Day in bed

Crazies Part III

2007-08-04T11:07:00.000-04:00

Once upon a time, there were two people who fell in love. They loved spending time with each other, getting to know one another, calling each other for no reason, seeing each other spontaneously, joking, fooling around, seeing a future together.

Then, somewhere along the line, the balance changed. She was doing well in her life, he was not. It had always been like that. It just hadn't mattered before. Until things got serious and he started to see himself as inferior to her. This made her see him like that.

She can't see exactly how it happened but she assumed the position of power - giving him moral support, propping him up, helping him find another job, training him for it, taking him shopping for clothes for the interview. He lapped it all up. Sometimes begrudgingly because he was so down. But he still lapped it all up.

She gave him so much in this respect. She helped him. But their relationship disappeared. It became about him, not about them. She felt neglected and unloved. But he was still down and waiting to hear about the job, so she waited patiently. If he got the job, she told herself, things would surely change.

Miracle of miracles, he got the job. But then that was it. There was no more. The road had ended. Their relationship was too far gone to turn back and retrieve it. She was still the elder, only now they were on even footing. The balance was lost.

The girl had to take all kinds of abuse from him when he blew up and expressed how he'd felt the whole time they'd been together. Treated like a child, talked down to, told what to do. She was devastated. If it hadn't been for her pushing him, he would have got nowhere. Only now he was somewhere, he just didn't need her anymore. And the journey there was forgotten.

Crazies Part II

2007-06-25T18:01:00.000-04:00

X has been my downstairs neighbour for a year and a half now. The first time I ran into him, he called me "girlfriend" and kissed me on each cheek. The second time, he called me "girlfriend", kissed me on each cheek and asked me to sign a scrap of paper saying his dog didn't bother me.

Now when I signed my lease, I had to say I didn't have a dog or a cat. X's reasoning for the big dog in his apartment was, "I couldn't leave her behind." No, but you could have looked for a building with thicker walls that allowed animals.

X was sugary sweet for the next few weeks. Inviting me into his apartment to proudly show off his decorating skills. The walls were completely covered with frames of just about anything. And I mean anything. So that was where the incessant hammering was coming from. The landlord would have a heart attack. But hey, I'm a sucker. So I signed his scrap of paper and thought no more of it.

Until people started ringing his doorbell at all hours of the night and the dog went ballistic, barking and running up and down. Drug deliveries I think and young boys visiting. One poor soul insistently rang the doorbell for 15 minutes one night at 3 a.m. Business must have been closed for the night.

And yet, strangely, X thinks he's doing nothing wrong. I remember him opening his door one day when he heard my keys. He managed to coax me into his apartment to regale me with tales of a three-some he'd had with two 14-year-old boys on his holiday away. My look of shock just made him smile smuggly.

What's more if ever he needs something or you do something to annoy him, he won't hesitate in letting you know.

Last summer I had a bbq. X wasn't invited. But at 4 a.m. he knocked on my door to see if I had any beer left. I was asleep.

More recently, he called me at 8:30 on a Saturday morning to bitch about how annoying my bike was on the landing and how he couldn't hang his hammock properly.

And just the other day, he asked me what the wood on wood dragging noise was I was making all the time. Right, that's me once in a blue moon pushing a chair over to the kitchen cupboard to reach for a saucepan. Oh, and he asked me if I could ask my other half to walk around on the balls of his feet.

I think it's time to move.

Crazies Part I

2007-05-14T10:19:00.000-04:00

I've been away an awfully long time haven't I. I'd sort of forgotten about my blog to tell the truth. I swang by the other day and saw that a few people had posted comments asking where I'd gone, so here I am.
Here's a little something to get you back in the mood for a day in bed:

The other day I took a taxi home from the airport and feared for my life. The driver was crazy, weaving in and out of traffic, driving at top speed.

My heart was in my mouth, and when he changed lanes three times within five seconds, narrowly missing umpteen other cars, I said something. The following conversation ensued as we continued our race to hell.

ME: "Excuse me, could you perhaps slow down a little please?"

DRIVER: "Slow down? Slow down?! I've been doing this for 21 years! I've got a great track record! I've never crashed before! And I'm not going to start now!"

ME: "Ok."

D: "Ok, you want me to crash?!"

ME: "Ok, keep us safe please."

