Stupid . . .

My fridge was broken. For as long as I have lived here the fridge has been broken. And on the dare of my mother I opened it today and took out three rotten things to throw away which had been sitting in there for some months. Like a block of cheese, which was brown and fuzzy.

And then later tonight I inspected the fridge after airing it out and finally found the on switch.

I’m currently trying to figure out how I can have lived this long without a fridge, and why I never noticed the switch before.

My shopping list tomorrow will include butter, juice, condiments, milk, fruit, vegetables, and other perishable items.

I’m excited.

Unfortunately, now my can opener is missing.

Stench, grime, paperwork, and dust

Cleaning this apartment has been a lot like embarking on an archaeological excavation. I haven’t found King Tut’s tomb, but I have found the detrius of several unfinished scripts and video ideas. Re-reading some of them has been terribly delightful, though not inspiring. I can see why most of them didn’t even make it to tape.

I’m also proud to say that I am three days without a cig! I’m so goofily happy about it. I can smell things, taste things, and I’m not so smelly. I’m more kissable too.

Of course I’m cranky as hell and whenever I’m trying to sleep I end up tossing and turning all night. But this will all pass, so they say. The cravings don’t bother me, I haven’t been tremendously triggered yet, but the insomnia is a pain in the butt.

I read today that clearing away the clutter in your home is a way to bring new things into your life. Soooooo, maybe I am finally after many years clearing some room for a girlfriend. Or dates anyway. I’m terribly excited to finally have this mess behind me.

And I will be able to invite someone over and say “Welcome to my gracious bedroom.”

Of course hooking up me t.v., dvd, and vcr is more difficult than it should be. I don’t understand, I thought I had the modulator in the right order. If anyone has tips on which is hooked to what, please let me know. Right now it’s DVD to the modulator to the VCR to the television. Maybe it has to go right to the television? ??? Bloody degree in film and video and I can’t even hook up my dvd player.

fucking EXPENSIVE!

Well, I am finally starting to feel like I’ve got a tenuous hold on things. I’m trying to help turn my life around, by doing self-interested good deeds, like cleaning this sty and quitting smoking! Today marks 24 hours without a cigarette! I am very proud.

I’ve got this theory, this nagging worry, that my smoking was a major factor in not having a girlfriend. I have never had a girlfriend while I’ve been a smoker. And I’ve been a smoker for a very long time!

Being smelly is not fun for other people. Oh sure, you get used to it, but whew, around everyone else you’re a walking ashtray.

The huge big reason behind quitting though is that it is fucking EXPENSIVE! Apparently I spend over two thousand dollars a year on cigarettes alone. And I’m not even a really heavy smoker. I mean what a waste of money.

Moving In . . . Still

I have been taking advantage of my unemployed status to clean and organize my apartment in between internet searches for jobs. Yesterday I attacked the dirty dishes, the gross countertop, and my very cluttered desk. Today I was going to unpack my cds when I finally found a crucial piece of my bookshelf. La la la, moved things around, and now it’s up! All I have to do is fill it with crap and hopefully these boxes of THINGS will finally be out of my space.

I’m excited by the prospect of finally having a home I can invite friends over to. And perhaps even a LADY friend. I’ve greatly missed having a place to bring someone back to where they won’t start thinking there is something very very wrong with me.

I applied for a job at eBay yesterday, being a customer service representative. I haven’t heard back yet. Ugh, I really have to work on my resume again. I have a bazillion different versions for various jobs, but some are woefully out of date.

I’m tired of being poor. But maybe having a clean and organized apartment will perk me up.

Julie Andrews is a Lesbian!

My Mary Poppins crush has been sated. I’m kinda lazy today, so I’ve decided to post a link. Go read some more celebrity gossip, it’s better than People!
Get me Gossip!

Safe, Insane, and Consensual

I have the fortune of having friends who are the best conversationalists. This morning over poached eggs on toast we debated the term Safe, Sane, and Consensual, and whether it excludes people diagnosed with mental illnesses from leather communities.

I think I was thinking about it because I had been reading an article by Pat Califia in my old copy of the Second Coming. The topic was abuse within the leather community, which was pretty challenging in itself. People don’t want to admit it, but there’s some fucked up shit that goes down in our community. Abusers are in every community, and in a minority community why not use our small networks to protect people from them? Anyway, la di da, skip along, reading this article, when I come across this sentence talking about dangerous people and how “there are some women with mental illnesses,” implying they shouldn’t be in the leather community.

I think.

I was tired and didn’t think about the book until the next day over the eggs.

“Does Sane mean you can’t play if you’re mentally ill? Are bipolars banned from the play party?”

“I think Sane has been used to mean you’re not drunk or stoned, but maybe you’re right. That’s awful.”

I doubt very much this means I have to bring a note from my doctor saying I’m sane enough to play, but I do wonder about this linguistic exclusion of Crazy folk. It’s just another way to demonize us. And I wonder if there are people getting booted out of the leather community for being out as Crazy.

I wonder if I will get booted out.

Gross. And Funny.

My apartment is gross, and the mice are starting to chew important things like 16 mm negatives and such. ARG! I hate the mice! And I miss my rat. I miss him in his spectacular health though, and the end he was pretty old and scrawny. Sweet little feller. I did love him. The irony is a few days later a close friend also lost her fuzzy friend. We ate KFC in remembrance. Why KFC I’m not sure except I was hungry and that was the closest place.

