Thursday, March 31, 2005

Can we focus, please?

Dear VP,

Let’s do it or let’s not do it. Hire me or don’t.

My boss’s boss’s boss, who also happens to be the president of your company, had all but printed the business cards a week ago. He passed me along to you and the momentum has stalled. Do you think that I’m not right for the job? Are you going to hire me but you’re too busy to do it this week? Is dragging this process on forever fun for you?

There are only so many meetings we can have and only so many times I can tell you that I’m interested. I feel like I’m being a pest. What else do you want me to do? Please let me know because, unless it involves garish amounts of nudity, public humiliation in the form of a tap dance spectacular or the mastery of the Italian language, I’ll do it.

The charming intern in the basement

Wednesday, March 30, 2005

Happy living

Newsflash. Spring is here and I am happy.

Today it was 65 degrees. The sun was out. I walked my dogs wearing nothing but track pants and a long-sleeved shirt. I pulled the comforter off of my bed and brought it outside to air out, hoping that it will smell more like spring and less like my darling bed partner, Stevie. I spent the afternoon on the deck with a book and the sunshine.

Yesterday, I passionately bitched to my mother about the injustice of the travesty that is the fact that I haven’t won at Roll Up the Rim to Win despite:
a. my neighborhood Tim Horton’s having sold 600+ winners (they keep a tally in the window)
b. my boss having won four times this Roll Up the Rim to Win season

Mom, in her infinite wisdom, said to me “maybe you can’t have a beautiful article published and get a job offer and win a free donut, too.”

And she doesn’t even know about Colin!

Squeal. Giggle. Scream.

Maybe I really did need to get mad to get happy.

Healthy living

Since Sunday, my diet has consisted entirely of marshmallow Peeps (chicks and bunnies, various colors) and Reese's peanut butter eggs.

Tuesday, March 29, 2005

Behind the curtain

I have told no one in my offline life about Colin.

Very typical behavior.

I have always been very secret, exceptionally quiet about personal things. The stuff you share with your girlfriends, you know? Periods and crushes and sex and makeup and all that appears between the covers of Cosmopolitan.

My friends don’t know that, until the wee hours of Sunday morning, I hadn’t been kissed.

They’ve never heard me talk about my period.

They deduce my crushes based on behavior rather than on admission.

It’s always been this way. I couldn’t even talk about celebrity crushes until my later high school years. How can I spend time wondering why I don’t have more friends when I can’t let my guard down long enough to let anyone get to know me?

I’m hiding. My secrets or myself or from the fear that news of my latest crush will be whispered through the hallways.

And I keep a fucking blog. How can that be?

Monday, March 28, 2005

Embarrassing quantities of babble

So much to write about.

Cannot focus to do it.

I don’t know if so many parts of my life have ever moved so fast and so simultaneously. I blink and things change. It’s a lot to keep up with.

I’m a hot mess.

The job. Still unofficial. I could start almost immediately. It is rooted in my internship but is different enough that there is a strong possibility that I’ll actually like it. I won't be working with my current bosses. I will be using my degree. It’s an hour away – far enough away that I’ll have to move out, close enough to be able to charm Dad to come over to fix something on a whim. I have high hopes.

The Colin. Saturday night. The bar. His roommates like me. His house. More drinks. His bedroom. His lips. His hands. He didn’t move too fast. I wasn’t as nervous and as clumsy as I had always feared. The memory has played so many times that it feels imagined. Call yesterday. Lunch today. I try not to get too excited, too attached.

The Dad. He isn’t making it easy. “What? Colin made a booty call?” venomously, when I told him I was going out on Saturday. Constant repetition of the fact that I got home at 5:00 a.m. (and, actually, it was more like 5:30). Making it difficult. I don’t know why.

The coaching. Classes have been dramatically reduced, as they always are in the springtime. Kids are too busy playing soccer to take skating. I’m going to have a lot more free time. I need it.

