Poopy Day

It's been a poopy day so far, and it's not even 9 am.

When I opened my blinds this morning, I saw that our dining room window has streaks of seagull poop on it. On both panes. Huge amounts of dried-on poop. There is my weekend right there. Scraping shit off my window. We used to have a patio of poop until I got some plants and filled it with that. Now, the seagull that used to perch on the patio ledge, stare me down and poop has left. Apparently, he's left shit down the side of my building and onto my window.

My window at work also has bird shit on it. A big ol' streak of white with some brown mixed in for ambiance. I am not sure maintenance is coming around to wash it off.

But my biggest fear here in Victoria has come true. I got shat on.

I GOT POOPED ON!!!

I was walking to work this morning, standing on a corner waiting for a light, when I felt and saw the poop fall on me. Thankfully, it was a just a smidge in my hair and a little bit on my shirt. I took to wretching and ran into a coffee shop. I washed it out and off and cursed mightily. It all came out, since it was wet and white and not a whole lot. But enough to make me gag. When I got to work and told people my ordeal, they all told me that's good luck. Hooey! I think that's just what Victorians say to keep shat-upon tourists quiet. After an early morning wretch (that is not pregnancy related!) I better have some good luck coming down the pipe!

Fecally Yours,
xoxoSallyt

Harley's

I was standing at the bus stop yesterday and a song came on the mp3 that whisked me back in time. I all of a sudden got nostalgic for Yellowknife again, but I've also been feeling the warm fuzzies towards the place in recent days since finishing "Late Nights On Air". All weekend, I was battling the conflicted feelings of wanting to go back and relive Yellowknife, but with a husband-to-be this time, and remembering how trapped I felt there.

"99 Problems" by Jay-Z changed that.

A few years back, while living in Yellowknife, I got a call one evening from a guy I was sort-of-kind-of seeing. He was nice enough and thought the world of me, but he was dumb as bricks and we had very little in common. I chalk it up to the fact that in Yellowknife, you carouse with people you would never carouse with anywhere else on earth. Anyway, shortly after we met, he went back out to camp where he was a cook. He was to be away for six weeks. A few days before he was supposed to come back, he called to say he decided to stay in 3 weeks more. I was furious so I went for a Walk of Rage (tm). (Sidenote: a Walk of Rage is when something bothers me so much, I have to go for a massively long walk, think things through and walk off all the rage in me. Trust me, it's therapeutic.) So on this Walk of Rage, I was wearing scummy jeans and white polo shirt, sneakers and pas de makeup. I was walking/storming up the main drag in Yellowknife, when I ran into NJ, a woman I worked with, and her husband. It was right in front of Harley's, the local peeler bar. NJ and her husband insisted I come with them to the strip club for a drink and in my agitated state, I agreed.

I never went to strip clubs, unless you count that one time for a stagette. Or when I did a radio documentary on amateur male stripper night. I never went to a strip club on a regular night when female strippers were earning their living. Harley's was a popular place in Yellowknife, and it was nothing for people to stop in for a drink on a night out. I also heard that they had rotating shifts of strippers come to town, but I could be wrong.

NJ and her husband were regulars at Harley's. I did not know this. This provided us with front row seats at the strip club. That month's rotation of strippers knew NJ and Husband by name, and they all came by for a visit. NJ, being very polite, introduced me to them all. I found it unnerving to have a stripper coo my name whilst petting my hand. The "show" hadn't started yet on stage, but it was well underway at our table. I looked away at one point to wave hello to someone I once worked with, and when I turned around, I was face to coochie with a stripper doing the crab walk across the table towards NJ with a shot of Sourpuss between her breasts. I was horrified to see NJ lick boobs and then do the shot. The stripper had a friend with a tray of Sourpuss shots for the rest of us to do. NJ's husband gladly complied, but I turned 10 shades of red and refused to do a shot of anything from the cleavage of a stripper. I do believe they goaded me and called me a prude. I felt odd and old and out of place.

Finally, the show started, which meant the crab-crawling strippers left our table and did their thing. I was shocked at their agility and athleticism. In awe, almost. How, I wondered, can they wear those lucite platform shoes and not slip? How do they not have blisters? I also wondered what their mothers thought and if their fathers were proud. And then I wondered how they practiced? How did they learn these moves? How long did they practice to fllick themselves upside down on a pole?

One girl came out and started dacning to "99 Problems" by Jay-Z. It is a great song and I love it. It's strutting music. It's music to feel tough to. I never pictured it to be a stripper song. With a lyric like "A nigga like myself had to strong arm a hoe This is not a hoe in the sense of havin a pussy..." you never think, this is a GREAT song to strip to. Yet here she was, flicking and squatting and thrusting around the stage. It was one of the most surreal moments of my life.