When I was in high school there was a KFC parked conveniently across the street. The scent of KFC would waft across traffic and settle on hungry teenagers with disposable income. I actually didn’t eat there all that much. I ate in the cafeteria. Once I was gorging myself on that month’s craving, pizza pretzels, and the girl I would lose my virginity to said she thought I was cute stuffing my face. I didn’t say anything back, because my mouth was full.

We were sort of lab partners in biology class, she oohed and ahhed at my strength ripping open a clam, and then she entertained me by throwing squid legs out the window onto a boy she didn’t like. Now whenever I smell formaldehyde, I think of the absolute wildness of teenage lust.

If I had the chance to go talk to me when I was that age, I think my advice would be to respect women no matter what. Even if you think they’re acting bizarre and ridiculous and maybe even mean, don’t be a jerk back. Have some class in your exit, if you can.

I have a jar of liquid latex on my desk and no one to paint it on.

It is red.

Hmmmm . . .

I want to, no, need to make a video, soon.

And I do have a jar of red liquid latex. Maybe I can tell that story about being the whitest looking kid in the family. And how I wanted my race to show. I tell ya, I was a racially tormented child. Oh well. Someone’s got to live on the borders. We can’t all fit into nice neat little boxes.

I feel like a total borderland creature. Let’s see, would you like a quick run down of what it looks like? I have a vast collection of books practically oozing out of every corner of my apartment. My desk is strewn with fast food containers because my fridge is broken. My pills are staring at me in the face everyday when I sit at the computer so that I’ll remember to take them. Even my computer desk top is a mess. Files and folders and jpgs and mpegs everywhere. And a bunch of goofy wav files.

In the end, there is truly no greater pleasure than the chance to witness a man running down the road with his ass on fire.

How much is that doggie in the window?

I think there are several motivating factors in my life that are leading me to pick a dog for my next pet. For one thing, while the sugar gliders were a cute idea, I’m not too fond of something large and fuzzy leaping onto my face while I’m puttering around the apartment. Plus I would need to feed them monkey food, and I don’t know about your pet store, but mine do not sell monkey food.

Plus, I want to commit to something. I want to say “Okay, I’ll deal with your shit, as long as you give me unconditional love and devotion.” And besides that I’m having weird biological clock ticking and maybe with a dog I could focus all my mothering needs on it. I don’t think I would dress it up though, that’s just a bit weird.

So I’ve been online window shopping for miniature dachshunds.

What else have I been up to? Oh yeah, I watched Rob and Amber Get Married. Boooooring! Where was the tension? It was a disappointment.

Next blog: Will she wake up in time to look for a job? Will her phone ever get reconnected? Will the mess ever be clean!? Stay tuned . . .

Weiner dog

I’ve decided that at the end of the summer, I am getting a weiner dog. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and a mini dachshund would do alright in the apartment I’m living in. Plus various people have offered to be the puppy’s friends, so hopefully when I’m at work he’ll have time with other people, socializing. The last thing I need is a neurotic dog. I think it would be good for me, he’d keep me active, and he wouldn’t die on me in three years.

I really do love dogs. I’m such a dog person. The thing is, I’m a big dog person. I never thought I would consider having a small dog. But the fact is I’m an urban dweller and I don’t forsee myself having the space for a big dog in my near future. And dammit, I want a freakin’ dog. What I’ve discovered in my research is that weiner dogs think they’re bigger than they really are (I would make a weiner joke about here, but I chose not to).

My friends are excited about this turn of events. I’m excited. All I have to do is find a job and get some extra cash to buy a dog. Oh, and clean this god awful apartment. Otherwise I’d be sure to lose the little guy. I’ve been researching nd looking in various ads, checking out the price of my new friend. I even scanned the ads at the BC SPCA. There were some lonely golden retrievers there, which made me sad because that’s the kind of dog I used to have. I can’t believe anyone would give up a golden. They are the sweetest dogs. Mine used to follow my sister around, making sure she didn’t get lost. He was pretty cool.

But I can’t possible give a golden the lifestyle they need. So miniature weiner dog world, here I come!

Special Clive Memorial Tribute

Clive the Fancy Rat, a cream colored terror from the mean pet stores of Montreal, came into my life almost three years ago. He was accompanied by his brother Vincent, who later died of repiratory disease. He was a distinguished animal, watching me survive a manic episode, and finally crossing the country to be here with me in Vancouver. He had to disguise himself as a hamster to be allowed onto the plane. When not battling the discrimination and stigma of being a rat, he enjoyed nothing more than to clean his owner’s ears, poop, and eat headphones and books.

His bad ass reputation began with a series of confrontations with other animals, including cats, Golden Retrievers, and an attacking chinchilla, which was soon seen scampering away with Clive in hot pursuit, mouth full of fur.

While all these acts of petty assaults seemed amusing enough, things came to a head in 2004 when he devoured the miniature hamster of some friends who were rat sitting him, a grisly incident which left him with nary a scratch.

He survived a near euthanization when the vets decided he was going to live, even though he had an awful absess, and an SPCA worker chased me down the street to come back and get him.

Clive mellowed with old age, and never attacked the many mice which roamed the apartment. On the few occasions I fell asleep and left him out, he always went to the same garbage bag to curl up in and sleep.

Bon voyage Clive, and put in a good word for me.