 10-speed. He was also wearing shorts and high top sneakers but it was the chin of white and the hat, a helmet, that attracted my second and third looks.

I think it was payback from the powers that be since all of my horses either came in second or last. That's right, I went in with $30 and left with $2 in change. Since I was betting $2 at a time, even if I had won, it would not have amounted to much.

But now that I've seen the Queen AND Santa in one day, I think my luck is a-changin' so I'm heading out to the casino. Either that or a craps game somewhere. I'll wear my lucky hat.

By the power of Greyskull

The Man loves my rings, and one in particular. He calls it my Greyskull ring and has often put it on his pinky finger, raised his hand in the air and proclaimed “By the powers of Greyskull.” Nothing ever happens, although I wish Skeletor would reign down on his blockhead noggin and give him a right flogging. Imagine my surprise, however, when I stumbled upon this website today, courtesy of The Bloggess that will upload a full front facial photo of you and show you what you would look like in 20 years. Me on a good, non-drug induced hazy day: one hot Puma, albeit with one eye smaller than the other. Me after 20 years of hard knocks and hard hitting drugs: Skeletor. Perhaps he’d been summoned after all.

Because I’m not shy and can’t quite believe the resemblance to He-Man’s arch-nemesis, I will post the picture. The good one first ‘cause I am, after all, a little vain. And then you get the goods. The Skeletor. The Skeletor with the love of the wine and a little nose candy.

And now for Skeletor...

You see what I do for you?!?

Playing the waiting game

I'm trying to be proactive in this whole job search thing. I still have not heard from the interview I had a month ago and I am going stir crazy. But, it doesn't mean I've stopped applying for other jobs since I can't and shouldn't put all my eggs in one basket. But this one basket - the interview - is a mighty fine basket.

The whole glass half full thing? Not working for me at the moment. I try. I really do, but when you despise going into the office at your present job day in and day out and working until 8 p.m. almost every evening, it's hard to suck it up and smile.

Today was harder than most. The office was in a yelling mood. The boss was yelling at his right-hand person and shooing away another colleague, dissuading them from entering into a conversation with a client. He actually shooed her away. Shoo, Shoo, now, go away. You're not welcome here. In front of the client. How rude. And that is how it is in Cell Block C. The owner yells first and then claims he's not yelling. He's just over-excited. We're told we're lucky to have a job and anyone of us at any time would be fired. I'm just waiting for my pink slip.

The other day, after weeks of putting in overtime every night ('cause we're swamped), my boss approached my friend to ask her if I was having personal issues at home. I guess my dislike of the office is apparent, but not apparent enough for her to attribute it to the working conditions. And, why doesn't she ask me directly? Why doesn't she interact one-on-one and find out where my head is at.

Where it is at is me looking into short term disability, namely stress leave and if I'm elligible. I'm losing it, bloggers. I'm doubting myself left, right and centre and then back again. I despise most people I work with and it takes everything I have to get myself out of bed and ready to head out to work.

And I'm still waiting for that groovy new position that is tailored for me. I know it takes searching, which is what I am doing and will continue to do. I've updated my resume to "sell" myself and my skills even more than it had and I'm combing through every job listing imaginable. And I'm waiting for my second interview promised at the end of the amazing first interview I had over a month ago.

I need to learn patience and perseverance. And that is where I am at.

Karaoke Queen takes it on the road

I know all the words to every Grease song, Neil Diamond's Sweet Caroline and my personal favourite, Fever by one Ms. Peggy Lee. What you didn't know is that this reformed shy girl actually takes to the stage once every week to belt out the tunes. It's like bingo but with a microphone.

You know the obsession. Only people in purple stretch pants and gold chains step up to the mike and either relive their heyday or think they are the next shining star with their next big break right around the corner. And then there's me. Every week.

