Saturday, July 29, 2006


Who goes clubbing, anyways?

You know, I went out last night and had a really good time. I danced (Much to the chagrin of those around me). I laughed. I drank. I probably drank too much, as I am known to do now and then. Some guy slipped me a bus pass with a phone number on it that I'm never going to call.

Getting dressed for me was, as it always is, an issue. I hate getting dressed to go anywhere. I'm terrible at getting dressed.

I decided on a black tank top that is cut very well. By cut very well I mean it actually just does a good job of covering up my back fat. I have no shoes that are appropriate for clubbing. So I ended up wearing the old stand-bys: My trusty Docs.

In real life, it is a terrible fashion Faux-Pas to wear Docs to a club. But I did it because really, what else was I supposed to do?

The tank top was also an issue. In case you haven't noticed, it's summer. It's hot. It's sticky. NOT that I'm complaining, but a certain amount of deodorant is required when going out in hot, sticky weather. Being the the fashion-impaired type that I am, not lathering my black tank top with deodorant before I left the house was challenge number one.

Next challenge? Makeup. I'm really bad at makeup. I always look like a ghost, or slightly orange. Then I have to wash it all off and start over, trying to decide where I went wrong and how so as not to make the same mistake again.

I finished up with the makeup and I thought to myself "Day-um, Girl!" Because I felt that I'd gotten it right.

Then I encountered the next problem. I looked in the mirror that we keep on the dining room table (It's there because we can't get it hung on the wall. It makes a nice centrepiece though) and realized that my chest was ghostly white. My arms were nicely tanned and matched the color of my face right up to my shoulders.

It was at this point that I realized I have a farmer's tan.

Now. Don't get me wrong. I'm proud of my farming heritage for sure. I love country culture. I embrace CowTown and all of its inhabitants and all of their quirky habits.

But I do NOT embrace going out to a club wearing Doc Martens and a farmer's tan.

I felt like a fool. I always do when it comes to getting dressed. I wanted to cry, but then I would have smeared my makeup. I wanted to call everyone and say that I'm not going. But because they're my friends they would say things like "Aw, but you look great! You always look great!"

(That's the thing about friends. They can't actually say "Sorry, Dude, you're right. You look like ass and I'd prefer not to be seen with you.")

But you know what? I went. I danced. (Much to the chagrin of those around me.) I laughed. I drank. I probably drank too much, as I am known to do now and then. Some guy slipped me a bus pass with a phone number on it that I'm never going to call.

And I had a really good time.


Friday, July 28, 2006

It's not about the mints....

I've a newfound love of all things mint-y. I have become a lover of mints. I much on them by the bag, and buy my bags by the pound. Mints and I are good, close buds.

Yesterday I ran out of mints.

I had to get my hands on some mints.

So I left the house and stormed the grocery store like a mad woman.

I could find no mints.

I found jumbo bags of Mr. Freezies, so I picked those up. (The no name ones, of course. Do I like like the Bank Of Montreal to you? Sheesh).

Still, no mints were to be found. I was chewing on my lips and marching up and down the aisles with a purpose. I was so purposeful, in fact, that small children scattered out of my way and the staff was beginning to stare as though to say "Great. We've got another student whacked out on Speed in the candy Aisle."

Sweat was beginning to pour down between my shoulderblades and I was thinking: What does a woman have to do to get some mints around here?

My palms were getting clammy and I was having trouble breathing; one of my lips was cracked from the chewing; and one of my shoelaces was undone when I asked an innocent salesboy where they keep the mints.

He just gaped in horror and pointed me to the candy section.

And for a second, only a brief second, I thought that my head was going to explode. Because I'd already looked at the damn candy section and for the love of God and all that is Holy, there were no mints in the candy section.

And as the trickle of sweat between my shoulderblades turned into a stream; as my blood pressure raised itself just that much more; as my lip chewing frenzy continued itself: I had an epiphany.

It's not about the mints.