To sum it all up: holy fucking shit, I cannot believe this is happening to me. Any of this. All of this.

Sunday, March 27, 2005

Easter: my new favorite holiday

The spell was broken.
I was kissed.

All the more reason to thank Jesus on this Easter Sunday.

Saturday, March 26, 2005

I'll come clean

That page-a-day calendar?

Now on February 2.

Friday, March 25, 2005


I’ve been playing hockey for a year. I am horrible.

I was a superstar in my winter league. It had a lot to do with the fact that my teammates and opponents were hockey moms. Average age was 40. Average knowledge of the offsides rule ranked at nonexistent. And most of them couldn’t exactly skate. Or get up if they fell.

My hockey career launched last spring, on a team with a bunch of kids I coach with. The guys who coach skating geared towards hockey players agreed to play with a handful of figure skating instructors. Because they’re suckers for cheap entertainment.

This spring’s hockey team is a reprieve of last spring’s hockey coach/figure skating coach dynamic. We moved up a division, for no other reason than to humble and humiliate those of us who were not born wearing hockey skates.

We needed more players.

Insert my dad and my little sister.

Both of whom have been playing hockey all of their lives.

Last night’s game was our first. The thrilling 7-0 defeat included the debut of the A-Meg-Dad line, which from now on will be referred to as the Death on Skates line.

The Death on Skates line will live in infamy.

Dad took a shot on goal and was near the net when the referee blew the whistle. Meggie saw the goalie take a shot at Dad after the whistle was blown. She didn’t like it.

Meggie skated to the goalie and politely inquired “what the fuck was that?”

And the goalie cracked her in the face.

Meggie bleeds from her lip. Daddy gets in the goalie’s face. I decide that the most intelligent thing to do is to call the goalie a cunt and go back to the bench before I:
a. do something stupid
b. am bloodied
c. am laughed at by the other team for my lack of skill and failure to come to the defense of my father and my sister.

Fast forward to end of game.

Hockey coach/figure skating coach/Dad/Meg team lines up to shake hand with opponents.

Dad doesn’t shake hands with goalie.

I don’t shake hands with goalie. Call him a coward.

Dad and goalie exchange words. Goalie is labeled an ignorant motherfucker.

And then we go into the locker room, where we drink beer (which Dad bought) and eat brownies (which I baked) and discuss our genetic athletic and intellectual supremacy with our teammates.

Who think that we are ¾ of the coolest family ever.

Thursday, March 24, 2005

The freezing of hell


Did my boss’s boss’s boss just offer me a fulltime job in his other company?

Because that might have been the gist of the conversation we had.

I’m going to throw up.

Wednesday, March 23, 2005

We are living in a material world

I would never want to be a man, but – fuck! – being a girl is awfully hard.

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

Dead in my tracks

Here is the best way to stunt my productivity.

Casually mention the fact that the paycheck sitting on my desk is my last one. Tell me I’m welcome to stay around and intern (for absolutely free!) as long as I would like. Ask if I’ve thought any about getting a real job. Laugh when I admit that the mere mention of finding permanent, legitimate work sparks ulcer-like abdominal pain and tears gushing with Niagara force.


Monday, March 21, 2005


I’ve been coaching skating for four years now, and what I’ve found that I love most about coaching is the interaction with the kids. It has little to do with sharing my favorite sport with them, strangely enough, and a lot to do with the rawness of my students.

They’re all little works in progress. They aren’t fully socialized. They don’t hide anything. If they like me, they hug me. If they’re frustrated, they pout. If it hurts, they cry. If they had spaghetti for dinner, it’s on their face.

It’s silly, maybe, but I always feel a little bit privileged to have played a role in their lives. ...even if all I’ve done is spent six weeks teaching them swizzles and snowplow stops.

We were learning how to spin tonight, when I bent down to help a six-year-old named Grace. “My grandpa died a couple of months ago,” she blurted out. Unprovoked. Unashamed. Raw.