This week was no exception, but this time I was mobile. Or, I would have been mobile if my friend Celestial would have turned the key in the ignition and actually left the parking lot. He got a new ride a little while ago, a really rockin' SUV with all the bells and whistles including leather seats and a DVD player for those long road trips. Or, at least that's what most people (mainly with kids) use the DVD player and screen for. Not Celestial. He turned his sweet ride into Mobile Karaoke, complete with mikes.

He figured if his home Karaoke DVD works on his home television system it would work in the car. It does and it's even better. Imagine dancing the night away at a club. You're still hyped from the beats and not really wanting to call it a night. Enter Mobile Karaoke. You  rev up the car and your DVD player, make sure the mikes are on and then it's jam time - and not peanut butter and jam.

Driving down the Atlanta highway...
Okay, so we're nowhere near an Atlanta highway. It's the Gardiner, the 427, the 401 and  the 410 but you get the picture. The SUV is The Love Shack and you're singing that your tin roof is rusted. What the hell?!?! Tin roof rusted? Sure, why not. You can duet or go solo and your performance is scored by the brain inside of the DVD. Not bad? Are you kidding me? I nailed Sweet Caroline! Twice. And The Long and Winding Road, but The Love Shack not so much. There was little love there.

The plan is to really take it on the road. Karaoke Road Trip with at least six of our friends (the ride seats seven comfortably). I suggested a bus, but the only bus we could get on short notice and one with a DVD player was one of those short school buses. You never know, we might end up in a lane next to you. If it happens, smile, nod and just accept that we are going to serenade you 'cause that's just how we roll.

Karaoke Queen out.

C is for Chicken...

Guess what, bloggers!?! It's a flippin' miracle today. The second coming. I am home. And, it's before 7:30 p.m., well before darkness hits and I'm sitting at the computer NOT doing ANY work. I'm blogging, which to me, is not work. It's fun. It's connection, it's inter-connectivity. And, it has nothing to do with any wasteful promotional products, unless you count the branded mug from which I am drinking my well-earned, nay, well-deserved Coke Zero. It's a treat and I'm enjoying every minute of it.

The Man made dinner tonight. Poultry. I have to say poultry because the dog goes nuts whenever we mention the C word. No, it's not the C U Next Thursday (it makes me giggle even if it's written out like that). C-H-I-C-K-E-N. Yes, chicken. It's not because he really knows what it is but he thinks whenever we mention the C-word it means that his prized rubber chicken will make an appearance, out of  whatever hiding place we choose. He whines, he cries and he howls. Man, does he howl. I'm not sure if he's howling to let us know he's got a catch or if he's saying "Hurry up and die, why don't you!" This rubber chicken has 50 billion lives. It's like the song that never ends. It's great for him but not so good for us since his play time consists of a screaming chicken and a howling dog, for hours on end or until we tell him to drop it and we go and hide it away again for another month.

So now I'm at a loss for what to do. I might take Kao to the P-A-R-K - the dog park, that is. Or, I might just sit back, drink my Coke Zero in peace and take a long bath. I think the bath is winning out.

That, my bloggy friends, is a post about nothing. It feels great.

Happy mini-Friday!

The bear ate his cell phone and his sense of time

For the past six days, I've been a bachelorette. It's been quiet on the Scribe homefront. With Kao my trusty boxer by my side, I've been hoofing it alone, keeping the home fires burning while The Man has been out in the wilderness, forging for dinner and drinking more than his weight in beer.

But while he's been male bonding by not shaving or showering for days, I had visions in my head of bear attacks, a killer loon or worse, getting lost in the woods while on the hunt for more beer. When he left this past Friday morning, he announced he would see me later, heading out for a four-day fishing trip with the boys. And here is where the difference between men and women became even more apparent.

Four days. A four-day fishing trip. He left on Friday, so in my female mind that meant I would see him Monday night, Tuesday morning at the latest. Four days is four days. What he meant to say was that he would be out fishing for four days straight, communing with nature, or as much nature as possible when you have a propane-fueled fridge-freezer combination and no cell phone service. He forgot to mention that there were two extra travel days - the Friday to drive an hour past Sudbury and a fly-in on a "Beaver" and another two trips by plane and a four-hour car ride.