My mom told me about the movie The Breakup with Jennifer Anniston and Vince Vaughn. And in the movie, the couple is fighting all the time. She sent him out to get lemons and he doesn't come back with enough lemons, so, in typical hysterical female style, she gets all persnickety. Then, in typical male style, he gets all man-like.

Vaughn did an interview about the movie and he discussed that scene, and how couples fight over things and he said to the interviewer "You know? It's not about the lemons."

Every now and again I feel that feeling of hysteria that comes over me. It's the feeling that differentiates between me and those of you who are sane. Every now and again, I start to feel like my heart will explode and I will explode and nothing will ever be ok again.

Sometimes I feel like that and I start to wonder "Is something wrong with me?"

And then I realize that the mound of prescription pill bottles in my medicine cabinet alludes to the fact that yes, something is indeed very wrong with me.

I left the store mintless and walking at a slightly slower pace, with a bag full of gossip magazines, No Name Freezies, and Orange Tic Tacs. The bill came up to over fifteen bucks.

Then I decided to try one more store.

That, oddly enough, sells two pound bags of Scotch mints.

And I have my mints and I'm ever so happy. I'm gleeful over the presence of mints in my life. A whole bag of them, all to myself.

Some people need fast cars to be happy. Others need houses on the lake, or a beautiful wife, or perfect children, or a wardrobe from the Gap.

I just need mints.

And so, once again, I decide that while it's hard to be a crazy person, it definitely has its perks as well.


I will say this...

I would love to blog about the experiences I've had on this lovely day.

However, I simply can't. I have to protect the innocent.

Those of you in my real life will have to wait until the next wild party to hear the horror of horrors that happened to me today. Those of you not in my real life will simply have to suffer.

I will, however, say this:

I like knitting. I've been known to crochet a cat toy or two in my day. Hell, one time I left a raging party to go home, read Anne of Green Gables, and crochet my cat a toy.

If any of you would ever like to knit me something? Please do. I love knitted articles. Especially ones in cool designs, with that really nice, soft wool. Knitting rocks my world.


If you're ever going to go on a date with me?

On a date that I fixed my hair and did my makeup for?


That is all.


Wednesday, July 26, 2006

I'm back!

This is me, reporting to you from the big city!

So far life in the big city hasn't been treating me so badly. I tried greeting my neighbor as he came out of his apartment the other day and he hissed at me. Yes. I got hissed at. The same way that a cat would hiss at someone.


So, that was my welcome back to the big city.

In other news, my job search has begun. I've handed out resumes to twelve places today. I plan on handing out a bunch more tomorrow, and then waiting by the phone.

I hate job searching. There is nothing worse than pretending to be excited about finding some crap job, feigning interest in customer service, and pretending that you actually like people.

However, I did find four places to work that would be great for me: Hotels! I applied at four hotels today thinking that if I could clean rooms I would be in seventh heaven. Imagine. Me, alone! Cleaning! Me, of the OCD, alone, vaccumming, scrubbing, making beds... could anything be better?

I wonder if hotel people get paid better than minimum wage?

In other news, I had a date yesterday. Well, it was sort of a date.

Ok, it wasn't a date at all, but I did meet an interesting young man downtown for an hour and it was quite nice.

At this point, I'm pretty sure it will go nowhere.

But I have to say one thing: He's tall. He drives a pickup truck. He's a construction manager and he knows how to shoot a gun.

That was more than one thing.

(And yes, the qualities I'm looking for in a guy for me to date include "Ability to shoot a gun". I'm not sure if I'm hicked out to the core, or if I have some kind of death wish, but either way, that's what I'm looking for.)

And you know, I've always had this vision of what the person I date should look like. And in my lifetime, I've yet to find and date that person. Everyone I date is short, dark, squat, block-headed, and neckless. Big Brother pointed that out to me years ago and I can't help the fact that it's true.

And you know, I'm not going to date this characer simply because he is fair haired and lightly complected, or because he's tall and slim and has a neck, or because he drives a pickup truck.

That would be shallow.