D: "I know what I'm doing! If I slow down we're going to crash?! Is that what you want?!"

ME: "I was in an accident last year that's all. So I -"

D: "You think you can do better? I know what I'm doing!"

BOYFRIEND: "Cool it mate."

D: "You cool it!"

I shut up. Simply because I thought the driver might crash the car just to spite us. My other half continued.

B: "This feels like a hostage situation."

Now, I failed to mention that the taxi driver was a huge man. Tall and bulky. And nasty looking. Thank god he didn't pull over for a punch up. On the contrary, he got us home in one piece and told us as much.

D: "See, you got home alive."

I had him drop us off on the corner of our street as I didn't want him to know where we lived. And we went to the corner shop at the other end of the street before we went home.

That takes the biscuit

2007-03-19T23:34:00.000-04:00

I am ashamed. Yes, there was the roast beef, but if I'm honest with you, in recent times, my consumption of cookies has been astronomical.

So much so that I feel strongly that I should found Cookie Addiction Anonymous. Consider this the first CAA meeting. Don't be shy. No one is here to judge. To put you at ease, let me go first.

Hello. My name is Day in Bed and I'm obsessed with cookies.

Welcome Day in Bed!

I don't know what's wrong with me. It's like I can't help myself. I can't just have one and forget about the others sitting in the cupboard. No, I have to eat them all, until there's none left.

I'll eat rich tea biscuits, not one or two but 10 at a time, with every cup of tea. And I drink a lot of tea. Luxurious school boy cookies, a whole box at a time. Chips ahoy, as many as I can cram into my mouth simultaneously.

Then there's the homemade cookies that my boyfriend has been making on a weekly basis: Ginger bread men, I'll eat six or seven in one sitting, even if they've only got one eye. Butter cookies, they're just alright, but I'll have three or four while I'm at it. And delight of delights, oatmeal (healthy) cookies with butterscotch chips (not so healthy). And the latest cookies of choice, chocolate oatmeal cookies. In the last week we've had two batches of those. Yesterday I ate eight. And they are, or rather were, enormous.

But I don't stop at cookies. I also love cake. And apple crumble and ice cream. And raisin bread. And chocolate. Cote d'or chocolate. And gummi bears. And fantasy belts. For those who think I have veered off on a sexual tangent, this is what I mean:

But enough about me.

Who's next?

Sunday roast

2007-03-11T21:01:00.000-04:00

I'm not a big cook. I like to keep it simple. Consequently, my evening meal repertoire consists of: pasta and sauce, hot and sour soup, shrimp and veggies, dumplings and veggies, and steak and baked potatoes in rotation.

But the six weeks I was working a full-time job in the boonies, my diet was reduced to not much through sheer laziness. A brioche loaf got a lot of mileage. As well as canned soup and salmon spread on crackers. And cups of Bovril.

I know, I know, I should be ashamed of myself. Eating healthily fights off colds, gives your skin a warm glow, improves your mood. I skipped all that and then filled up on chocolate bars and cookies in between meals because I was weak with hunger. It's a wonder I'm not the size of a house. Especially because I stopped going to the gym because of my exhausting 1-hour+ extravaganza journey home.

Tonight, however, I excelled myself by becoming a gastronomical wonder. I made a roast beef with roast potatoes, vegetables, Yorkshire pudding and gravy. And all from scratch!

I am still in shock. It was absolutely delicious. A proper English roast with all the trimmings. And I made it!

I even did the washing up.

How about that for a Sunday evening?

As free as a bird

2007-03-03T14:20:00.000-05:00

It's not always an easy decision to make. Should I do what I'm supposed to do? Or break away and do my own thing?

I recently took on a full-time job. As regular readers will know, this involved a 1-hour+ extravaganza journey that sometimes included the walk of death in -30 temperatures.

I was seduced by money, benefits and stability. There, I admit it. But almost immediately my spirit started to wither.

I've done the office thing long enough in the past to know that I am not and never will be an office girl. I can't deal with it. Having to fit the mould. Having to be at the office all day, even when you've finished your work. Having your copy pulled apart and re-written. After all, anyone can write, right?

Such is a copywriter's lot. Yes, you have to take criticism, that's all part of the job. But hell, at the end of the day, it's all so subjective. Everyone's got their own ideas. And that's when egos get in the way.

