Bacon Hands

It was going to be all pillow fights and underpants. At least that's what I thought it was going to be like when a girlfriend of mine moved in for a month and a half. She moved in last Monday. That evening, in preparation for her arrival, I thought I'd try and con her into believing I was the perfect roommate. I began making curry and rice for dinner, I had cookies baking in the oven and I had the kettle boiling for Tea and Tears. Naturally I was doing 12 other things as well in various corners of my apartment. So when I began smelling burning I rushed to my stove's side. Nothing major, simply the rice frothing over and charring on the element. Pretty standard really. That's when the cookie timer began chiming and simultaneously the kettle started squealing. I began mashing buttons with my fist and dragging things off elements. Finally I took the stopper off the stupid noisy kettle, and plopped it down on the stove top, while making sure to drop my hand through the steam blasting out of the spout.

Oh the agony. It didn't look so bad. But it felt exactly like what it was: a first degree burn.

Naturally I stayed perfectly calm as I vibrated in a state of flux between watching the rice boil over a second time, running my hand under icy water and trying feebly to dial my Life-Line. I chose to relieve the pain via icy water. Then dialled my friend in hopes that her constant accident prone-ness would afford me some knowledge when it came to burns.

No answer. Panic. Internet Diagnosis. Doorbell.

My roomie arrived with some baggage and I just stood there stupidly while my hand continued to cook itself from the inside. I was useless.

In the end there was dinner and there were cookies so it wasn't a total disaster. We ate and I whined. The weekend arrived eventually after fun things like St Patrick's Day celebrations and subsequent hangovers. Over the course of the week, what started as just purple skin began morphing into what looked increasingly like the repulsive stages of frying bacon. I think it was Saturday morning when Roomie was in the kitchen eating her breakfast. I was flopped on the living-room sofa.

"Hey Zee . . . ."

"Yeah?" turning my head to face her

with a piece of charred bacon balancing on her hand "Who am I?"

*hysterics ensue

Since Roomie's comedic attempt I have told her that when the scab does fall off I'm going to leave it on her pillow. That's more like the kind of pillow fight I'm prepared to have. She detests bruises, to the point of gagging. By the time I'm done with her, let's see how she feels about burns.

How was your week?

Lousy. Thank you for asking.

It's getting increasingly difficult to stay positive, never-mind feel like a worthwhile human being.

When asked last Saturday morning if I felt like playing that afternoon, I responded via text (as the tears were showing no sign of letting up anytime soon) "I'm pretty blue, I'll probably just try and unsuccessfully drown myself in the tub I'm too big to fit in."

My friend called me within seconds of me pressing send, and was the lucky recipient of a blubbering blonde on the other end of the line.

For those of you that think I've been @%*$#-ing the dog with this whole job-search thing, you're only half right. It got off to a slow start, what with Lemon abandoning me, the book illustration, and the numerous free-lance fiascos I attempted. Now with X-mas over and being well into the new year, I've tried to eliminate distractions and buckle down.

I thought it was going pretty well until last Saturday morning. After 2 weeks of revising, re-revising, discarding and re-writing I crafted (with the help of the internets and my job-search Guru) the perfect covering letter. I made awkward cold calls to random people in random provinces and scribbled down virtually meaningless names.

Finally, I sent my gem of a CV to a faceless name at "Dream Job". One week later I scored a phone interview. After a decent chat I was offered a second interview taking place the following week here in Vancouver. That interview lasted just over an hour. The next day I got a call for a third interview. I imagine to match the three positions I had applied for. I met two more members of the hiring panel. After almost another hour of talking we ended the interview with my audience joking about me sitting in with them for the remainder of the day's candidates.

Stupidly I thought it was in the bag. Turns out it was in the bag, but it was a bag of shit tied in the middle. A week later I was more than a little surprised to receive a sterile sounding e-mail saying "forget it".