But there is no law that states that I can't imagine what it would be like to date this character; or how well he would fit in at my kitchen table; or what it would be like to go out with someone who doesn't drive a stupid little four cylinder car that comes from somewhere not in North America.

In other news, Coperni-kitty is still at the Ranch. Lucky Frickin' Cat. See, when SuperNan drove me in on Monday, we had a lot of shopping to do. We had to stop at the gunshop, check out some dinner, and head over to Costco to pick up mass quantities of everything. It was a warm day on Monday and I was imagining me getting back to the city explaining the demise of my cat. That she had died of heat stress in the car while I stocked up on jumbo all purpose cleansing wipes and shotgun shells.

And I thought, that would make a lot of people unhappy.

So I left her behind so that we could shop in peace. SuperNan is planning on bringing her, my 19" television, and my new chair to the city sometime before Christmas.

I hope.


Sunday, July 23, 2006

Police, Police, Police...

So, my dear friend Kanobe posted a comment a few entries back about dentists. He mentioned that there should be someone to check in on people in professions like dentists and vets to make sure they're not ripping us off.

At first (Sorry, Bud) I was thinking "How stupid! More government intrusion! That's ridiculous!"

But then I got to thinking.

We have the Shit Police, and the Fire Police, and the Water Police, and the Well Police, and the Building Police, and the Septic Tank Police.

Then we have the Church Supper Police, the Child Welfare Police, The Public Safety Police, the Cat and Dog Police, the Smoking Police and the Pooper Scooper Police.

City folks deal with things like the Deck Police, the Patio Police, the Pool Police, the Tree Police, and my personal favorite: The Biking on the Bike Path Police.

Let's not forget the Chemical Storage Police, the Gun Police, and the Workplace Safety Police.

Now, as some of you may know, and others of you may not know, these police are mostly in charge of looking after the business of people living their lives on privately owned land. (I'm really, really trying not to be a political lunatic here. I swear.)

Most of these Police are costing those who own the private land money to the tune of hundreds of thousands of dollars. (Ever had to pay to dig a new well because the Water Police and the Well Police decided you shouldn't be drinking from your old one? For a lark some day, you should look up the cost of digging a well. It'll boggle your mind.)

(Did you know that all the people who inspect our farms get paid out of our pockets? That when the Shit Police decide you need a new place to store your shit, and one that meets government regulations, YOU [the farmer] has to pay for it with no subsidization?)

So now.

I went in to the dentist today to get my SuperCool Highly Sexy Retainer. In the parking lot was an older model F-150, my Mom's Saturn Vue, and a random assortment of four door Mommy-Cars.

And a Chrysler 300.

And a fucking Corvette.

How come there's no Dentist Police? These OfficeFucks can afford to drive a feakin' Corvette through charging me six hundred dollars to fix something that I have to use my imagination to see... How come they don't have a system that comes and checks their records? Someone who has been trained to read X-rays so they can actually be held accountable when they charge some poor fool who can't read X-rays for nothing?

I wonder if you can get a job as a lobbyist with a degree in sociology? If folks want government intrusion... Dude, I can think of all kinds of things I'd like to see intruded on.


Thursday, July 20, 2006

Somebody stop me....

Can't.... Stop.... Scrubbing.... Carpets......

It's like some kind of crazy person has taken over my body and decided that everything in this world that is upholstered must be cleansed, or life will never be the same again.


Tuesday, July 18, 2006

My Other Life...

I rarely talk about my other life. I had one, before I became a woman of the city, a woman of Sociology, a woman of whatever the hell it is that I am.

I had a completely different other life, in another lifetime... it feels like it could have, should have, been centuries ago. As though it really was a past life, that the new me, in this life, dreams about now and then.

But, my other life, sadly, is based in nothing but reality.

I avoid discussion on my other life for a variety of reasons. One is that no one, not one single person, understands the why's and how's of my other life. Sometimes I don't even think that I understand them. When people make comments about my other life I generally have learned to ignore them because no one in this world could possibly understand the range of emotions I had, and still have, regarding my other life. I live for the day that I'll meet someone who understands my other life.

