ThanksTaking

Thanks for the memories.

Just like any of your garden variety horror movies, it began with a group of wide eyed optimistic friends piling into a small motor boat (with a penchant for sinking) on their way to a secluded cabin in the woods. A cabin only really reachable by boat or logging roads, when the logging roads aren't blocked with the carcasses of burnt out trucks that is.

The 7 of us were excited about settling into a relaxing cabin weekend to celebrate turkey. With nothing to do but sprawl by fires and cook feasts, it promised to be a little slice of heaven and not a pilgrim in sight.

By around 3:00 on Day 1 we had all mustered just enough energy to finish lunch and then collapse for a nap. I woke up after approximately 2 hours along with the other girls, except I had apparently swallowed some fiberglass while I was sleeping. The pain was less than pleasant. So now I was sick. And now I would also be the go to person to blame when in about 4 days 6 of my friends all mysteriously come down with something.

" . . .well she made us eggs that morning and she was fondling the turkey an awful lot . . . ."

Not to mention all the door knobs I licked throughout the cabin. Anyway. I was feeling less than stellar. I hit the sheets first that night. And I think I fell asleep for a couple of hours until boyfriend crawled into bed. At which point I decided to become entirely awake. Mainly because of the erie noises coming from the corner of the room. In total darkness my hyper active imagination began thinking of worst case scenarios.

1)Zombies clawing through the floor

2)Ghost of small child scampering through the room

3)Animal of undetermined size or ferocity put on earth to irritate the be-jesus out of me (the most unrealistic possibility)

I'd hear sounds from various parts of the room and tried desperately to ignore them. This happend about 3 times until finally I was convinced whatever this ungodly being was, it was going to make it's way onto the bed. I lost my cool and shook awake boyfriend who proceeded to fling himself around the room like a crazy person trying to kill, what turned out to be a exceptionally threatening mouse. Thank god he didn't have the presence of mind to grab one of rifles resting in the corner by the bed. In the end we were pretty sure he didn't kill the mouse, just scared the crap out of it. By now we had become distracted by the mini masacre taking place on our windowsill.

Earlier in the evening there was a unseasonably large fly bouncing off lampshades and doing a very unsuccessful job of trying to get out of the house by slamming itself into closed windows. I'd totally forgotten about the fly until boyfriend pointed out that it just got caught in some of the spiderwebs in the windowsill. It was doing a similar unsuccessful job of freeing itself. Then like a page taken out of Beetlejuice, a particularly ferocious looking spider crawled out of what looked like a pin hole, unfurled itself to show off it's impressive 3 foot wing span, and proceeded to snatch the fly and drag it back to it's nest. The whole time the fly made a helpless humming sound with it's incapacitated wings. I had to look away. And then promptly fell asleep, or blacked out, I can't be sure.

I happily awoke the next morning not to find myself cocooned in spiderwebs. That would come later. That would come after a delicious Thanksgiving feast which I most likely tainted, and a delightful little boat ride. I've seen horror movies before, which is why I didn't venture to the empty hut behind the cabin. And why I didn't go to chop wood up the hill. Instead I decided to take a warm shower to knock the sick out of me. What could go wrong in a shower? (read: Psycho)

I climbed into the shower, and immediately noticed the cabin's regulation spiderwebs. What I didn't notice was the number of spiders. It was like I was rein-acting my own version of Arachnophobia. I mean, not 24 hours earlier boyfriend had been bitten on his neck by what could only be described as a horse with eight legs. We're still waiting for him to be able to shoot web out of his wrists. So there I am in the shower, and I realize I'm surrounded. I'm waiting for John Goodman to stroll in and take care of things, but I was alone. I did a quick head count and stopped at around 9, and I'd only looked to my left.

Spiders are useful I suppose. In my apartment I like them because I think they are killing the moths that are killing my cashmere. When however, on the final day of my long weekend I began packing and a humongous black hairy thing lurched out of my sweater I lost my cool again . . . this time entirely. I screamed like a girl, and boyfriend casually came in and killed it.

"That's EXACTLY how everyone in the town died in Arachnophobia! A stowaway spider!"

And that was my weekend.

Home safe and sound. Slightly worse for wear, as the boat ride in the pissing rain for 20 minutes didn't do the ol' cold any favors. But I'm hopeful the fever will break tonight. Otherwise we may have to perform an exorcism.

Happy Halloween!

Bionic Z

Aaaaaah mortality, ya can't live with it you can't live without it?

The other day I found myself trapped in a stairwell. Up until roughly exactly June 9 this wouldn't have phased me. I was paying a friend a visit in her fancy concierge patrolled apartment and I was buzzed up to the wrong floor. I walked down one flight of stairs to find myself locked in the stairwell. Panic did not set in, but I was reminded once again how isolated one is in such a situation, if for instance one didn't have a mobile with them or say . . . had a cardiac arrest and no one knew where they were.