“We had a party at his house. My grandma was sad. And so was my dad and my mom and me. But not my brother, Billy, because he’s only four.”

We talked about it. I thought of my grandma.

In much the same way, Kathleen told me that her mom will be going back to work. She didn’t want her to. I stole a glance into the stands to see Kathleen’s mom smiling at us. I'm certain that she assumed that we were talking about three turns or spirals; I hope that she realized how worried Kathleen felt.

A few years ago, a six-year-old girl asked me if I believed in God. I tripped over my tongue as I inquired about the question.

“I am in love with a Chinese boy. I am Korean so I am Christian. He is not.”

Heavy stuff.

Neat little beings, kids are. If I ever have some of my own, I guarantee that I will think that the sun shines out of their asses.

But maybe that's how it's supposed to be.

Establishing priorities

My week is being guided solely by my commitment to catching up on the 15 hours of World Figure Skating Championships coverage that CBC [a major perk of living on the border] aired while I was chained to a tree and bludgeoned with various instruments of torture.

No, no. Wait. I had to tape skating because I was enraptured in the pinnacle of my internship. That’s what I meant. THAT is why I missed watching skating. And it was, like, so incredibly worth it. Yep.

I should make it clear that World Figure Skating Championships will be replacing mundane, everyday activities such as maintaining my personal hygiene.

If you’re planning on stalking me, you might want to hold off until next week.

Or keep a 15-foot distance.

And, please, no photos.

Sunday, March 20, 2005

Cinderella story

My hockey team won a grand total of two (2) games during our 15-game regular season.

Tonight, we clinched the playoff championship.


The other teams are really pissed.

Saturday, March 19, 2005

Please me

I am not the type of person who, on a blustery morning in which I should be singularly consumed with worries and obligations, pauses and admires the elegant simplicity of an abandoned mitten sitting atop a virgin dusting of snow.

That's not to say that I'm not easily amused.

I found a favorite professor acknowledged at the front of Tom Wolfe’s I Am Charlotte Simmons.

And, to me, that is just too cool.

Friday, March 18, 2005


Two months ago, this situation would have been completely different.

I punch myself in the face repeatedly whenever I think of how I would have misconstrued everything that has happened since we checked in. Kevin and me, the useless and malicious intern twosome. Attached at the hip. Driving together. Eating together. Going to the bar on Wednesday night. Him inviting me out last night. Discussing how much we dislike our boss. Discussing how our boss thinks that we’re a couple. Kevin proclaiming that, “even if I had the biggest crush in the world on you, I wouldn’t do anything about it. I wouldn’t want to give her the satisfaction.”

Two months ago, we would have been halfway to married in my naïve, optimistic head.

In March, I enjoy my time with Kevin. While looking forward to a call from Colin.

Thursday, March 17, 2005

With more sleep, it would sting less

I’m writing this on Thursday and it legitimately is Thursday. For four more glorious minutes. I revel in my commitment to blogging and to staying up past my traditional bedtime of 8:30.

If the world were a perfect place, I would spin masterful prose to reflect on my day. But I’m sitting in a hotel lobby (having procured a password for the lobby wireless), listening to a group of Middle o’ Nowhere University marching band students discuss the proper way to play a UNOesque card game called Phase 10.


In the middle of this hectic, been-working-all-year-for-this-week work clusterfuck, Heather called me. And, in the rare moment that I am not entirely consumed by internship bitch work, her call is nagging at me. Chewing on me. Cursing my existence.

I’m just calling to tell you that I broke up with my boyfriend
last weekend
and I moved back home
call me when your next indoor soccer season starts
I really want to play
it would be fun to sign up together

Fuck, Heather. FUCK.

Why do you do this to me? Why do you do this? For four years – since you started dating that boyfriend who just dumped you – we have had threads of a friendship. We saw each other occasionally. We faked it. You hurt me.

And now the boyfriend is gone and now you’re out of the college town and now seems like a really great time to rekindle.


It feels too 90210.