Another reason is, simply put, that people are assholes. People judge, people have preset notions that no amount of explanation or begging will change. I learned that one or two times the hard way.

Sometimes I'm really thankful for my other life. Martina McBride has a song called "This One's For the Girls". One of the lines in it is Every laugh, laugh line/ On your face/ Made you who/ You are today. So, for this reason, I like my other life. I like having lived it, having had the experiences that I had, and I like having moved on from it.

Sometimes I hate my other life. Sometimes I wish that I'd never met the other players in my other life, I wish I'd never seen their faces. Sometimes I'd like to call them up and scream obscenities into their phones like some kind of psychopath. I've contemplated egging their cars, soaping their windows, slashing their tires. The sane side of me (Possibly the smallest side of me would be the sane side) knows that I'll never do any of those things.

My other life jumped into reality today and slapped me in the face, as this other life is known to do. It's slapped me a few times now. You'd think I'd be used to it.

I had to face one of my biggest fears today. It was hard. It was really, really hard. SuperNan was with me every step of the way. In an attempt to make me feel better she bought me a mini carpet and upholstery cleaner so that I could make repetitive motions that don't involve chewing off pieces of my hands while I processed the happenings of the day. You'll be happy to know that our couch, foot stool, and half of the carpet in the living room smells and looks great.

Facing something that you've been terrified of for the last three years is a really hard thing to do. I thought I was fine. But it seems that every time I'm not busy scrubbing away on carpet of upholstery; every time I'm not playing my guitar; every time I'm trying to sleep and not chew on something: the events of the day, the events of my other life, and the events of my new life play in my head like some kind of movie. A movie I can't turn off. It's like a horror movie, playing and replaying.

Today, my other life faced me in a way I've been dreading since fall 2003. That's a long time to spend dreading something. My old life tested my strength to carry on. It tests every ounce of my moral character because, quite frankly, when my other life faces me, I'd like nothing more than to scream, spit, howl, scratch, and act like some kind of animal. I'd like to throw punches, kick people in the nuts, slap faces, cause damage. I'd like to crawl into bed and never come out. Of course, if I did that, who would clean the upholstery?

My old life came back to haunt me today. I'll never have to face my other life again; not ever in this lifetime. After today, there is nothing in this world that could tie me to this other life. I'm free. I should be singing, dancing, calling up friends to celebrate. Even though I would never tell them why we're celebrating.

So why is it that I'm crying into my pillows?

I'll be fine in the morning. I always am. That's the thing about this new life. It just keeps going on. Whether I scream at it, or God, or anyone, this life just keeps going on.

Perhaps that's why I'm always excited to see what the next day will bring. A new friend? A new lover? A new recipe for some crazy jam that I found on the internet?

I think that's what is so confusing about humanity. There are so many reasons to just give up and stop living. At the same time, there are just so many reasons to continue on.


Sunday, July 16, 2006


My computer is having conniption fits.

NOTHING pisses me off like my computer haveing conniption fits.

It's not letting me upload pictures.

I HATE not being able to upload pictures.

I feel hives coming on.


Saturday, July 15, 2006

The picture you've all been waiting for....

Me with my sexy new guitar!! Hurrah!!

It's safe to say that I've been playing non-stop since I got home from the berry farm. I've written three new songs, two of which are ok and one of which is kind of ridiculous and cheesy. It's hard to write a song that's not cheesy, let me tell you.

I'm also coming to terms with the fact that I soon have to go back to the city. I need to job hunt and settle in at my apartment with my trusty roomie.

I'm just not sure that I can face leaving the comforts and familiarity of the country and get back into city-me mode. I really do feel and act like a different person in the city. I'm not even sure why. I don't feel like I can face another year of classes, of total financial stress, of finals and papers and studying: but at the same time, I know that I have to, and that really, there is no other choice.

At any rate, this year I'll be going into school knowing it's my final year, I have a sexy new guitar, and a cat who turns one on August the eighth.