So I did a month and gave in my notice. Some people think I'm crazy. Some people think I made a decision too fast. But what I know is this - I felt like I was suffocating, like I was being contained. This was probably all in my head, but nonetheless it was there. I had to get out.

So I'm back to freelancing. No financial stability, no benefits, no knowing how much money will be coming in and when. But my spirit can breathe again. It feels good. It feels liberating. I have a smile on my face.

I don't think I could do anything else. This writing lark is the only thing I know how to do. But it has to be on my terms. And those terms are at my pace and when I'm inspired. It's not necessarily between 9 and 5, sometimes it's not necessarily on a week day. It just happens. And when it does, it feels great.

Someday I'll fly away

2007-02-25T12:50:00.000-05:00

It's inevitable that at some point you're going to leave your fly open by mistake. Because let's face it, we pull our fly up and down (or rather down and up) so many times in one day that it's bound to happen sooner or later. We're only human after all.

This has happened quite a few times to me. But also because I left it down on purpose and forgot to pull it back up when social circumstances called for it.

Incident 1-100
Cause: Tardiness
I hit snooze too many times and overlooked my fly in my hurry to get dressed and dash out the door for my 1-hour+ extravaganza journey to work/brunch with a friend/trip to the gym/etc. When this happens, I finish dressing in the metro or bus without a care for who's watching because I still have sleep in my eyes. I've also been known to take my inside-out T-shirt off and put it back on the right way upon arriving at the office.

Incident 101
Cause: Bloatedness
I'd undone my fly on a transatlantic flight because I always get bloated on such a long flight. When I stood on my chair to get my bag out of the overhead locker upon landing, I completely forgot my fly was still open. My jumper rose, revealing my open fly to anyone watching.

Incident 102
Cause: Overeating
I'd gone over to a friend's house for a dinner party and gorged myself as per usual on a scrumptious feast. When I got up from the table post-dinner, I completely forgot I'd opened my fly to ease my full tummy, revealing my open fly to luckily just the host, who was a little inebriated and high anyway.

Incident 103
Cause: Shenanigans
My boyfriend and I had been sneekily canoodling in the bathroom at a thanksgiving dinner. I came out of the bathroom first with a silly grin on my face and my fly proudly open to just one person who happened to be looking - a guy who'd asked me out on a date a couple of years ago and who I'd spinelessly turned down with the excuse, "I'm busy but I'll call you next week" and who I'd not called next week or indeed ever again.

Incident 104
Cause: Forgetfulness
I had a debrief with someone at work (which involved her sitting at her desk and me standing up, ie, my fly not far from her eye level). It wasn't until afterwards that I realized I must have forgotten to pull my fly up after my visit to the ladies' room. How unprofessional of me.

Tip of the day:
If you are prone to any of these causes, throw away all those grey overwashed knickers and instead wear a lovely pair of knickers every single day, don a cheeky smile, and you can get away with almost anything.

Like hundreds of peas in a pod

2007-02-20T16:37:00.000-05:00

Now I don’t always get a good night’s sleep. But I try to increase my chances by opening the window a tad, putting the humidifier on and going to bed before midnight (ahem, I said I try). I would never dream of trading in my lovely queen size bed with its fluffy quilt and pillows for a coffin-like pod in a capsule hotel-come-morgue! If I lived in Japan that is.

And yet Japanese business men find them tremendously useful. If you work late and miss your last train home, a night in a capsule hotel is often cheaper than catching a taxi. And if you go for a drink after work and get hammered, a capsule hotel is a good place to pass out.

They give you a fresh change of clothes and before bed you can kick back in a lounge with other business men and watch sport on a giant screen TV. Hell, it’s like a vacation! When you go to bed later you can even continue watching TV in your pod if you feel like it, then set the alarm clock, lower the blind and drift off. In the hope that none of the guests pull up your blind and axe you to death. But I digress.

In the morning, you can have a shower and pick up your drycleaned suit, or even sometimes have a luxurious bath and a massage! Who needs to go home to the wife when you can have all this and more!

In fact, there are sometimes sections reserved for women with spa facilities attached. But careful, no fraternizing allowed! And usually, women book more for pyjama parties, than from being inebriated (not very classy), as Japanese apartments are so small.