Now, three years and several lifetimes later, I hear that song and think of NJ's wide eyes and lascivious stare at the woman whose breasts she just drank booze from. Like I said, you do things in Yellowknife you never would anywhere else in the world.

Prudishly Yours,
xoxoSallyt

Identity Crisis

I think I may be in the beginning stages of an identity crisis. I don't know what this blog is about.

I have been reading some other blogs, namely Megan's, and the Coconut Diaries, these guys, Glen, some girl in Rankin Inlet, Mack the Hack, Janet, among others. Each seems to have some coherent theme. They'll be waxing politcal, or telling fascinating tales, or listing ridiculous things, or talking about important things like law school, or adjusting to a new life, or planning an alternative wedding, or idolizing David Hasselhoff.

What do I do here? I prattle on about the wedding. Who cares? What am I going to write about on September 20th? I ramble about how amazing I think Byron is. Snooze - to anyone else but me. I make silly observations about silly phrases, and bitch about hippies. It all feels very... shallow. Am I supposed to come down with these thunderous observations that stop people in their tracks? God, I hope not. Am I supposed to regale you with tales of debauchery and failed attempts at being human? Because I fear they may become old quick.

Am I too shallow for this blog?

Agonizingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt

The end of an era

I got a promotion at work a few weeks back. The "junior" got dropped off my title and I am now a "public affairs officer". It came with a nice raise, and a change of hours. A new junior has been hired and I am training her now. Which means I am off the 6 am shift soon. I should be high-kicking through the streets, but not so much.

I love getting into work and having complete silence. I find I get a lot of work done when there's no one around. More than that, I lovelovelove leaving at 2pm. Love it. The bus isn't as crowded when I take it to go to Curves, I have time left in my day for appointments or important and private phone calls to make at home. I love the quiet walk to work in the morning when the streets are empty and I can jaywalk everywhere. There's even a Starbucks open at that time of day so I can get my weekly treat on Friday morning. It's heaven.

What I will not miss is the 5am wake up. I won't miss feeling guilty about being awake at 10pm. I get to eat a decent breakfast at home. If I wake up sick, I no longer have to drag myself in, then spend the next 8 hours wondering if I am, in fact, sick enough to go home early. Now, I can just call in sick. It's been just over a year of this 6am shift, and while it feels like mine, I am not going to have a tough time leaving it.

Back to the land of the living!

Resurrectingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt

A manana

I procrastinate. If there is a project at work due, I will pick at it but leave the bulk for the day it's due, saying that I work best under pressure. If there is ironing to be done, I think tomorrow is a better day to do it because it won't be as hot out tomorrow. In my pre-Byron days, if a bill was to be paid, I would wait until after the weekend, relishing my flush account for a couple more days. I can justify a lot of things.

I go to Curves. And I try to go three times a week minimum. Every Sunday night, when I pack my gym bag, I tell myself I will fo Monday, Wednesday, Friday AND Saturday this week. I feel so powerful walking to work with my backpack of gym pants and sports bra. Then the day starts and so do my excuses. I will start to feel groggy arounf 11 am, and then the excuses really begin. I think I should go home right after work and make a nice dinner for Byron, or do something wedding-related, or tackle that ironing. Really, I am going home for a siesta. The guilt sets in, so I am more determined for Tuesday. I revise my plan for Curves on Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday.

Tuesday has always been my most tired day since being on this 6am shift. By noon on Tuesday, I am the walking dead. And my excuses for not going to Curves are blatant. How could I possibly work out in this state? It'd be cruel. So I go home, wash the day from my face and take a siesta.

By the time Wednesday rolls around, I am embarassed to not have gone at all this week, and I tell myself my humiliation should send me home. So I go, and I take a siesta.

Thursday is good tv night, and since I am in the west, I can get the eastern feeds earlier, thus watching The Office at 5pm instead of 8pm, allowing me to go to bed early. I go home.

It's Friday, the week has melted away and I have yet to break a sweat, so why start now. My gym bag has been sitting under my desk all week. Next week, I say, next week.

On Saturday, either Byron has the day off and I want to spend the day with him, or he's working and I take that time to clean adn get the house in order. Next week, next week.

I need to remember how good I feel after a workout. I need to keep that feeling of energy in my mind when the lure of a siesta gets too loud.

I did have a good, and psychological excuse, though. There is a coach at Curves who is a socially retarded douchebag. She's whiney and weird and talks about crap all day. She bugs me. One day, she was asking me about the wedding and I said my dress had arrived. She said to me, and I quote,

"Are you even trying to lose weight or are you happy just like that?"

