Take a Chance on Me?

I'm at a crossroads. I'm in a scented dilemma. I have fallen for another fragrance, and I don't know if I can break it off with my first perfumed love.

I wear Pleasures by Estee Lauder and have done so for going on 10 years now. It's my scent. My smell. My scarves smell of Pleasures. My bras smell like Pleasures. I smell like Pleasures. But another bouquet has tickled my nose.

My mom (dear, sweet Hillie) knit and sent me a lovely scarf. She sprayed it with perfume she has... Chance by Chanel. I am smitten. She didn't really spritz it, she said, it was more like dropping the bottle on it. So I wore the scarf today, sans Pleasures, to test the smell on me. I figure there's enough perfume on the scarf (it is stiff with scent) for a proper test. I went to a shop at lunch and picked up a sample and sprayed more on. I love it! It's fresh and floral! It smells clean and kicky!

I've gone around my office today asking people to smell me. "Smell my neck!" I demand to people who walk into my office. (It's a close knit office, thank god. Otherwise, I'd have a harassment suit.)

I'm running low on Pleasures and need to get a new bottle soon. But I'm lost... Pleasures or Chance. Do I remain loyal or do I commit one of the biggest infidelties of a single gal's life, right after cheating on haridressers, and switch perfumes?

I promise you, though, I will never wear Eternity again.

Smelling lovely,
xoxoSallyt

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

Oh how I wish I was dancing on a road of yellow bricks last night. How I wish. Instead, I was surrounded by the tiniest people this side of Oz. I went to a Latin dance club.

A friend, her sister and her friend and I went to this club last night. None of us have been out in months, and we were all looking forward to cutting loose. This club was like walking into an alternate universe.

I wear heels when I go out. I am 5"9, mofos, and I love to wear heels, so I was darn near 6 foot last night. Combined with the rest of me, I am not a shrinking violet. You can see me come a mile away. Big girl with big hair and big boobs, watch yourself. I did not see one person last night, other than my companions, who reached my shoulder. Men and women. Or should I say, boys and girls.

So I just got a couple of gins, got comfy as I could on a wooden bench, and watched the munchkins twirl and fling each other around the dancefloor. The men were a cross between a chihuahua and the Gotti boys. The girls were miniscule and loud.

We left after an hour. I must say, though, I had a great laugh. Although it was a bar I would sooner eat glass than visit again, I laughed all night. What's a girl to do in a sitch like that? Sit back, observe the insanity and laugh. Forget clicking ruby slippers.

And I am not even hungover. Snaps for me!
xoxoSally

F*ck Neighbourly Love

I love my apartment. It's big and clean and bright. My landlord is wonderful. My neighbours are assholes. I live in a corner suite, so I have two neighbours. I've bitched about the midget to the side of me. I saw him in the hall this week and glowered at him. But I hate my neighbours above me. They're a couple and they love to blast their techno music. The bass drives me mad. I will be on my couch, happily daydreaming, when the bass boom-boom-booms into my head. Assholes, like I said.

I understand the loud music in the daytime, when you're doing housework. I like to slip in some Mandoza and vacuum. Good times.

I snapped today. Stacey was witness. I was on the phone with her when I threw a wall-eyed fit. I shreiked. I screamed. I almost cried. I have a good reason to act like that.

My building lost its heat last night. It was -15 last night, and with no heat, that's rough. Those who know me know I am a cranktastic bitch when I'm cold. I didn't sleep much, I was up early, I went to the gym, and I planned on napping. (I'm going dancing tonight and need to rest up) But the boom-boom bass made me see red. That, with the lack of sleep, sent me over the edge.

I wish I could move, but my place is cheap and big. It'd be a sin to leave such a big apartment on a tree lined street for some fools who don't understand neighbourly consideration. I just offer this warning... do NOT f*ck with a passive agressive. We'll get you good.

Must hatch revenge plans and nap.
xoxoSallyt

Down with the Cosmos of the World!

I hate Cosmo magazine. And Glamour, and Jane, and Marie Claire, and all those insipid women's magazines. Loathe them. I used to be an avid buyer of such magazines. In fact, at one point, my two (female) roommates and I would end up buying each monthly edition of each women's magazine out there. We would have hundreds of pounds of glossy paper in our home. And we learned nothing from them.

So I have taken a stand. I refuse to buy magazines that add nothing to the intelligent dialogue between women.

Because if you look at those Cosmo-Glamour-Elle magazines, they don't really tell us how to be better people, just glossier. They don't tell us how to make a difference our lives, just how to give good blow-jobs. They tell us how to be walking, talking, sweet-smelling blow-up dolls. And I, my friends, am not a blow-up doll. And neither are you.