The debate over whether or not to throw her a birthday party rages on.


Friday, July 14, 2006

I survived the dentist....


By fleeing the office screaming in hysterics.

Well, not really. I left without getting the hole in my tooth filled though. It turns out that I grind my teeth so consistently that I've chipped a hole into one of my teeth. So, no filling required. I also got fitted for a mouth guard thingy.

Then, the dentist tried to convince me that I do, in fact, have three and possibly four more cavities that need to be filled with an estimated cost of six hundred dollars. At which point I choked on my own spit and thanked him for his time. At his insistence, I listened to the horror of all horrrors that would happen in my mouth if I don't heed his advice.

So, I demanded to see the X-ray of my teeth. He avoided me. So I asked again. And then once more. At which point Dr. Dumbass said "Oh, you want to see the X-ray?" Thanks, there, Tips.

Get this. Now Dr. Dumbass says "Well, you have to use your imagination here." So he showed me the three "problem areas" that looked identical to my other teeth. I guess I was supposed to imagine a six hundred dollar problem? I mean, if there's a hole in my tooth, shouldn't there be a black spot on the X-ray?

Then, he offered me a ten percent discount if I would get my teeth filled. And I would have agreed. Really! However, when I looked at the X-ray, there were no holes there, so what was he planning on filling?

Now, here's the funny thing. You may be thinking "Well, obviously this twit hasn't been trained to read X-rays." You would be correct. However, the last time I was at the dentist (A different dentist) he found three other "problem areas" that would need to be fixed.

It sounds consistent, I'm sure. Three problem areas last time, three problem areas this time. Makes sense?

Nope. Last time the three problem areas were on the top at the back. This time the three problem areas are on the bottom near the front. The other problem areas magically disappeared and then reappeared in a new location two years later?

So Dr. Dumbass can take his six hundred dollars worth of treatment and stuff it.

Right up his dumb ass.


Wednesday, July 12, 2006

Now that there are funds available....

It's time to spend them!

My phone broke in half mid-way through the season, so there went a hundred and sixty bucks to replace it.

I bought a new guitar stand that will successfully house Rockin' Red, Gibby, and the ol' Crate. I bought a new guitar strap, and an extra to have on hand... you know, in case.

Now for the kicker: the dentist that I've been needing to see for about a year now has me booked for tomorrow at eleven a.m.

I figure that by the time I pay off next month's rent, I'll be back to where I started before the berry farm.

That's the way the cookie crumbles, I suppose.

Now that I'm home I'll try to blog more regularly, I promise!

WIsh me luck at the dentist. I'm sure you'll hear me howling from wherever it is you are.


Thursday, July 06, 2006

It's hard to be a crazy person....

As per usual, it wouldn't be a berry season without at least one of the staff members having a complete and utter breakdown of epic proportions. One that leaves you screaming, sobbing, gasping for breath, and whose aftermath leaves you with a scathing batch of hives, the likes of which will leave you writhing in your bed, scratching to the point of bleeding, begging our dear lord in Heaven for some sort of relief. The type that sends innocent thirteen year olds screaming from the room, and the Berry Queen looking on in horror.

I've been serving the public in various forms now since I was sixteen. As soon as I had my driver's license, I was out there working part time hither and yon in a desperate attempt to save up money for school. I worked as a deli girl, slicing meats and making French fries and rotisserie chickens. I've pumped people's gas and made their sandwiches and swept the floors that they've walked on. I've battled it out over twenty cents worth of savings on a bag of potato chips, and haggled with people on how much cucumber they really are allowed to have on their subs.

There is a certain kind of customer out there, in every part of the world, who strives to make a service person's life miserable. I saw a girl like that on Dr. Phil once. She made it a point to go to Dunkin' Donuts every day and yell at the people working there. It made her feel better about herself.
During my years as a serviceperson I've learned that there is nothing that a person can do to appease a hysterical custmer who feels he or she has been wronged. I firmly believe that the hysterical woman who ran screaming through our parking lot the other day saying "These berries are crappy! CRAPPY! They're CRAPPY!!!" truly believed that the fruit was crappy and thus, I have better things to do than to change the crazy chick's mind.