I’m not sure what I would do if I was a guy on business in Japan faced with the dilemma of missing my last train home. If I was over 6 foot tall, I’d have trouble getting into the pod. And if I also happened to be a light sleeper, the other guys’ drunken snoring would drive me wild.

I might be tempted to put on a wig, spike the punch and join the pyjama party.

Cry baby

2007-02-18T20:57:00.000-05:00

Why do the people we love most make us cry? Is it because they feel they can treat us any way they like because we love them? Or is it because we're too sensitive because we've let our barriers down through love?

I am confused.

No time, not enough sleep, stress of work or lack of, are all factors that can push us to the brink of despair. But if you care about someone, shouldn't they be the last person you take it out on?

It's like people who drink away their sorrows sitting at a bar spilling their guts out to a complete stranger. This is often easier to do because you know you'll probably never see that person again. In the case of the person you share your life with, it's often easier to not talk at all.

Relationships confound me.

One day everything's great. The next your partner would rather sleep, watch loud crap TV or play video games than spend some time with you. Is it you? Are you a bore? Or are you pmsing and taking it too much to heart?

I think guys like to pretend everything's ok. Suck it up. If a worried girlfriend voices her concern and asks why he's acting like she isn't there, he's most likely to think she's over-reacting. An argument will no doubt follow. After which he will proffer the ever-ready, "Would you like me to go?" Like that's going to work wonders.

You give everything and this is what you get back. One hell of a shitty weekend.

Now I will watch Desperate Housewives, drink tea, eat cookies and go to bed alone. Tomorrow is another day.

Good morning, good morning!

2007-02-12T23:45:00.000-05:00

I hate mornings. Not just a bit but hugely. I'm a night person you see. I stay up late. I get up late. So my body goes into shock when my alarm clock goes off at 7:20. I mean 7:20! That's indecent!

The result is that I leave for work late. And not always looking my finest. Sometimes I don't get out of bed til 8:00, leaving me with a grand total of 15 minutes to spruce myself up. Haaa! Takes much longer than that believe me.

I've done some pretty strange things in my moody, sleepy morning state, as even though my body is eventually awake and out of bed, my brain stays in dreamland:

- Reaching for the toothpaste to cleanse my face instead of the face wash.
- Drying my hair then realizing I forgot to shampoo it.
- Eating a yogurt and throwing away the spoon instead of the empty yogurt pot.
- Opening the freezer to get the milk out.
- Trying to swipe my way into the metro with my keys.

Yes, this list is completely harmless. But when I'm still sounding slightly drugged hours later, things can get tricky.

There are plenty of foods to eat when you want a good night's sleep like turkey, bananas, wholewheat bread and oatmeal accompanied by a mug of warm milk. But I'm looking for food and drink to help me wake up. Properly. And not coffee as it gives me the shakes.

Any ideas?

I see

2007-02-11T19:36:00.000-05:00

Today I decided I should go downtown and swap my glasses for another pair. Because the ones I purchased two weeks ago seem to be too heavy for my poor delicate nose. And the black and white design only goes with black. And I think they're too overbearing and not really me.

Last weekend I already went in to take advantage of their 30-day exchange policy. This policy, frequently advertised on TV, says that if you happen to change your mind it's not a problem! However, when I went in, the nice lady optician insisted I try out the new silicone nose pads she fitted instead. Okay then. But a week later, no joy.

This afternoon I returned and browsed the lighter frames and decided on a metallic blue low-key pair I really like. I sat down with a different optician to go through the paperwork.

"Just out of curiosity, could you try on the old pair and the new pair for me?" he said.

Obliging, I put on the heavy pair. Then the lighter pair. I look at myself in the mirror again thinking, yes, these are them.

"The first ones give you personality," the guy says. "Those are just blah."

My face drops.

"But it's completely up to you," he adds, getting the paperwork out.

I don't know what to say. I am flummoxed. My boyfriend thankfully jumps in.

"They're very stylish and all but not very flexible. And of course a bit too heavy." That is the point here after all.

"Well," the guy continues unfazed, "blah it is." Unbelievable. Not only is this guy rude but it seems he doesn't think twice about dissing glasses that he personally may not like but are still sold by the store.

I note the guy's own flash glasses that perhaps are his own attempt to make up for his complete lack of style and tact.