The good news is that when I had my cardiac arrest on June 4th I did not make it inside my building and did not end up forgotten in a stairwell, or ultimately worse. Fortunately I had the presence of mind to let my heart stop beating in the parking lot of my building, where a mere glimpse of my blond hair on the pavement summoned an angel to come to my rescue. Renee from the 3rd floor (heaven) found me literally taking my last two breaths. Within minutes she had dialled 911, had begun CPR and the fire department was on its way.

There's a bunch of relatively frightening (fortunately I don't remember any of it) stuff that happened, just ask anyone who remained at the hospital with me during my intubation, coma and amnesia. I became fully awake on June 9th. Although I have not so pleasant blurry memories of the MRI the day before.

Distressing things that happen when you have a cardiac arrest:

- You get cut out of your clothes when they defibrillate you, and for me specifically that includes your favorite vintage sundress and totally boss neon undies.

- You scare the bejesus out of everyone you care about, and you don't even know it.

- You end up in hospital.

- You get sliced open and they put a mini defibrillator in you . . . FOREVER. Or until the batteries wear down and it starts beeping inside of you and you get sliced open again so they can change it.

- You meet a total ass-hat named Sebastian.

- You can no longer lift anything over 50lbs EVER AGAIN.

Delightful things that happen when you have a cardiac arrest:

- You realize how lucky you are to have friends like mine.

- You get A LOT of flowers.

- You get A LOT of visitors.

- You get A LOT of treats.

- You become really really popular.

- You inspire people to find their hearts again.

A whole bunch has gone down since early June. I only recently got the official go-ahead from the doc to go back to work. The past 2 months have been a most unprecedented and unwelcome sabbatical. All I have to show for it is a bitchin' tan. A tan I miraculously got in Vancouver during a Summer that has been doing a very convincing impression of late Fall.

Easter Vacay'

I traveled the exhausting distance to Vancouver Island. That means I was travelling a lot. So what really stands out about my trip isn't so much the fact that we ate the bunny after he hid our eggs or that I got a tan or even that I got to play with my lovely friends, it's ferry travel that sticks with me. Like gum to the bottom of your shoe, ferry travel is sticky and dirty, and the residual effects are disturbing.

The trip over was sunny, albeit laced with a light hangover. The trip home was smelly and wet. And the view was les than desirable. From my vantage point, which was dangerously close to the kids play area, I could see the following:

I saw the worst kind of hippy. The kind that wears novelty hats made of boiled wool. Hats that have the potential to be moderately cute on fictional fairy tale characters, do not belong on men in their early 40's. However we are in BC and there are an inexhaustible amount of poor fashion choices available. What this man-child was wearing what can only be described as a Gandalf inspired tea-cosy, with the addition of an offensive looking pheasant plume which concluded his total height at approximately 7 feet.

Secondly I saw a family of roughly 10 travelling together. Instead of sitting in 2 rows, they helpfully peppered themselves over 5. Just plain annoying.

As I mentioned I was within lynching distance of the carnival of filthy noisy children. Fortunately I had Led Zeppelin playing through my headphones at a suitable volume for obliterating exterior shrieks and giddiness. There was a small pack of rednecks just in front of the screaming kids, presumably 6 belonged to them. What drew my attention to this particular collection of trailer trash was the fact that one of the women was pouring a 2 litre carton of milk into a thermos. I can only assume they were making White Russians. Really, I can't blame them. Mostly I'm just jealous actually.

pause for paws.

I already had a mini cry earlier. I'm preparing myself for the worst. The worst being my cat Spanky not making it to the end of the summer.

Dad has just returned home to Ontario from a "mission" in Georgia (not where peaches come from). The first thing he noticed upon arrival was that Spanky seemed to be carrying extra weight around her middle. In his expert opinion he didn't think she looked right. So Mum and Dad were planning on taking her to the Vet last week. I said that was fine, but just to make sure she doesn't come back dead, like the last three cats they brought there.

Last October Spanky lost her purr. It was a crisis. She was hauled to The Vet who said she was fine just a little dehydrated. He gave her some sort of immunization to sort that out. She began purring again, and presumably was sufficiently hydrated. Problem solved. So Spanky was taken to The Vet last week and now he says she is retaining water and that it's just a matter of time before the extra pressure or something begins impairing her heart and lungs etc. At which point Mum and Dad are to bring her back and they'll put her out of her misery. Something's fishy, and it's not cat food. Dr Kevorkian figures Spanky has less than 6 months. I figure he needs a new set of golf clubs or wants to take the family to Epcot. He's happily killed 3 of the family cats already, and we didn't even get a postcard.

Mum says Spanky's 16 and she's had a good life. I say Dr K is a total quack and to get a second opinion. I don't think my Dad is going to take this lightly. Spanky is my Dad's pride and joy. If he could have had her for 35 years and me for 16 I'm sure he would have.

Needless to say I'm distressed. And I fully plan on being a puddle of tears for at least a couple of weeks. At which point I'll try and collect myself and begin filing a class action law suit. I think four dead cats constitute as a group? If not there's always good old Malpractice.

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.