Now, you know I had to stifle a laugh, a guffaw when I heard he was riding in a Beaver. It's a plane, people, that lands on water because where he was that's all you saw. I saw pictures. It's true. He went to hunt, I mean fish pike, bass and lake trout. Rainbow trout. And the Man landed the biggest fish of the weekend. And while I was proud when he actually set foot inside the house tonight, the last two days all I envisioned were his mauled carcass from the obvious black bear attack that kept him away from home.

I'm a worrier by nature. I come by it honestly. As the Man often says "Your mother came before you." Now if you know my mother, that is not a good thing. But neither are bear attacks. Or worse. According to the Man, that would be running out of beer.

Instead, he got a swift kick to the shins and I got sincere apologies. "I thought I told you we were coming back on Wednesday," he said. "No, you said four days. Never did you mention anything about the Wednesday homecoming. I had no contact with you, no contact with the boys' significant others. No idea when you were slated to go into work." It's tomorrow, by the way, and he's not looking forward to it, especially since I think he's still detoxing. He had chased a rainbow trout with a few onions and a vat of alcohol. Beer. Rum. Two kinds. GoldSchlager. Erg. Gag. I think I just threw up in my mouth.

I think he's going to start the morning with a beer chaser. And another kick to the shin, but the left one this time since I have to keep it balanced. Oh, and I think I'm going to play CDs of lake loons, beavers, moose and bear just to rub it in that he's no longer communing with nature but rather commuting to work. I'll just have to start planning my next vacation with the girls. It won't be flying in to a fishing lodge, but perhaps flying somewhere hot and far far away from the confines of work.

Happy Anniversary, Muthafucka

This year, the parental units, June and Ward Cleaver, will celebrate 50 years of wedded bliss. Or, at least 50 years of my father saying "Yes, dear" and my mother commenting on the state of the dust in the house and how us kids never call, never write. I don't know how they did it but kudos to them, especially when I know how hard it is to keep everything fresh for even a year let alone 50.

This month, I celebrated an anniversary of my own. It's been a year of blogging, of letting the internets into my life and allowing a glimpse of the inner workings of the Scribe. There have been childhood memories, rants and celebrations. There has also been a lot of self discovery. I discovered that I'm not perfect. I discovered that I'm not in the place I want to be and now it's time to make my move.

The first step was to recognize what I could and couldn't control and to put those "basketballs" into the two baskets. Lately, there have been many basketballs all over the place and not in their rightful place. I couldn't control whether my Gusafus lived and died. I could control how I would say goodbye to him and how I could honour him by doing what I could. I have no regrets. The other was the job. It's gotten worse, so bad that I had an all-out cry today, for the desperation of it all and for my part in it. And then I kicked myself and booted myself out of the house and into the embrace of a really good friend who understands lists, baskets and working one step at a time.

FYI, this past Friday I got some news on the work front. No, it's not the second interview that I'm STILL waiting for. This news came from my present job. The good news: In the next two months, I will no longer work for the douchebag of a control freak salesperson who takes condescention (is that spelled right?) to a new level. But, while I will be getting new salespeople to help, the boss informed me that his yelling is justified considering the mistakes I've made on past orders and my attitude towards the douche-canoe. Okay, so my attitude is not great but there's only so much I can take.

Tomorrow is supposed to be a new lease - a slate wiped clean (or is that whipped?). It will be in more ways than the one to which my boss referred. While I will come in with a more confident and assured attitude, I will also work towards bettering myself inside and out. Tomorrow, I will venture to my first yoga class in about two years to de-stress and turn inward to calm the thoughts (read voices) in my head. I will also think positive about the possibility of that second job interview and explore other options so I don't have to stay where I am ultimately not wanted. I will work only my allotted hours and work as efficiently as possible.

Wish me luck, bloggers and Happy Anniversary. It's been a year of changes and honesty. Here's to another year of continued growth. I'm glad I have you on my side.