Have you ever read a Cosmo-Glamour-Marie Claire? The articles are all recycled. Every year, you'll see an article on a college girl getting date raped, or why Paps are smart, or the benefits of strengthening your Kegels. Names are changed, graphics are changed, and minor details are changed, but they're all the same. Where's the mental challenge in that? And the sex articles, god almighty have mercy on us all, the sex articles! There are hundreds of stories in those rags telling "Cosmo Girls" (shudder) how to be the perfect puss in bed, how to be a crackerjack lover, and give the best pleasure to your man. Ick! What about YOU, I want to yell! What about you.

I love magazines, don't misread me. I love Bust (http://bust.com) and Walrus (http://walrusmagazine.com). These are magazines of substance. And really, when I'm going to drop some cash on reading material, I want something to read, not just pretty pictures to giggle at.

My one exception is the September issue of Vogue. It's huge, it's heavy and it's gorgeous with luxurious ads and fashion spreads. I can't wear a stitch of what they're selling, but hell, I love looking at it. I look forward to it every year, and I break down and buy it every year.

Annnnd.... SPENT!
xoxoSally

I LIVE for this shit!

Yeah yeah yeah, it started Monday night with the Golden Globes, but I haven't had, or taken the time to gush about my favourite time of the year... Awards Season.

Forget Chirstmas, forget summer, awards season is the best time of the year. Starting now until April 1st, I live for the awards shows. (I'm being inclusive here with the April 1st date since it's the Junos.) The dates are marked in my day planner at work AND calendar at home. I am such a junkie, I even watch the ECMAs. I could give a rip about Acadian music, or fiddles, or Natalie frigging McMaster. But my obsession compels me to watch the ECMAs. Someone, save me from myself!

I will not gush about who looked good and who made me grimace, there are enough blogs to do that, and god bless them for it. I am exposing myself to the humiliation of admitting I love awards shows. I know who's who, I know who they've worked with, where they got their big break, their upcoming projects, who they're dating, who they were dating, you name it! I am the walking talking version of People magazine. Growing up, my sister was always amazed at the amount of useless information about complete strangers I have in my head. I feel like a twitty teenaged girl.

How do I know all this crap? You got me. How do I know Mymorningjacket is from Kentucky? I don't know. How do I know where Reese Witherspoon is from (Tennessee, by the way)? I don't have an answer. I don't buy trashy magazines (I have a rant coming about magazines), but I will have Entertainment Tonight on in the evenings when I check email. I love those gossip websites, but usually just for the photos. How have I amassed a Cliff Clayvin-esque knowledge of the stars is beyond me. I blame osmosis.

So, dear friends, in the future, if you need to know anything on Hollywood celebs, call me. Just do not call me on Grammy Night, Oscar Night, Juno Night, ECMA Night, or Gloden Globe Night. I will cut you.

Oooh.. look! LiLo's in rehab!
xoxoSally

Midgets Everywhere

I am surrounded by midgets! In my apartment building, to be specific. I just came in from a walk, and I ran into a man from down the hall who is the size of a chihuahua. I felt massive next to the diminutive man. Sadly, he was wearing grey homemade slippers that on a person of normal height would have grazed the ankles. But these slippers we pretty much knee socks.

He the harmless in my building. I have a vendetta with the next one, who will from here on be known as Midgety Bastard.

Midgety Bastard is my neighbour. My bedroom is right next to his living room. My headboard is rigth next to his stereo system. You do the math. Midegty Bastard has been keeping me up at night for months now with his bang-bang-bang video games and tv. I can hear him talk on the phone. Many times I have been woken to the sound effects of some tacky video game. I bang on the walls, but it makes no difference. I do have something up my sleeve that will make a difference.

I've talked to my landlord about Midgety Bastard, and she's had lots of complaints from other neighbours about him. She told me if he gets one more complaint, he's evicted. I was woken up this morning at 4am by the dulcet tones of another video game. The only thing that got me back to sleep was knowing with one word, Midgety Bastard is evicted. I'm giving that word tomorrow.

Many nights, I have laid in bed, listening to his noise, fantasizing about knocking on his door and knocking him out. I have a speech made up in my head and everything. But I'm afraid I'll knock his teeth out when I lay eyes on his tiny, gimpy frame.

I swear, when he does get evicted, I will dance in the hallways! I will sing for joy! I will get a good night's sleep!

At least I don't have to hear him have sex. Ewwwww! Midget sex.