Since then I've been rotating between rolling around on my incredibly inadequate sofa crying my eyes out and drinking too many mimosas. So far March blows. It came in like a lion, and it's teeth have sunk firmly in the back of my neck with no hint of letting go.

Date Night, and why I need to pump iron.

I had a good week last week. Things seem to be happening. Life's chugging along, complete with dates and activities. I was taken out on Thursday for my birthday. My gift was dinner and a movie. After more than one snarky comment my birthday present almost got demoted to Net-flix and Burger King. Somehow I redeemed myself and seeing as there was zilch out near January 29th we went out on February24th. I was snacky and couldn't make the 20 minute trek to 4th Ave. So I was ushered into McDonalds for a warm-up burger. That tided me over till we hit the convenience store for movie treats. Tucked in to the wine-gums immediately. Then we continued wandering to a "real" burger place near the theatre. If I hadn't had my warm-up burger I would have been way fussier than I was. A second burger, wings and poutine followed and left a bloated Z rolling around and groaning in the booth. I was hauled out of there dragging my feet and winge-ing about being over stuffed. We went to the theatre and arrived in the nick of time. If the nick of time was 40 minutes before the curtain went up. We organized our snacks and stretched out over the seats in-front of us. I opened up the Georgia Straight and began reading horoscopes and "I Saw You's" out loud. Turns out someone "Saw" my Date. So popular. No-one EVER "Sees" me. *sigh.

The theatre was empty. Which did not bode well for the film we were about to see. A couple came in and the girl was about to sit in-front of us (reiterating; empty theatre) Her BF whispered for her to move down two seats, she didn't get it. He gently shoved her over. She got it, turned around to face us, apologized and said "He's way better at life than I am." It was awesome. Very cute couple, so considerate AND funny. Joke was on us though, as in place of the thoughtful adorable couple we got two crotchety menopausal fluffy haired women.

That's when I was summoned to haul out the candy bars. I started feebly tearing at the wrappers. My Date looked at me with bewildered affection and said:

"Yeah, you better start going to the gym, if you can't open a bag of candy bars."

I scowled and continued unsuccessfully pawing at the packaging. My date put out his hand and said: "Here, I'll use my brains . . ."

Handing him the candy, he easily tore open the wrapper.

*silence*

Forty seconds pass. "Hey Muscles, you want some?"

The gift of feebleness just keeps on giving. Tune in next week to find out whether I survived my first bout with physical activity.

Angelina Jolie did it 2 years ago.

On a carpet that was an attractive shade of sun-bleached red, the throngs of celebrities began their march toward prestigious recognition, or utter disappointment. Mainly disappointment. Unless you were Colin Firth.

Let's be honest here. There's one reason I watch the Oscars, and one reason only. To tear apart those feeble minded individuals that think their stylists can actually style, and to gush over those who in fact actually have taste.

I'll begin on a positive note (unusual). Cate Blanchett. Her dress was so great that I could even tolerate her canary diamond earrings. And I HATE canary diamonds. Now despite my loathing for these apparently exquisite gems (gagging) the accessory to dress pairing was appropriate, and neither detracted from the other. Then there was Mark Ruffalo's wife; apart from her ridiculous first name (Sunrise), she had everything right. In particular, her gold tassel earrings that peeked out just below her perfect blunt bob. An ensemble to admire, from head to toe.

I wish the same could be said for:

Annette Bening (poorly chosen emerald drops to accompany a matronly flapper style dress)

Marisa Tomei (channelling Katy Keene and having little success, with an ill-fitting bodice and too much tulle. Her earrings appeared to be canary diamond sunbursts, encompassing everything I hate about the gem and were the antithesis of the tasteful Cate)

Reese "Oscar Barbie" Witherspoon (terrible hair piece, partnering with equally terrible emerald earrings)

Sandra Bullock (held a dreadful burgundy crocodile clutch to "match" her average looking red bustle-heavy gown)

On to the men. Russell Brand: Good suit, most things look better with an English accent though, so . . . .