"I don't think you should have to rely on your glasses to give you personality," comes out of my mouth.

Ha! What a line! I thought of something to say! And not 20 minutes later! This is a first!

I leave the store with my new glasses on order, still basking in the joy of answering back. Then I plagued my boyfriend with, Do you really think they're blah, do you think they make me look blah, why wasn't that guy nice to me? for the next 20 minutes.

Cold knees

2007-02-09T14:31:00.000-05:00

I have been inspired to write a post about Montreal bus drivers by Non-working monkey. Such an excellent advertisement for Montreal public transport is a rare thing in today's society. Please, check it out before you read on...

Yesterday it was particularly cold. Like -20 or something. My trip to the office includes two metro lines and a 15-minute bus ride. Alright, maybe I was a little late for the bus. But I ran from the metro platform, believe me I ran. I sprinted up the stairs, sprinted up the escalators, pushed through the crowds, and was literally just a couple of metres from the bus door when the bloody bus driver closed the doors and drove off. Why? WHY?

I was gutted. Completed gutted. And sweaty. And seriously pissed off. Another bus was innocently chugging away on the other side of the bus terminal with its doors open so I went over to see if it was heading in the same direction. "Yes, but you'll have to walk a way," the driver said politely, but with a bit of a grin. Did I mention it was -20?

Now I had two choices. Take yet another taxi, bearing in mind that I already took one on Monday, or brave the walk. Crazily, I decided to go with the latter.

The bus driver stopped at the closest stop and opened the doors. "Go straight then turn left," he said still grinning as I put my hat and gloves back on. Oh God.

The go straight part lasted a good 10 minutes, and the turn left part another 5. I thought I was going to die. I couldn't feel my knees anymore and my ears felt like blocks of ice.

Will it stop me from being late in the mornings? Nah, I'm a creative. Will it make me hate bus drivers even more? Oh yeah, bring it on.

Eternal embrace

2007-02-07T18:07:00.000-05:00

Time: 18:10
Bedding: white, Alvine Stra from Ikea
Position: propped up on two pillows, with blanket tucked under chin
Dress: jeans, T-shirt, hoodie
Food: chocolate brownies
Accessories: phone

Yes. I have gone full circle. I am back in bed. With Alvine Stra. It has taken a while but I made it. People just don't understand my need. To stay in bed. Wrapped up in the covers. With you, my dear, familiar Alvine Stra. You truly are my favourite. I can't get enough of you.

Today I fell upon this photo and it caught my eye. Archaelologists in Italy have discovered a couple buried 5,000 years ago wrapped in an embrace. Ok, it's morbid, but beyond that, it's simply beautiful. They appear to be drinking in each other's gaze, their bodies entwined, holding each other.

I can't help wondering what happened to them. Did they suffer an awful death together as they were sleeping in their bed? Were they placed like this for their burial because they were husband and wife? Just what is their story...

Such a loving pose frozen in time has made me spend the afternoon occasionally glancing at the empty side of the bed.

Enough. I am a selfish being. I see something that touches me and I bring it home to me, Me, ME.

I have put my brownies aside, flung back Alvine and am off to the gym.

Driving Miss Day In Bed

2007-01-15T13:36:00.000-05:00

There are days when you feel like you should have just stayed in bed. And there are days when you could have stayed in bed.

Today my day fell in the latter category. I had a driving class scheduled for midday. Which involved me getting out of bed and braving the snow blizzard outside to walk 10 minutes to the metro, wait for the metro, chug along the slow line, then walk 5 minutes to the driving school.

"Oh," said the receptionist when I came in. "Your instructor is on a 2-hour lesson with someone else."

This is the second time she has done this to me. So I'm gritting my teeth. I also spoke to her on the phone barely 45 minutes ago. So I want to slap her.

"Well, I'll just hang around and wait for him to come back," I suggest. There's a Jean-Coutu pharmacy opposite and I need some loo roll.

"He has another class scheduled. His day is full."

Fantastic. What am I - chopped liver?

My hour was moved somewhere else on the completely illegible diary - "See, there is someone else with him right now" - while I huffed and puffed and rolled my eyes, when she wasn't looking of course. Then I trudged home through the blizzard again.

I'm wet, cold and what a waste of time. Of precious bed time.