Bon Soir,
xoxoSallyt

WTF

I've been terribly sporadic in my posts lately. I have loads on my mind, yet I am lacking the desire to write them out just yet.

It's been a serious WTF week. I think Tuesday may have been the saddest day of my life.

Two people, count that, two people from work died that day. Both from cancer. One woman worked in my office and we took the bus together sometimes. She was diagnosed with breast cancer the same time my father was diagnosed with cancer. She seemed to be on the mend, but she died Tuesday. It was a shock to the entire office, and the mood was sad for the rest of the week. We had a memorial service for her at work today. And as we prayed and sang and spoke of her, it felt so surreal to me. But it was touching, nonetheless. She was 34.

I am scared of breast cancer. Petrified. I take good care of my girls, doing the monthly check and everything. They are my girls - I love them! But breast cancer, to me, is a real and scary thought. Nothing is scarier to me than finding a lump... which I have found before. So when I hear about women not much older than me getting, let alone dying of breast cancer, fear strikes my very core.

And my only work pal quit on Tuesday. I have pals at work, but none that I can count on to go to lunch with, or coffee breaks with, or clear my head with like him. And he quit. Poof - gone in a matter of minutes. Not even 2 weeks notice so I can wean myself off his company. I cried the whole time he drove me home. He says we'll still hang out, but it won't be the same. It's been so sad without him at work this week. So quiet.

It's cold here, and I'm tired and I just want to hibernate this weekend. Pretend I didn't know dead people, pretend good friends haven't left, pretend all is well for now.

In the meantime, I will try really hard not to open any wine bottles. The last thing I need is to become a wino. Winos are smelly.

xoxoSally

Say NO to Skinny Jeans

I'm losing patience waiting for this wretched trend of skinny jeans to end.

I appreciate wanting to be in style and hip and with it, as the kids say. But I saw one girl yesterday who made me weep. I wanted to wrap a coat around her waist and send her home. The skinny jean! She was stuffed into those bad boys. Her bum - unflattering. Her legs were tragic. And my fashion-less companion (he was in splash pants. Don't get me going on that one! I can be thankful they weren't tear-away pants, which he has worn on a date with me before.) even commented on the hideousness of her body in those hateful pants.

I wonder, how does one sit on skinny jeans without their torso popping off? How do they get them on? They often look like denim tights to me, so do they roll them on light tights? Do you peel them off? But my biggest question is, " How the eff do you think you look good?!?"

Exhibit A

How can anyone whose thighs touch when standing think this is a look to copy? It is not.

The creepiest part of the skinny jean epidemic is teenage boys in them. You know the kind. The black, spiky hair, a touch too much eye liner, grubby hoodie and Converse sneakers. Their skiddly boxers are bunched at the waist band because their jeans are too fricking tight! Stop it, boys! Let your developing testes breathe! You look weird and malnourished and not at all manly. Your future children, given you can still reproduce after having your boys fried in those skinny jeans for all this time, will laugh at you. STOP IT!

The only one who can barely manage to pull the skinny jean off is Billy Joe Armstrong, and that's only because he's semi-punk. See...

I bet he wears sweats at home when he has no eye makeup on.

I saw him naked years ago in Fredericton at a concert. I was moshing (how old am I?) in the front and he came skipping out on stage and danced naked. Not pretty. It may be the only time in my life I wished for skinny jeans. But I digress.

So my point... Are you Billy Joe? No? Then remove your pants and put on a pair of cords. Young Miss, can you drive a truck through your legs? Hmm? Then I suggest a breezy skirt that will ward off any nasty infections from too tight clothing.

I'm warning you!
xoxoSallyt

Capacity is Whack

When you read the word "capacity", what comes to mind? For me, it's the amount a certain object can hold, like an elevator, or a jug or a wine glass.

At work, a social service agency, for those who don't know, "capacity" has a totally different meaning. I'm not quite sure what it is, and I have asked for a specific definition. The response has always been, "Oh you know, capacity". Oh yeah! That capacity. Silly me! How could I be so dumb? How could I have lived this long without knowing what capacity is. Me so stoopid.

I'm in the middle of a giant project right now, and the long and the short of it is that I am writing all 100+ programs we offer into plain language. Megan must be licking her chops right about now. If I see the word "capacity" one more time, I will not be responsible for my actions.

As far as I can gather, it means someone's abilty to do something. For example... "increase an individual's capacity to build social relationships" might mean "help someone make friends". Am I right? Discuss.

This project is making me wish my liver had the capacity to hold large volumes of gin.

xoxoSallyt