I’m not sure how, but I am head-spinningly busy these days. After almost two weeks of sickness, work, family visits, burlesque of both Cheesecake and other nature, and a wee bit of socializing, I feel like I’ve been non stop.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve totally been flaking on any regularity to my blogging because I’ve been opting to lose myself in the plot line of a myriad of television series. But I think I’ve been choosing to do so because I’ve been feeling really run down and it’s been easier to lay around when I have downtime. I finally set aside some time today and the only reason is because I have to sit at home for two hours in the middle of the day to wait for the cable guy (CABLE! All Ellen, all the time. And Jeopardy. I finally succumbed to Shaw when they tricked me with their pleasant little phone rep when I was in a good mood last week. Bastards). So here I am. I betcha he’ll show up at some stupid time, like 1:50pm. I have plans, dammit! Ok, so my plans are to then watch cable, smoke pot and eat food until I pass out in front of the TV with dirty dishes surrounding me, like rotting carcasses from a kill. So?!
I’m finally, FIIIIIINALLY better. There are remnants of dead virus sliding in mucous form into my lungs, so I have a wicked old man cough at random times, but I’m good to go otherwise. The illness really did kick the shit outta me and I am quite a healthy, resilient person. It’s fair to say that my completely busy schedule, combined with the cold that would not die, really amplified my stress levels over the weekend, turning a normally tolerable situation into me, having fantasies about letting out a long scream at the top of my lungs, in a public (family event) place. But just like other moments, I coped by drinking too much red wine at the restaurant, then stumbling into the Corner Lounge to be a drunk, over-sharing mess around people I rarely see, thus making an excellent impression on my general drinking habits to old acquaintances. Awesome. Oh Nanaimo, how you bring out the Old Devon with a vengeance. Although I would really like to give myself credit for one part of my evening….I ran into an ex from 10 years ago (no jokes. Totally 10 years ago), who tried to pull me into the handicap washroom to hook up. Don’t get me wrong: he’s a hottie. I think I reciprocated for about 10 seconds, until I asked, “Wait, are you still together with ___________?” I don’t remember what his exact answer was, but I’ll say it in my words, but his response: Oh yes I am. Actually, she’s just waiting at a table with a group of friends and she has no idea that I’m pulling this shit right now. WTF dude? Really? Way to perpetuate the all-men-are-pigs stereotype. Wrapping up this long paragraph, I kiboshed the situation and walked away. Ick. So not interested in that BS.
Now that I’ve spewed out my frustrations in a humorous, self deprecating, and therefore, socially acceptable form of complaining, let’s talk about something new. My new make-believe career choices have turned into becoming a funeral director. I blame my new macabre choices of TV series, starting with the first season of American Horror Story, and now I’m completely absorbed with Six Feet Under. In my daydreams, I get paid a moderate amount of money, but then I get to apply makeup to cadavers all the livelong day. I know it’s not really like that, and the job would be a lot more sad and stressful. It doesn’t really make a difference, because the likelihood of me actually going through with the career is pretty slim to none. Michelle did look up the hows and wheres of things, though. I can’t say it’s an impossibility. It’s strange that I would gravitate towards something like undertaker, because the main reason I tend to lose myself in television is to feel less lonely in my existence as a now 30-something single girl. Not lonely in the sense of wanting a man to keep me company. Just more lonely out of boredom. Good God, I’m slowly becoming my father. Soon I’ll be buying chilli in cases from Costco and peering out my venetian blinds at anyone who pulls into the parking lot.
Speaking of being untroubled with menfolk as of late, I have been feeling very Rose-at-the-end-of-Titanic-carefree with the rest of my life plans. Now that I’m actually settled in being a single person and any shred of sadness has left my bones, I feel like I’m waking up to living life again. All that usually means is that I get illusions of grandeur when it comes to planning. So far, I’m going to be a stage performing mortician, who travels to Costa Rica to take part in a wildlife rehabilitation volunteer program, and then spends two months backpacking through Asia and Australia over Christmas. How ambitious of me. There’s also visions of visiting wineries in South Africa, climbing Mount Kilimanjaro, hiking Macchu Picchu, tanning on the beaches of Rio, yachting in the Caribbean, and exploring Europe. For the third time. The only thing stopping me is the cats. And the money. That’s always a burden. I consulted a financial planner last week (that’s a whole blog on it’s own. Let’s just say that I left the office seething and damning the man all the way home), and it seems that I’m not quiiiiite there with my finances. But I’ll be doing it all. Who wants to come with me??
For the record, the Shaw guy got here at 2:03 and left at 2:46. I’m embarking on the slow disintegration of my brain with the Bugs Bunny and Tweety show and a gas station coffee.