gotta have my pop!

work it out.

Yesterday, I did something I swore I'd never do again. My past experiences with this decision have left me filled with regret for a prolonged period of time, cursing my poor judgement as I lost a considerable amount of money.

That's right, I JOINED THE GYM.

I tend to do this every couple of years, and, of course, like the majority of gym joiners, I NEVER go. Like, I think 10 visits might be my personal record. But I keep entering into these contracts with the blind hope that this will be the time that I get some willpower. It never is. But, you know, maybe I'll do it THIS time. It's in the basement of my office building, for God's sake. It can't get any more convenient. And I really want to get in shape. But I really, really, really hate working out. My gym rat friends tell me that "once you start going, you'll love it -- you won't WANT to slack off." Bullshit.

My health and wellness plan in the past has not been so healthy or well. Basically, I let myself get as flabby as I can possibly stand it, then I fad diet until I lose enough weight to satisfy me. My favourite experience with this was the time I "fasted," eating nothing and only drinking a mixture of lemon juice, cayenne pepper, maple syrup, and spring water. Boy, did that one make me sick. For like two weeks. Who would have guessed? At least I lost the weight, though, right?

PS. Lots of Google hits looking for "Ian Thorpe Naked" as of late. If anyone finds the good stuff, please let Momma know. This is, like, my biggest celebrity crush since Meneudo...

inside my mind.

Found a cool new blog today (itsy-bitsy type notwithstanding -- increase your point size, girl!), one of those nice "Real People" blogs Chas is always talking about. This one is interesting in particular to me since it seems as if the author and I are sharing the same brain. Lots of posts about cats, fast food, reality TV and hot Olympic athletes. In fact, I was going to do a post about the end of the Olympics today, but she already did one and now I feel unoriginal. I'll have to see if it's too much of a blow to my ego to keep reading it.

I'm happy to report that I FINALLY saw Garden State on the weekend, and it was worth the wait. Love that Zach Braff. Nuff said. It was fantastic. Didn't much like the old man who sat down next to my friend an hour and a half in and started masturbating under his coat, though. Gross. We had to move to the front row and do that awful neck-craning for the remainder of the film. If we'd been seeing, say, Catwoman, I might have left the theatre in a very bad mood.

In other news, Labour Day is fast approaching, and I am realizing that I have a definite lack of back-to school clothes. Yes, I realize that I am no longer a student, but the impending fall season seems to encourage rampant spending nonetheless, doesn't it? Old habits die hard, and the purchase of a new September wardrobe is one I don't want to break, really. All those cozy sweaters, fun blazers, snuggly boots! It's enough to make a girl max her plastic. Item one on the agenda is a super-cute pair of Puma trainers that I really can't afford. Items two through ten will be more assorted fall items that I REALLY can't afford. And everything after that might put me in a position where I can't buy groceries. But at least I'll be stylish. And really, that's all that matters to me.

aftermath.

Ah, the morning after the office party. The pounding headache, the little taste of vomit that creeps into your mouth as you're talking to your boss...so delightful.

Yeah, we had our office summer party yesterday, and, as per usual, I had a couple too many. I didn't embarrass myself or anything, but I nonetheless regretted the overindulgence as I was throwing up a 10-piece McNugget Meal at one o'clock this morning. Bleh. I also didn't enjoy the start of my work day, seeing as I was forced to sit motionless in my chair, staring at the ground, for like, 2 hours. You know that point where you think you really need to go home, but you don't know if you can make the trip without puking? I was in that lovely place all morning. Almost threw in the towel at about 10:30, in fact. I think I may be out of the woods now, but I kinda want to die, still. Just a quick ceiling collapse or something. Maybe even just enough to knock me out. At least I'd have an excuse to be horizontal for the rest of the day.

When I was in university, I was a MACHINE. I could drink most guys under the table. Typical comment from this girl might be: "Ah, last night wasn't too rough. I only had, like, eight pints." Now, I have two glasses of wine and I'm slurring. And the hangovers! Just getting exponentially worse with each passing year. What used to be a dull headache and indigestion is now an twelve-hour prayer for death. What happened to me? I've just reached the point where this wasted day and the torture it brings just isn't worth it to me. When I was younger, I never understood why "adults" didn't party like I did. Now I get it.

baby please don't go.

The Great Office Crap-Off. I think it happens in every place of work, especially in high-rise buildings, where there's really nowhere else to escape to. Sometimes, you just gotta go. But you can't always be alone.

I find I can always tell when I've caught someone smack-dab in the middle of a Number Two. You walk into the bathroom and you can almost feel this poor person clenching her sphincter through the stall door. There seems to be two ways the crapper might handle the unwelcome invasion. Either she goes completely silent and hopes you won't notice the closed stall door and obvious shoes under it, patiently waiting for you to pee quickly and get the hell out of the washroom, or she pretends that she's actually DOING something in there. Something other than what she really wants to do, of course. Popular time-wasting favourites include multiple toilet-paper rips, rustling the underwear, nose-blowing, and coughing repeatedly. There are some who throw a little pre-flush in there, but do not exit the stall, hoping you'll be done first so that they can sit back down and defecate in peace.

