I drink myself
out of the week that passed
and all the weeks before
when I said to myself
every Monday was a new start
and every Tuesday was
the same taste
of ashes in my mouth
and the hours
and the months
that went without
doing the things I want. The things
I should.
I drink myself
because it's Friday
or the moon is full
or the month has cycled
or it just might snow
and December be again
the magic it used to be.
I drink myself
because the grey
is all around,
and because the grey
is deep inside
and will not change.
I drink
myself
for this fragile warmth
this lifting
and ease,
looking
for that sweet, sweet spot
that rare good drunk,
and dreamless sleep.
Yes. Yes, I cried. Up here in Canada, I cried and my husband--who's completely apolitical--cried. Tears of joy.
I am a proud Canadian, but that sometimes feels like you're the younger child, the overlooked child, the follower, the one always influenced and never influencing, forever in the shadow of a larger, louder, brasher one. It's a fight to be a Canadian nestled up to the giant, and sometimes it chafes, and I have to fight to soak up my own culture and history.
Last night was the first time I ever wanted to be a part of the United States. I wanted to be part of the joy, the victory, the history--and the hope.
Yes, we cried.
It's really sad. Once again, I would probably take up an offer to swap my Canadian vote for an American one. American politics are just so much more interesting. Vicious, but interesting.
Canada called an election, and no one cared. Or, Harper called, and no one cared.
Ho-hum, not much change. Voting, as usual, was quick and efficient. Paper ballots, simple X, and results coming in very soon after polls closed in the west.
Our Liberal incumbent was re-elected, but it was close--something like 68 votes. I did vote Liberal this time around. I did not want to see another seat go Conservative. Our two votes seem to have really mattered!
I am very disappointed in Dion's leadership, though I still hold a bitter grudge against the Liberals for not doing more during the "leaky condo crisis", GST, CBC funding and other issues that mattered to me. I would like to see a dynamic Liberal leader, who might lure me back. I'd like to see the Liberals move more left. If not, I will go back to voting Green according to my conscience. I would have voted Green in this election, but it was a matter of keeping a Conservative out, rather than voting for someone.
Nulliparous: Never having given birth to a child.
I'm nulliparous. Huh.
No, I don't have a Kindle. But you can buy a Kindle of mine! Someone To Watch Over Me at Amazon.
Jeezum crow, I wish I was Bobbie Gentry.
Sing... write... play guitar... that hair and those lashes.
Yep. I wish I was Bobbie Gentry, all right.
Selene at work passed this gem along: An Engineer's Guide to Cats. (YouTube video.)
If you're ever on Vancouver Island... try this. (Sorry about the Flash on their website; click "spirits".)
Oh, my, my. $49 Canadian a bottle, and I bought a bottle--real fast. I slid through the people in the tasting room like a shark scenting blood, to grab the last bottle on the shelf, because this stuff is good.
Good day for the mail, today. Usually it's junk mail. Or, admail, as I've heard it called. Dry cleaners, real estate agents, lube jobs, pizza and Chinese. I toss it all into the blue box by the front door. But today, I got my carbon tax refund cheque. $100.00 for me. Of course, the last time I filled up my car, it cost me $59 and change. And the carbon tax hasn't hit yet. But still, I could use a hundred dollars, ever since the Pizza Hut Saga.
The other thing in the mail were authors' copies. Yay, authors' copies! For Alison Tyler's new collection, Open for Business: Tales of Office Sex.
(I'm "Lonely at the Top", by the way. Even though I'm not. Lonely. Or at the top. But I do like my job, so it's not all bad. I wouldn't want to be the boss, anyway. Too many stresses.)
But I love writing about office sex. Offices are where I daydream between filing, typing, answering the phone, all those mundane paper chores, about the liquidity of lust, of skin on skin. I have written a lot of stories about sex in the office. My favourite scenario is usually a stern, older boss in suit and sexy, younger secretary. Illicit clutches. Sigh. A cliche, I know. I love a man in a suit, though.
My bosses are all women, alas, so...
Hey, maybe I'll have to explore a little FF fantasy.