There is a flagging system here at the berry farm. Part of my job as field manager is to keep the flagging system in check. Now, for the past three years, I've spent thirteen hours a day for three weeks in these fields, managing the flagging system, among other things. And, over the last three years, I've felt that the old flagging system had to go and thus started a new way of flagging the rows.

One man decided to become hysterical over the new system. He displayed his dismay to me by jumping around and hollering in my face. I calmly tried to explain to him that it is an attempt at wasting less fruit. This would not, of course, make him feel any better, so I moved on.

He came in again three days later and started telling me again how much more fruit we're wasting by using the new system. Because, you know, this dude spends fifteen minutes twice a year in the fields, so clearly, he's an expert.

So I blatantly ignored him. I cashed out his fruit and ignored him. Which, of course, upset the Berry King. Because really, it's rude to ignore a customer's complaint.

And I know, in the future, I will not be rude to customers. I'll continue, in the best way I know how, to pretend to be happy and jolly to each of the numbnuts that sail through this berry cave's door and inform us of a better way to run this business. Because, you know, spending fifteen minutes here twice a year makes them all experts.

The thing that started the breakdown to end all breakdowns was not this man, or the crazy "CRAPPY!" screaming lady, or any other customer.

It's that I don't understand what people want by making useless, hurtful remarks to the people standing behind the counter. What is it that they aim to achieve? Why do they march in here, dessimate the fields, criticize the staff, and march out on their way thinking they've done some good deed? What's so wrong with keeping your mouth shut, thanking the Good Lord above that you have feet and hands that will walk your sorry ass out into the field so you can pick the damn fruit, and move on?

What really weighs me down is that I always try to do my job, any job, in the best way can. I smile happily to all the customers. I make small talk with people who want to make small talk. I'm happily ignored by the people who want to ignore me. I make it a point that my counter is always neat and tidy, that the subs I prepare are, at the very least, properly folded neatly together, and that I wish every customer a good day. I even try to smile and sound like I mean it.

But people will never be satisfied. No matter how hard I work, how hard I try, I always get faced with some crabby soul who can't seem to stand my presence behind the counter, or in the field. Most people treat those of us in the service industry like dumb, unworthy idiots who aren't worth the time of day. This is what upsets me about my different lines of work.

And now those bastards have given me hives.

There is no justice.


Saturday, July 01, 2006

It continues...

Here is a pic of the berry cave in all its glory.

I wish I had pictures of the lake that is now our front field. We've had a monsoon over the last few days and yesterday, people literally had to walk in water up to their ankles to get to the berry field. Fortunately, the cooler weather has made the berries less prone to spoiling on the vine, which is good; however, the wetness has made the fruit more prone to a diasease commonly known as fruit rot. Here at the Berry Farm, we call it the Trottenberries.

This is a pic of a man who is the highlight of the berry season, not for his outward requests to have me naked in his hot tub, but because he brings me such desirable delicacies as Ice Caps and poutine. The fastest way to this woman's heart is obviously through food. Unfortunately, he is not yet aware of my intention to make old-maiden-hood fashionable once more. He is the hero of the berry season for many reasons. Number one was the day that three old men terrorized me for half an hour and reduced the entire staff to tears. Only our hero could show up with Ice Caps and make the day better once more.

We officially hit rock bottom last week when we ended a very profitable day by gluing together an ashtray with a market value of less than a dollar (especially after the depreciation kicks in). SuperNan and I actually spent the day sharing the halves of our ashtray together quite nicely; however, by the late afternoon, the Berry Queen demanded that we quit being such a bunch of tightwads and spend the dollar to buy another one. Not about to be ordered around by a pregnant woman suffering mild edema, SuperNan hauled out the Household Goop and insisted that the ashtray would be as one once more. Mission accomplished.

More to come later.