The Crap-Off is at its most ridiculous when there are two people trying to get their dump in at the same time. It's sort of like a Mexican stand-off, because once it's gone on for a while, ain't nobody giving up their position. After sitting in total silence for like 5 minutes in there with no satisfaction, you don't really want to face your nemesis, lest the bitterness be apparent to them. But the Crap-Off has to end, and it usually does so when both parties give up at the same time, lingering in front of the mirror in a last-ditch effort to get the washroom to themselves. it's really quite a ridiculous display, if you ask me.

I have a feeling that the men's washroom is not this uptight. I imagine the boys in there farting and expressing with total abandon, with no shortage of "Good one!" and even smatterings of applause heard amongst the noises. But, you know, we have to be LADIES. And ladies don't poo.

honky cat.

I have read that cats sleep an average of 22 hours a day. That means only 3 hours of active and awake time. For my little guy, those 3 hours fall between the hours of 2 and 5am, usually. Does wonders for my level of restfulness -- but not in a good way. Last night, he first yowled at the door for around an hour. Next, he went deep into the recesses of his toybox and (in my opinion, purposely) found the plaything with the largest, noisiest bell on it, which he then proceeded to bat manically around on my wood floor. It made an insane amount of noise. He finished up his workout by jumping up on my bed and repeatedly dive-bombing some imaginary enemy under the covers. Experience has shown me that throwing him off the bed only makes him more hyper, so I let him go at it for as long as I could stand it. Finally, I kicked him out of the bedroom, hoping he would make like a normal man and go sleep on the couch. Of course, he wouldn't have any of THAT. He cried pitifully at the door until I let him back in, then sat right beside my head and purred like mad until I gave him some attention. This cat's purr sounds like a bad muffler. So, yeah, I didn't get a whole lot of sleep. He's just lucky he's cute, or else we'd be testing the theory that cats always land on their feet...when thrown from a ninth floor balcony. Tonight, I'm going to try to keep him awake for as long as possible to avoid a reoccurence.

Today I had a Google search hit for "Hilary Duff's boobs with nipples." I wonder if it's the same person who was searching for her cup size and evidence of cellulite. Gross. Isn't she, like, 16? I should inform the authorities.

crazy train.

So this morning I found myself in the beginnings of a very bad hair day. I had tried to get a bit of body into it, as I was wearing a flowy linen shirt and wanted to look ethereal. It didn't work -- I ended up looking more like Bon Jovi than anything, and he's hardly ethereal. Anyway, I got on the subway feeling pretty damned grumpy about it all. Realizing that you resemble a 1980's cock rocker can really ruin your mood. Then I saw a girl sitting across from me -- she was clearly going though chemo and didn't have any hair at all. Nothing like a little perspective to start the morning.

Riding the subway usually gives me perspective on things -- usually it's "Wow, there really ARE a lot of completely insane people in this city." Last week, a man sat across from me with his belt, button and fly all completely undone, staring at me hatefully and mumbling incoherently. After I transferred trains, I was approached by another man who asked me if I would like an apple. He did not appear to have an apple on his person, which led me to believe that "apple" is a euphemism for something I'd rather not learn about. Yuck.

My favourite subway story comes from one of our clients at work -- he was riding to one day and a woman got on who, in his words, "definitely had more than a little bit of crazy in her." As soon as the doors closed, she screamed "EVERYBODY DOWN!!" and hit the floor, lying spread-eagled, flat on her face. In true Toronto fashion, everyone on the train ignored her, even stepping over her prostate body to get off at the next stop. She lay there for one more stop, then calmly got up and got off the train as if nothing had happened. Another reason to love the subway. I wish I had been there.

P.S. -- I wanna give a little shout-out to dear Kyle Shewfelt, who won Canada's only Olympic gold medal thus far yesterday, in men's gymnastics. Our first gymnastics medal ever! I'm going to try to focus on little Kyle instead of on our totally pathetic showing at these games in order to maintain my sanity. I'm sure I'll be ranting about it after the Olympics are over, but for now, I will try to stay positive...there IS a week left, after all. Perhaps we will win all the remaining medals and tie the US for first place. Right.

beautiful stranger.

Mommy has come and gone, and all in all, it's been a lovely couple of days. Something about being around your mum -- so lovely and comforting. We had a nice, cultured weekend -- the Turner, Whistler, and Monet exhibit at the art gallery on Saturday and a fancy brunch at the King Eddy today. It's a notch up from getting hammered on wine and sleeping until 2 in the afternoon -- my usual off-day activities. I am quite tired today, though, seeing as I had to share the bed with Mom last night and didn't get much sleep as a result. I'm not surprised -- God knows I'm used to being alone in my bed. *Sigh*

I got an email today with some nudie pics in it -- apparently a gal I went to highschool with has decided to pose for Playboy, and the pictures are circulating like mad. It seems as though she's become the butt of jokes amongst my former classmates -- but to be honest, I'm a bit jealous -- she's pretty damned ripped. I'm taking solace in the fact that she has really strange-looking nipples. They're massive! They look like two croutons glued to her boobs. That, and I've got at least two cup sizes on the girl. Sorry -- I've gotta be petty, or else I'd just be sobbing quietly into my pillow for a couple of days.