Deep breath, no matter. This day in bed was quickly salvaged. I'm now safely back in bed where I belong, perusing the web and sipping a cup of Bovril.

I have a 2-hour class with my "Check the bleend spot" guy tomorrow. In the meantime, I deserve a good lie down.

Who said flying was the safest way to travel?

2007-01-01T12:15:00.000-05:00

I was lucky to get back to Montreal last night in one piece and, as yet, uncontaminated.

My pre-reserved seat was in a prime location:

- Next to a man who refused to blow his nose and thus sniffed the entire journey
- In front of an all-American family who proceeded to talk loudly the entire way
- Directly in front of a boy of said all-American family who kicked my chair continuously and coughed excessively and I think needlessly

But I guess the highlight of the journey was when the sniffing man got up to get something down from the overhead locker. A large bottle of gin fell out and onto my chair. I happened to be leaning forward filling out my immigration form. Otherwise I would have been knocked out.

I could have strangled the guy. But instead I said, "I'm fine. Just be careful." Yeah, like, you could have killed me, you snivelling moron.

I think my new year's resolution should be to say more what I'm thinking... If only I had the guts.

Happy new year everyone!

Too much of a good thing

2006-12-27T07:44:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was the day I ate so much junk food I made myself sick. A whole chocolate selection pack, a bag of twiglets, nuts, Belgian chocolates, mince pies, jam tarts, chocolate biscuits…

Why oh why oh why? I know that stuff goes straight to my hips. I also know I’m not going to the gym over the holidays. Then why? All I can think of is that it feels good. Like something naughty you shouldn’t be doing. But you’re indulging anyway. And oh I indulged.

But isn’t that what Christmas is all about? Of course, of course, it’s the day baby Jesus was born. But isn’t it assumed we celebrate by eating, drinking and making merry? Sitting around with the family watching tele just wouldn't be the same without a bloody Mary – excuse the pun - and a plate of mince pies.

Alka Seltzer anyone?

Mince pie anyone?

2006-12-22T11:29:00.000-05:00

I spent the afternoon making mince pies. And wondering why they were called mince pies when they have no meat in them. Thanks to the world wide web I have been enlightened.

You see, in Medieval times mince pieces were made with shredded meat, dried fruit and spices and were baked in oblong casings to represent Jesus' crib.

Over time, however, the pies have become smaller tarts made with fruit-based only mincemeat containing dried fruit, spices, nuts and alcohol, with the addition of suet.

But even though the content has changed, you might want to consider continuing certain traditions:

- If you make a wish with the first bite of your first festive mince pie, it will come true

- You should only stir the mincemeat clockwise. Stirring it anticlockwise will bring you bad luck in the new year

- Mince pies should be eaten in silence

- Eating one or more mince pies on each of the 12 days of Christmas will bring you good luck in the new year

- Mince pies should have a star on top, to represent the Christmas star that led the Magi to baby Jesus

If you haven't baked any mince pies yet, get cracking! Then hush the room and get as many down you as you can! For lots and lots of good luck in 2007.

Lost or stolen identity

2006-12-20T16:31:00.000-05:00

At check-in at the airport, the Air Canada lady said to me, "You don't sound like you're from Liverpool." I looked at her apologetically, shrugged and said by way of excuse because I felt like I owed her an explanation, "I haven't lived there in 10 years." She answered, "Oh," as if to say, What an odd person you are. Or maybe she just meant, Oh right dear, now move along will you, we haven't got all day.

The thing is, I've got a hybrid accent - I speak English with a Canadian lilt, and French with both a Parisian and a Quebececois lilt. People never know where I'm from. Because I don't exactly look like an English rose either. But the question is, do I know where I'm from?

Lots of people that live abroad face this dilemma. Is their new home their home or do they still pine after their old home, making special trips to English shops to stock up on Ready Brek and clotted cream whenever they can?

I'm happy with my life in Montreal. I guess I would call myself a Montrealer, if hesitantly. And that's after 7 years. But there are still things that make me seem displaced to others and to myself. There's my accent, then certain cultural references, sometimes sense of humour, and quite simply not having family and friends around me that shared my past.

I prefer to think of the glass as half full as opposed to half empty, so I don't call my English identity my lost identity; I call my three quarter Montreal status my adopted identity.