I was stunned. I could not believe someone in a facility like Curves would say that to me! I sputtered out something along the likes of "I am happy with who I am and I have a man who loves me just as I am." I couldn't resist that last bit, since she's single and has been sort of snots to me about her being alone and I'm not. She really hurt my feelings, and for a while, I was going to Curves only once or twice a week, hoping not to see her.

Then it hit me - I am paying $42 a month to go to Curves, why am I not going?! So I screwed up the courage and reported her to the manager. Turns out ol' sourpuss has resigned and is leaving soon. The manager said she was too focussed on weight loss and not encouraging members.

My goal when I joined Curves was not to drop oodles of weight for the wedding, but tone up and firm up so my arms are fleshy flags jiggling down the aisle. I am proud to report muscle tone in the arms now. I didn't want to be this scrawny thing on my wedding day, just to ballon up again post-September 19th and have my kids ask me in 10 years who that woman is in the picture with dad. I am me. I am big. My thighs are big, my bum is jiggly. I have a tummy (his name is El Pauncho Grando). But I am also healthy, flexible, and happy.

I'm going to Curves tomorrow. (I have errands to run after work today!)

Sweatingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt

Disclaimer

I feel the need to clarify.

In my previous post, where I was vehemently against children at my wedding (and I still am!), I was in no way talking about my friends. I was not referring to a certain Sydney or Michael or Ashley. I was dissing Byron's friends! He knows a couple whose kid should have been named Damien.

I wanted to make that clarification before feelings were hurt.

Disclaiming Yours,
xoxoSallyt

No Kids Allowed

My friend Janet, who is getting married a few weeks before I am, posted this article on her blog. In it, she posts an article from the UK about the growing popularity of kid-free weddings. She's taken the stance that it's not nice to not invite kids. I disagree.

Our invitations were mailed yesterday. On the response card, you will notice at the bottom our respectful request to have a child-free wedding. We have our reasons, which are completely valid to us. And since this is our event, we feel we get to invite who we want. And we don't want kids.

Except for a major exception - my nephew who will be 9 months old by then. Since Jane and Craig are flying to Edmonton and know no one for child care, George has to be there. But again, he'll be 9 months old and when he gets noisy, I know Craig has the decency to remove him. I cannot say the same for other guests and their kiddly winks.

A couple who is invited has a child that is Satan's incarnate. He screams and throws tantrums and his parents think it's cute. We went out for dinner with them and the brat screeched during the whole meal, and his parents ignored our winces and comments about his noise. The only that seemed to pacify him was pouring the entire salt shaker on the table. It was lazy parenting. And I know if that kid was to come to our wedding, he would without a doubt starting wailing and screaming. I also know his parents would not have the decency to remove the child.

But here is my PC explanation. We're getting married at 5 pm. That's dinner time for most people. While adults can roll with it, kids cannot. And dinner won't be rolling around until at least 7 pm. Even though snacks will be provided at the hall, I doubt kids will like that. Since the wedding is taking place later in the day, parents will probably have to leave early with the kids, thus missing the festivities. So why not leave the kids with grandma and have some fun?

That's my opinion and it's my wedding. If you don't like it, you're likely not invited.

Invitingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt

Hackey Sack

Everyday, I walk past the bus station on my way to work. In mid-winter, it's a gloomy place, and deserted. But not these days. Everyday when I pass the bus station, I have to maneouvre through a gaggle of hippies. And you know I hate hippies.

The hippies are waiting for the jitney to the West Coast Trail, which is a jalopy that looks uncomfortable and smelly. The hippies have their bags strewn over the sidewalk. There is sacks of granola passed around, and water from aluminum cans consumed. And they are all over the sidewalk, and look at you all moony-faced when you try to pass. It smells of wood smoke, patchouli and stale underarms. I can only imagine what the bus trip is like. Walking through that cloud of hippie-ness makes me cranky.

But this morning, I saw four hippies playing hackey sack in the parking lot. At 6 am. And from what I could tell (since I think hackey sack is stupid), one of the guys sucked and ruined the game for everyone else. Whenever I see a game going on, I have to seriously fight the urge to go over there, take the sack and toss it in a thornbush.

Then in front of the bus station, about 10 hippies were gathered in the middle of the sidewalk. When I had to pass, one hippie girl did that shuffle-to-make-it-look-like-I-moved move. The passive agressive in me hoped my purse would clock her in the back by "accident". All the while, I wanted to scream "MOVE, bitch, get out the way".

Is it people in the way who haven't got the sense god gave a goose to get out of the way that makes me mad, or hippies. Or perhaps it's a dangerous combination.

Hippie-Hatingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt