Another Year

Sheesh. How did this happen? 2006 is gonzo, and a whole new year, with it's ding-dangly opportunities, taunting unknowns and mind-bending twists in the proverbial road is upon me.

Maybe this year will be the year I...

... get paid what I'm worth.
... take a real vacation.
... spend more time with my friends, and less with my work. (yeah, right)
... meet a man over 35 that isn't psychotic, messed up, married, desperate or angry that can string together 5 words and doesn't eat like a pig, hump my leg in public or smash beer cans on his head.
... buy a real couch. Like a new one.
... go to the art gallery once every three months. And the theatre, too.
... start my sommelier training. For real.
... learn to not take crap personally and take power from being inoffensable.
... drink better wine, not more wine. (Who am I kidding?)
... get my wisdom teeth pulled out, instead of bearing the pain so I can work more.
... eat well everyday, not just the three days after payday.
... lose 20 pounds and get some muscle tone back so that carrying groceries up the stairs doesn't give me a coronary.
... stop looking for greener pastures and make the best of what I have, without being bitter or ungrateful.
... start writing my book. Not just taking notes, but like putting the damn thing together.

2006 wasn't a bad year, per se; it set up 2007 nicely. But it was a year of hard work, decisions and a lot of frustrations. Some acceptable losses, others are regrettable. All in all not a bad year, but certainly not one that I would drag out any further.

I'm not usually susceptible to NY hopefulness, but this year I am certainly looking forward with a smile, and not a furrowed brow. This will be good.

Best wishes to all of you out there in blog-land.

Boxing Day

Well, it's over. Yesterday I ate too much, drank too much egg nog and went home feeling bloated and gross. Happy Holidays. Ugh.

But Boxing Day is always a nice day for me. I don't shop on Boxing Day, because I'm not an idiot. I like it for two reasons; I used to work in retail and always had to work today. And it was a living hell of women fighting over 9 dollar jeans and trying to bargain at the 500-person line-up cash desk. Crazy. The other reason is that it's just a quiet reflective day. Play with my presents, have a coffee, bundle up and head to the pub. I won't talk to too many people today. Just hermit-it-up and try not to think about how many calories I ate yesterday and how many people that would have fed in another country. Does Bono have a big turkey dinner? If he does I would be somewhat relieved.

James Brown died on Xmas Eve, in his typical dramatic fashion. What a life. We know so little of his music - there are hours and hours of songs that you haven't heard. That I haven't either. But evidently there's a 6 hour radio show, just him. 6 hours. I will safely say there are no young artists out there, save perhaps Vance Gilbert and Martin Sexton, maybe a few others, that I think could do a six hour show of their own material. Insanity.

It's off to the pub for me!

Crazy Bitches Everywhere

I am in awe. My gender never ceases to disappoint me. I have grown weary, and perhaps even a smidge irate, at the endless moaning and whinging about how horrible men are, while we chicks wander about stalking people, throwing fits and generally acting like two year olds. Not to say that men don't exhibit the same behaviours, but that's the point.

We're ALL crazy bitches.

I don't think I really know anyone who isn't nuts. Nuts is the new normal. If you don't have a quirk, you likely don't have a pulse. Sure, this makes for great dinner parties, but it sucks when it comes to interpersonal relations.

Aside: There is nothing, in my opinion, more beautiful than watching a Guinness cascade.

Back to it - people's insanity. I mean really.

I'm sitting in my living room, reading. The phone rings. It's Peter. After ribbing me for not being able to keep up with his drinking (He's 6'4 and Danish fer Chrissakes), he launches into this story about this chick he was dating that has gone bunny boiler on his ass. He had just gotten off the phone with her (she hung up on him) and as he took a deep breath to go into detail, she shows up at his door. This means she literally hung up the phone and sped to his door. WTF? To be angry at him? To tell him he's horrible for dumping her? Grab a shred of dignity and stay the fuck off his doorstep, you drama-seeking, thirty-something, validation vacuum. I don't get it. I don't do this. I do other things that are crazy, but I'd like to think that my quirks are charming and non-threatening. I could be wrong. I'll have to think about that.

Tomorrow I am hosting a party. SO far there will be myself, my sister and 8 guys. None of my female friends can come. This should be interesting.

At any rate, rant ends.

One must ask why...

...why the hell do we subject ourselves to the maddeningly stressful frustrations that guise themselves as pleasantries and chuckles also known as dating?

What is UP with guys in their mid thirties? Sheesh. I had hoped that the pubescent age discrepancies would have balanced by now, but evidently not. Perhaps my expectations are too high, but dammit guys, YOU keep telling me that you're all grown-up!

If you want something, you reach out and take it. You don't see how long it will sit on the shelf for, then chase after the clever person that sauntered by and said "Hum! Look at this!", begging for them to give it to you, since you saw it first.

CHRIST!

Just call the girl already. Ask her out, tell her she's cute. SOMETHING. In the meantime, she's thinking, "Well, I'd kinda hoped that he'd call, but the other one did instead, so I guess I'll go out with Plan B." And why doesn't she call him, you ask, dear reader? BECAUSE HE DIDN'T GIVE HER HIS PHONE NUMBER. She gave him hers, with the gross assumption that when a man says, "Hey, I'm a man, I like to drive the bus." he MEANS IT.

I'm at the end of my tether. I have people telling me that if I call or email first, he'll get intimidated or whatever, and I should wait for him to call, to initiate, to make the first, second and twentieth moves. This is such a load of bullshit as I have never known it. I hate waiting. I hate pretending I'm not interested in someone so that they'll be interested in me. What the sweet fuck is THAT about? Misogynistic freak shows.

Ok I'm fine now.