Wednesday, March 16, 2005



It’ s Thursday but we’re going to pretend like I posted this on Wednesday because I wish that I had posted it on Wednesday because if I had posted this on Wednesday I would have free internet access in my hotel room or internet access that my bosses would pay for and that would make me significantly less crabby psychobitch and significantly more darling and adorable.

I do not like that I have to share a hotel room with two girls that I do not know. I do not like that I am paying for my own parking, at $20/night, when I am here for an internship in which I barely make $20/day. I do not like that I didn’t get to blog yesterday.

But I do like that I’m pretending that I got to blog yesterday. And I do like that I was just on the phone and said, “I don’t fucking care!” really, really loud in an atrium that carries sound really, really well. I like that I’m staying in a beautiful hotel in my favorite city. I like that last night required me to put on a gorgeous dress and be beautiful.


Things could be worse.

Tuesday, March 15, 2005

Sign of the times

You know that springtime is coming when Tim Horton’s starts running its Roll Up the Rim to Win promotion.

You roll up the rim of your coffee (or soda) cup, you see. And you win one of 100 Panasonic home theatres! One of 500 $1000 cash prizes! One of 30 GMC Envoys. One of 7,500 Coleman camping packages! One of 25,000,000+ free donuts, muffins, cookies or cups of coffee!

Or, in my case, you win a dirty paper cup that reads, “please play again.”

Which is f-i-n-e.

Rolling up the rim is a prize in itself.

Monday, March 14, 2005

Fraternal twins

I’ve had breasts, in some infinitesimal form, for a pretty long ass time now.

Which leads me to this question.

WHY DID I NOT REALIZE THAT MINE WERE TWO DIFFERENT SIZES (my mommy assured me that this phenomenon is perfectly normal) UNTIL YESTERDAY?

Sure, the sisters are rather petite and modest and pathetically unrecognizable as anything belonging to the female form, but they’re still MINE.

This is on par with wearing a pair of shoes every day for 10 years and suddenly realizing that one is brown and one is black.

Sunday, March 13, 2005

In support of well-ventilated areas

My dad is doing some treatment to the hardwood floors that is both annoying (in avoiding the sticky, soggy mess o’ floor and the mountainous piles of furniture in non-hardwood floor areas) and stinky (the stank has permeated the essence of my tender being; when I sweat, I’m afraid that it will smell of turpentine).

As I am a positive ray of sunshine, I have decided to focus on the positives of the floor treatment.

1. Improved slideability when practicing skating moves in socks.
2. The fumes are making Dad bumble around like Ozzy Osbourne.

Saturday, March 12, 2005

It’s in the details

He is the oldest of four.

He has known me since 1996.

He is slightly bowlegged.

He is 23.

He knows my parents; they like him.

He has worked for the same company for 9 ¼ years.

He doesn’t eat things that are green.

He has three roommates.

He’ll admit that he’s a momma’s boy.

He was involved in this situation.

He doesn’t drink coffee.

He is nine months, nine days older than I am.

He knows my sister; she likes him.

He studied German in high school.

He’s good at memorizing numbers.

He is shy and he is not.

His name is Colin.

He likes me.

It feels amazing.

Friday, March 11, 2005


How about this?

On days that I don’t write, assume that I’ve gone out with Him.

Starting tonight.

Thursday, March 10, 2005

Don't rub it in

Dear Dad,

How many times do we have to go over this?

Conversations in which you drop the phrase “if you ever go on a date” are not getting you a son-in-law, someone else to care for my automobile mishaps or the return of your credit card any faster.

So shut the fuck up, okay?


Wednesday, March 09, 2005


So we have this older woman helping in our office right now, because its an insane time of year and there is only so far my bosses can bend Kevin and me until we start bringing guns to work.

So my boss forgot socks (for real) and had to have his wife bring him some to the office.

So my boss’s wife brings in a pair of socks and Burton, a 100-lb. German Sheppard.

So Burton the Dog runs around like a maniac.