At the other end of the spectrum, however, there's the stolen identity.

While I was waiting for my connection flight at Heathrow, I discreetly observed a rather strange couple. The woman seemed to be alone, but then was occasionally joined by an older man with a generous beer gut. They stood near each other, close enough for you to wonder if they were together, but far enough apart to think that it was random because she just looked vacant and he barely spoke two words to her.

When we landed I saw them exiting the airport with what looked like a friend of the guy's. The two men were chatting, the older man pulling a suitcase, while the other man walked empty-handed. The woman walked slightly behind them, struggling with her case and completely ignored by the men.

I couldn't help assuming she was a Filipino mail-order bride. She may have a better life in England but at what cost? Here was a beautiful woman that was obviously with someone that neither appreciated nor understood her. Her identity had been bought. And her glass was well and truly empty.

The long and short of it

2006-12-17T23:48:00.000-05:00

I was sitting on the bus this weekend when a girl got on and stood near me. She was wearing a skirt so short that it was practically a belt. I was making sure my boyfriend wasn't ogling her. But mostly I caught the retort she made to her boyfriend after asking the bus driver a question and apparently being misunderstood.

"God, if you're going to move to this country, you should make sure you speak French."

Er, I think you meant province. And why are you speaking to an anglophone bus driver in French when you're an anglophone yourself?

I wanted to slap her because the bus driver probably had a PhD in economics. And why couldn't he not speak French? It's his right. This is Canada after all. Of course my hardcore pro-Quebec friend would have a fit that I could say such a thing. But it's true.

I should have done something. Or at least looked her skirt up and down, all 5 cm of it. But I was too much of a chicken. So I rested my head on my boyfriend's shoulder and fell asleep.

I have to hand it to you

2006-12-15T01:17:00.000-05:00

Why are handbags bottomless pits?

I bought a row of metro tickets this afternoon. But when I took the metro later on to go home, no amount of fishing around in my handbag could locate them. Although I really did persist. In the following steps:

1. Peered in.
2. Fingered top contents lightly.
3. Put hand in and shuffled contents around haphazardly.
4. Sighed.
5. Dug hand in to bottom and felt around.
6. Swore.
7. Riffled roughly through contents.
8. Took a deep breath and sorted through contents while putting them in order somewhat.
9. Repeated 8. but in opposite direction.
10. Gave up and bought a ticket.

And it didn't stop there.

When I got in the train, I looked again. Surely they were in there.

And when I got home, I emptied my handbag completely. They had to be hiding somewhere.

But alas, no. They must have fallen out when I paid for a coffee.

I think in total I have dedicated one hour to the search of the tickets, the talking about losing the tickets and the writing about losing the tickets in this post.

I thought I liked that handbag. Now I can't bear to look at it. How dare you fail me handbag? I'll never forgive you.

Go Habs go!

2006-12-13T01:29:00.000-05:00

Tonight I went to see a hockey match. It’s something else - the crowd, the noise, the excitement. I pigged out on hotdogs and chips and tried to follow the game. Because I’m somewhat of a novice at this. Plus it was difficult to concentrate at times with the girl next to me splashing her beer around. I was convinced I would be splattered on at some point. Luckily, I got out unscathed. But not before having the following conversation with her during one of the intermissions.

Her: Why are they playing that advertisement here?

It was a circus ad.

Me: To convince people to go.

Her: Yeah, but what’s the point?

Me: It plays with people’s minds.

I caught myself and stopped. Yep, such is the nature of what I do for a living. Manipulating people, making them believe they truly need a product or service, making them change perceptions and behaviour. Gotta love it.

What is it with Canadians and hockey anyway? Why is it such a popular game? Why do kids start playing as soon as they can walk?

Of course there’s that whole thing that you should take an interest in stuff your boyfriend is interested in. My boyfriend also plays in a work hockey league. It’s a lot of hockey for one person to handle. And I’m not talking about him.

But you know what? I surprised myself. I never thought that Go Habs go! and Olé olé olé olé would ever enter my vocabulary. Tonight they did. As I screamed them at the top of my voice.

Now I need to learn the rules.

Happy Easter!

2006-12-11T14:06:00.000-05:00

It’s official. My hiatus is over. I had an interview. The mail fairy left me some lovely lovely cheques. And I got a juicy brief. Christmas - in the advertising world, that is - has ended and Easter is here, so the briefs are rolling back in.