This year the men's favoured accessory was facial hair. And this is a particularly fragile issue for me at the moment. Let's be clear. I am not a fan, unless it's Howard Keel in a 1950's musical. The Oscars were rampant with day-old stubble. Scruff is acceptable, if not fetching, perhaps not for Oscars but nonetheless. The following wore it well:

Robert Downey Jr (natch)

Jude Law (double natch)

Jake Gyllenhaal

Matthew McConaghy (despite patchy tan)

Javier Bardem

Mark Wahlberg

The following wore it horribly:

Christian Bale

I don't care if it is for a part. Run a freakin' comb through it and for god sakes pick out the nits. Speaking of gross looking orange things. Valentino looked typically appalling, in an unflattering shade of orange epidermis. Pulled and stretched so that he bore a striking resemblance to Gary Oldman in Bram Stoker's Dracula. . . . when he portrayed that delicate mix of demon and human.

The overall show? There were pros and cons. Lets focus on the cons, as they seem much more amusing. Montages; normally my favorite part of the Oscar telecast. The In Memorium barely brought a tear to my eye. Mainly because I was reeling from hearing Celine Dion warble her way through some song that was so forgettable I've forgotten it. Notable deaths this year, at least for me, were Tony Curtis and Blake Edwards. Seriously, I know Gloria Stewart died, but really? Celine?

There was also the Best Film montage. Done cleverly utilizing the "King's Speech" plus Beethoven's No7 op92. I will say, it must have been sheer hell incorporating clips from Toy Story 3 into the mix. It really had the potential to ruin the whole thing. God knows why that film was nominated for Best Picture? I can barely comprehend the logic for nominating it in best Animated Feature Film. And don't get me started on Randy Newman.

The worst, not to mention most useless montage was the rubbish Auto-tune bit. Total crap.

Cute parts? James Franco most of the time, specifically filming the crowd when Anne Hathaway and him first stepped onto the stage. That kid has come a long way since Freaks and Geeks, yet remains pretty rad.

A group of us had a pool going to vote on who was going to win what. I tied for 3rd place. I did it the same way I passed high-school . . . I guessed. "Hey, I didn't realize the test was double sided!"

Diamonds are forever . . . . and so are mortgages.

It's come to my attention that despite my constant effort to remain infantile, I'm growing up. And buy 'growing up' I mean I'm still far too dependant on my parents but am becoming increasingly (and somewhat disturbingly) comfortable without the presence of a consistent male in my life. And by presence, I mean the financial and domestic aid of a male, you know, like women had in the 50's. Women back then had someone (read: a husband) to pick up the marshmallows for the ambrosia or to tie their apron strings. I however find myself in the bitter reality of the 21st century, and for things like buying a home or say diamonds, I'm relying on myself. I'm not the only one either, the same goes for for a handful of other girls too. For those of you who are paying attention, I bought an apartment in the summer. A few days ago I unwittingly bought diamonds. Yeah, with all that spare cash I have from missed mortgage payments, and unpaid cable bills. Actually I got a bit of money for my birthday. And despite my better judgement, which was to save for the aforementioned bills etc. my Mum who has an equally materialistic personality, and a penchant for pretty and useless things, urged me to get something nice. That something nice was a ring in my favorite shop that I've had my eye on for about a year. It wasn't going to buy itself. I was chatting with said shop's proprietor, and asked if the twinkly bits in the ring were crystal. She said, "diamonds actually." This was when the gears began turning, and I started tallying my independent female friends. Friends that have (even if some of us are unemployed) accomplished things that up until recently we'd have needed a fella to help us with. Despite being a little sad that ones first diamonds and house are a single venture, I guess it could be worse. The silver lining is that I'm not "expecting" and/or divorced. To sum up: I'm proud of my friends for the things they do (careers), chances they take (relationships) and crap they've bought (homes). So way to go us!