Finally, in an addendum to my last post, my Google search of the day has to be "Hilary Duff's cellulite". Don't think I helped on that one. I think I need to revisit the archives and find exactly when I mentioned the Duffmeister, because I have no memories of that. She's not exactly on my radar. I mean, she's no Mary-Kate Olsen, if you know what I'm saying.

i fall to pieces.

It's almost 1am, actually, and I JUST GOT HOME FROM WORK. I had to turn back the ol' Typepad clock and cheat a little, just to get my post in on time. This blog is becoming a little too one-trick pony for my tastes these last few days, with all this horrible work stuff going on. Good news, though -- I've stopped thinking about calling the Labour Board and am now considering the United Nations instead. I bet Khofi would be right pissed to hear about my lack of overtime pay for these mad hours. My boss really deserves to be condemned by an international tribunal at this point.

We are getting off a bit early tomorrow (O, those benevolent souls!), and I'm going to take advantage and finally get my highlights done. Whee! Trying to pass these three-inch roots off as an ironic fashion statement wasn't working so well. Might do something different, but I'm pretty hormonal this week and don't think I could stand the fallout if things go bad. There is nothing worse than bad hair, in my opinion. I once suffered a major hair disaster -- Coupe Bizarre in Toronto (Assholes! Assholes!) dyed my hair a thrilling combination of mousy brown and salmon pink, then cut me some nice earflaps to accentuate my new, remarkably dog-like appearance -- and had no game whatsoever for at least six months. It was horrific. At least it only cost $275. (Assholes! Assholes!) Since then I've been a little wary of taking risks, understandably.

Speaking of one-trick ponies, I think today was an all-time record for The Great Tori Spelling Wedding Photo Hunt. Although I did get one search hit for "Hilary Duff's cup size," which was a nice change.

i still haven't found what i'm looking for.

Ah, the luxury of getting home at 10pm. No dinner to make, no plans to bother with. *Sigh.* I've got to make this a short one today, since I have to get up early tomorrow to go back in to work. And I'll be in for a long one tomorrow, too. Just late enough to miss not only a round of drinks with a cute boy I'm intended to be set up with, but also great tickets to tomorrow's Canadian Idol taping. God forbid me getting to do anything fun. Grrrrr. Tonight, I settled for glugging down a massive glass of wine and getting a telephone recap of tonight's television programs. Tomorrow night, it'll have a wild one, too -- putting on my pjs and going to bed as soon as I get home. It's gonna be a reeeeeally late night.

My mom's coming up this weekend, which is nice, but my apartment is filthy and I have no time to clean it. And anyone with a mommy knows how spotless the apartment has to be for THOSE visits. Can't wait to hear "Do you ever clean behind this toilet, honey?" or "Hmmmm...there's a lot of dust on these high shelves, dear." Makes me want to SCREAM. I like the dust. It makes my apartment feel all warm and fuzzy. Literally. Good thing Mommy makes me feel warm and fuzzy, too.

So I've been hearing quite a few rumours that my new boyfriend, the Australian swimmer Ian Thorpe, is playing for the other team. And I don't mean the Kiwis. I'd be upset about my fantasies being ruined, but I figure that even if he is gay, my chances of actually getting him to sleep with me are about the same as if he was straight. So I'll continue to picture him naked as often as I please, thank you very much. I have no choice. He has size 17 feet. SEVENTEEN, PEOPLE.

back on the chain gang.

So I'm back to the workdays I'm used to: sixteen hours chained to the desk with just enough time to splash some cold water on my face and grab a Sausage McMuffin before the next day begins. Thought I'd take a minute to post before the whips come out again. They can sting...and that barbed leather! Dear me. It's bad enough that we're working until 10-11 at night, but during the Olympics, too. Quelle horreur. Don't these jackasses know I have amateur sporting events to watch? Jerks, my bosses are.

I was all set to find a new job about a month back. Even went on a couple of interviews. Then we won "The Big Account" and I felt like I had to stick around for a while. Might be a career-maker, that. I keep asking myself if it's really worth it, though. I have no life. Like, AT ALL. I have to find myself a husband before I lose my looks, you know. Plus, I don't really like working in general, so the extra-long days really burn my ass. Why can't I just be an heiress living a life of leisure like Paris Hilton? Life would be so much easier.

Sausage McMuffins excluded, I'm trying to start eating healthy again, after my numerous run-ins with disgusting junk food recently. I think I hit rock bottom after eating that Chicken Burrito Supreme and Fries Supreme (with a side order of guacamole and extra sour cream -- but, you know, I DID have a Diet Coke with it) at Taco Bell this weekend. It was then that I *sob* realized I needed some help. Taco Bell could be even grosser than the KFC I had a while ago, but that's open for debate.