Alas, all good things must come to an end. The Alvine Stra bedding is in the washer and I’m nostalgically watching it whirl around. Ahh, those were the days. We don’t know what we’ve got till it’s gone unfortunately. I should have savoured that time more. Appreciated it. Adored it. Instead I feel that I frittered it away on snoozing.

How naive I was, I think, as I look at myself in the mirror and shake my head mournfully. Then break into song, When will I see you again? and sway my hips in time to the music.

I celebrate by eating another cupcake.

The washer starts to spin and I immediately regret so openly showing my elation. Oh my, what was I thinking? I'm so selfish. My naked bed must think I am so shallow. To love and leave it like that. To strip it bare and then take off. A better offer came along and I just dropped it like a hot potato. How could I? And our honeymoon period not even over.

Do not fear Bed, even though I am not with you, you will always be in my heart. I will dress you in Tanja Brodyr later tonight and lull you to sleep with a lullaby.

I have to make sure you'll take me back next Christmas after all.

Retail therapy

2006-12-10T22:27:00.000-05:00

I did my test yesterday. Then went and bought two new sweaters and a coat. It’s funny how the mere prospect of getting better results than 40 other suckers, succeeding in being called back for an interview and then perhaps being the # 1 person they hire for freelance work makes something click in my mind. Something that says, It’s ok for you to spend lashings and lashings of money because there’s money coming in soon, really soon! A remote possibility? Of course it is. But at the time, my mind refuses to even consider this for one second when there are some gorgeous sweaters in the window at Zara and a gorgeous coat I saw a girl wearing the other day that I simply have to have!

So the test. It was three hours long and was actually quite fun, if exhausting. I had to get out of bed early. Like 8:30. And on a Saturday! I’m obviously out of practice. So what with the test, the shopping, the haircut and the meeting boyfriend for dinner, I didn’t spend any part of my day in bed. And today what with waking up early and having stuff to do, I'm having withdrawal symptoms. Which include sore feet, dizziness, the shakes and extreme longing.

Right now my boyfriend is having a nap before work. Then finally, I can reclaim my bed. It’s mine, all mine.

Testing, testing, 1, 2, 3

2006-12-08T19:24:00.000-05:00

I love my bed. No really, I do. I feel safe and beddy.

All the more so because I got a call yesterday evening. To take a test for a subtitling company. I foggily sent them my CV in the middle of the night last Sunday. And then instantly forgot about it.

The conversation went something like this. So unused I was to speaking and sounding relatively coherent.

Woman: Hello, can I speak to INSERT MY NAME?

Me: Speaking.

Here I assumed it was a telemarketer selling me cheap calling rates to India. I was preparing to send her packing.

W: This is Ilene from INSERT COMPANY.

My memory drew a blank.

W: You sent us your CV?

Still a blank.

W: For the Freelance English Editor position?

I suddenly remembered. Sort of.

M: Oh yes, I sent you my CV a couple of days ago.

W: On Sunday, yes.

Man, she was on the ball.

This is great news. If I can ace the test tomorrow I could get some serious work. And enjoy my days in bed with new relish.

Why I'm here

2006-12-07T12:13:00.000-05:00

Although this by no means is my first day in bed, it is my first documented day in bed.

Time: 13:20
Bedding: white, Alvine Stra from Ikea
Position: propped up on two pillows, with blanket tucked under chin
Dress: jogging pants, t-shirt
Food: bowl of all-bran with raisins
Accessories: phone in case a client calls - and before you presume I am a hooker, let me fill you in...

I am a freelance writer, translator and editor. But I have so little work right now that I spend day after day in bed. Because I don't see the point in getting up quite simply.

I start my day by reaching down by the side of the bed for my laptop then surf, snooze and intermittently check my email on the off-chance I get some work. Today, I'm waiting for an email to come in with the promise of a 1-hour job. I take what I can.

Until then, I'm staying put. It's a guilty pleasure. But it's also a habit I've gotten into. I can't really stray far from home because my clients invariably call with, "I just sent you something to translate, could you do it right away?" Anyway, it's a bit cold to aimlessly wander. Even in my apartment because I'm saving on heating. So I stay in bed you see. Where it's nice and cozy and warm.