So Burton the Dog molests my coat because it smells like Max and Stevie.

So the older woman helping in our office goes running at Burton the Dog cooing, “Burton! Good dog! Do you want to smell my cat?”

My urine splattered everywhere.

Tuesday, March 08, 2005


A daunting 13-hour day is significantly less intimidating if I take it on with a belly filled with comfort foods.

Tuesday’s choice is day-old rice warmed on the stovetop with milk, cinnamon and sugar.


Nothing tops being full on comfort food. It’s like a hug from the inside.

Monday, March 07, 2005

It probably isn't safe for me to drive

Oh, hell.

So this is the month from hell in the internship from hell. I am beginning to understand why this time of the year is so popular with my charming coworkers. I can fathom why my bosses are so bitter and angry.


Yes. That’s right.

I cannot focus. My attention span is 19 seconds. Yesterday was shower to book to knitting to Bend it Like Beckham to enormous batch of chocolate chip cookies to email to hockey game to talking about the many benefits of my Wonderbra with my teammates to dinner with Mom and Dad to panicked rush in bathroom to get ready for watching a movie with Him to driving in a panicked rush to watch a movie with Him to, naturally, watching the movie with Him.


I microwaved one of my Starbucks travel mugs even though I knew it wasn’t microwave-save.

I have been listening to The Grey Album like it’s going out of style. The Grey Album, by producer and d.j. Danger Mouse, is the vocals from Jay-Z’s The Black Album mixed with the music from the White Album by the Beatles. It’s incredible. And if you’re interested in it, you should email me.

I love email.

I spilled coffee all over Kevin’s desk.

I don’t understand why I am so scattered. But I’ve consulted with my Selective Attention Deficit Disorder and we have some good leads. Coffee. Nail polish. Weather that suggests that springtime may eventually appear. Him. Annoying ringtone on new cell phone. Lime-green sweater. Kevin. HIM. Himhimhimhimhim. And possibly a severe lack of sleep.

My grandma and grandpa are home from their vacation.

Sunday, March 06, 2005

We are wholesome

My dad just came into the kitchen.

Dad = “Where is my motherfucking wallet?”

Mom = “Is it in your motherfucking car?”

Me = “No. He just gave me some motherfucking money.”

Saturday, March 05, 2005


Today was lazy.
Exactly what I needed.

I do so much and I think so hard.

Sometimes I forget to breathe.
Often, I forget to stop.

I am grateful for a pause.
In sweats.
With a book.
A boy to swoon over.

But I still appreciate the chaos.

Friday, March 04, 2005


Over the course of my illustrious athletic career, I’ve suffered my fair share of injuries. Among my laundry list of injuries that made me a favorite among my sports medicine doctor’s patients was a high ankle sprain, courtesy of an unfortunately located hole in the middle of a Canadian soccer field.

It fucking hurt.

And I was in the middle of a great run, too.

The ankle sprain certainly wasn’t the worst of my sports injuries. But it was the biggest nag. After the original sprain, I would roll it in nearly every game. Shooting pain that would buckle my knees, shaken off and ignored in a hopeless quest for athletic greatness; my ankle was never quite the same.

I sprained that same ankle, again, about three weeks ago. Playing soccer, of course. In indoor soccer, ankle sprains aren’t unusual. The speed of the game and the playing surface – a thin layer of Astroturf over cement – makes every player susceptible.

Since I sprained it, I’ve re-rolled that damn ankle a half-dozen times. It stings. It swells. I ignore it, convincing myself that time will heal better than rest and reminding myself of the very first sprain. My ankle, unlike the original time, is not swollen to the size of my neck. Game on!

When I was coming back from my initial sprain, frustrated at the frequency of the re-rolls and the ankle’s general instability, I was told that oftentimes it is easier to recuperate from a broken ankle than it is to heal after a severe sprain. A broken ankle is broken, temporarily inoperable and, eventually, heals up. Good as new. A sprained ankle, even if the return to the field is significantly faster, takes much longer to regain its strength. In the meantime, there are the aftershocks of minor sprains.