Well, it's February 14th in a few painfully quick hours, so I guess I should get a move on and buy myself a frilly pink heart shaped box of chocolates. Siiiiiiiiiiigh* Tune in next week when I have a nasty case of diabetes and acne.

Heads up.

My excuse would have been the 2 pitchers of Mimosas I had that afternoon, which I had conveniently forgot about. Sara did not have such an excuse. We'll just chalk it up to general clumsiness and a dash of oblivion. After a perfectly delightful evening of chatting and light imbibing it was time to vacate our pleasantly prohibition-esque environment and call it a night. Sara had already tipped her glass over and deposited a small puddle of beer on the table. That was one. Two was four minutes later, when she knocked the salt shaker off the table. She was about to carelessly continue to put her jacket on and leave, when I said she should root around under our table and fetch the shaker. Then like any self respecting superstition non-believer, she should toss some salt over her left shoulder. I think I suggested this asinine behaviour because of something my friend, let's call her Katie, said to me the day before. We were sitting in a cafe, and I had just pulled apart the scone I had chosen for breakfast. As I loaded my knife with the butter I planned on covering my scone with, Katie very casually said:

K: "Using a knife on on Chinese New Year is bad luck."

Me: blinking . . . .then putting knife down. "Oh yeah?"

K: " Families often prep their food the day before, because using a knife on the day cuts your luck in half for the coming year."

Me: picking knife up and continuing to butter my scone.

Ladies and gentlemen, my friend Katie. *applause* She couldn't have either said this before I used the knife, she couldn't have just not said anything. No, she chose to tell me mid-slather. So with this recent conversation in the back of my head, I suggested to Sara (before it was too late) to use preventative measures with her salt. She poured a small amount into her palm and tossed it gracefully over her shoulder. The salt then proceeded to gracefully rain on the girl sitting directly behind her, as well happily sail into her date's eye.

Lesson learned.

Tops, Bottoms, Nothing.

Hey, here’s something that should help you sleep at night (those of you living in Michigan specifically). Today I was just brushing up on my trivia (as opposed to the original plan of giving myself paper cuts all day) and I came across an interesting fact. Apparently it is legal for the blind to hunt in both Texas and Michigan. However in Texas a sighted individual must accompany the ‘hunter’. Apparently in Michigan Blinky can hunt without such an accompaniment. This poses a few questions? The least of all is: How does one hunt when blind? I mean if you hear rustling in bushes do you just fire? Have you just shot a partridge, a kudu, or a scout troop? Are your other senses heightened and thus can tell that said rustling belongs to a dear in his mid forties, with a slight limp? Or do you just wait till you get mauled by the grizzly charging you and then shoot? To me there are all sorts of problems with this law. The stuff I read was questioning how you find your game after shooting it (this is assuming of course Blinky has some kick ass aim) Do you just shuffle along in the underbrush until you put your foot into a warm pile of intestine? How do you strap your zebra to the roof rack to get it home . . . ? Where do you get a roof-rack? Or can the blind drive legally in Michigan too, because if they can this whole hunting law is making a lot more sense. See? Problems.

On my recent trip “10 States 1 Lemon” I visited Michigan for the deliriously brief span of perhaps 6 hours. The state is a total dump. Economic climate, the crash of automobile industry, thousands job-less etc. . . . or is it due to the blind being allowed to hunt unsupervised? I ask you? Michigan has an enormous amount of road kill. And Christ knows what it is, there's a chance the death toll is 50/50: human and wildlife. It's all unidentifiable. Bits are strewn everywhere, antlers here, a torso there. I mean there's tonnes of road-kill on the interstate anyway, but in Michigan it was particularly gruesome. And now ladies and gentlemen, we know why.

Cee . . . perhaps you have some opinions on this subject? You like shooting stuff. What are the laws in the Yukon these days? And how safe do you feel knowing that there could be a blind person out for a Sunday massacre?