My friendship with Jess, if it can even be labeled as a friendship and not simply as the biggest mistake I have ever made, was an ankle sprain.

There was the first sprain. That one initial lie. Told, via the internet, to a girl who I never thought would become a close friend.

There were the aftershocks. Re-twisting my ankle with every little lie, propping up the original. I rolled my ankle every time I stepped on the field with Jess, trying to protect the both of us from the ugly realization of an enormous, foolish mistake.

The ankle broke just over a month ago.


It hurts every day. Every time I think about it, I am ashamed and I am embarrassed and I hate myself and I hate the very poor decision I made.

I am in a cast.

But I will come out stronger. Healed from the initial injury. Immune to the aftershocks.

And a hell of a lot fucking smarter.

Thursday, March 03, 2005

Astounding productivity

In eight hours of work today, I:
1. Picked off all of my nail polish.
2. Ate lunch.
3. Wrote 600 words.

Intern of the year, motherfuckers.

Wednesday, March 02, 2005

Buyer’s regret

In the fourth grade, my mom gave me $5 to spend at the book fair. I lost it before class started, cried and subsequently rejoiced when a classmate found my envelope of money in the garbage can.

When I got home from school, I told my mother about the close call.

And she was angry with me for being irresponsible with my money.

I expect much the same reaction when she and Dad get home from their vacation tonight.

Meg and I have been TOTALLY out of control.

Since Mom and Dad left on Friday, I have accumulated:
Three (3) pairs of pants
One (1) pair of brown stiletto boots
One (1) denim jacket
Two (2) belts
One (1) pair of underwear
Three (3) skeins of yarn
One (1) CD
One (1) DVD
Three (3) Wonderbras
One (1) gorgeous, brown, Noel-print, such-a-fucking-good-deal-to-leave-it-would-be-a-crime Kate Spade handbag

...not all on Mom and Dad’s credit card, mind you, but still quite the shocking display of I’m A Dumb, Spoiled WASP Brat.

And to make matters just a little more disturbing: if asked, it is likely that I would ridiculous enough to say that I’m not materialistic.


My purchases were not entirely inspired by Meg and her desire to make Mom and Dad pay (literally) for leaving her behind while they went on vacation.

He is partially to blame.

I do this every time that I develop a massive crush on a boy. Seriously. My crushes have the ability to single handedly make the American economy soar. The more he makes my heart pound, the higher the receipts pile up. Because boys like girls who carry Kate Spade handbags.

Because boys can totally spot a Kate Spade handbag out of a crowd.

Kate Spade is sexy.

And I am a tool.


In November I started reading Chasing the American Dream. Plantation had just seen Garden State. He wrote three posts about the movie; clearly, it affected him. Garden State helped him realize a few things. Plantation called it his Garden State-of-mind.

It wasn’t long after that Plantation and I became blogging pals. I bitched and cried and hated myself. Plantation told me that I wasn’t as bad, as ugly, as unworthy of love and as worthless as I perceived. He told me enough times that I started to believe it.

That’s why it is so fitting that I randomly called Him this afternoon. I was driving. Listening to the Garden State soundtrack. Frou Frou's “Let Go” was on. I dialed before I realized what I was doing.

I’m leaving to go over to His house soon.

Tuesday, March 01, 2005

Oh, my ovaries!

I was just handed a youth team’s roster to look over, right?

All I could see were these adorable, clearly-took-two-minutes-to-sign-with-tongue-poking-out-of-cute-little-mouth, careful signatures of a couple dozen 9-year-old boys.

I fell onto the floor and wept, their little autographs were so darling.

No, seriously. I did. I wept and I kicked my legs and I flailed my arms and I wailed about wanting little babies of my own.

And then I got up, brushed myself off and composed a haiku about the children I want to have.

Sorry. It’s too personal to share.
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