Wednesday, December 7, 2005

i like. I like my skies indigo-bleeding-fire-bright, sun-rising-fast red, and full of snow waiting to fall. I like my showers cup-of-tea-hot, cinnamon-scented, or vanilla-sweet, and pressure-fierce like a monsoon. I like my fences wind-worn, post-sagged, and moss-crept, slumped close to the earth and barely dividing. I like my eggs hard-boiled, pale-yellowed, whites as glossy as brand new cars. I like my nerds computer-savvy, blush-likely, and full of grinning and mysterious jargon. I like my sushi ocean-cold, knife-slick, sunset-pink, chopstick-ready and piled high on my plate. I like my jazz bass-rich, crazy-drummed, and piano-sparkling, creating a dance at the base of my spine. I like my tomatoes daywarm and soil-dusty, nudged and waiting beneath a sun-curled leaf. I like my babies just-wakened, crazy-haired, bed-softened, and heavy in arms. I like my cars winding-road, sea-side, top-down fast, filled with air and light and laughter. I like my rings stone-heavy, silver-hued, knuckle-big, and full of history. I like my artists jovially-minded, wickedly-witty, deeply emotional, and ready to see beauty. I like my Christmases cookie-crumbed, music-heavy, heart-light, and full of promise. I like my life smile-riddled, sleep-filled, and, well... full of all the things I like. Sometimes I like things in just such a way that nothing else will do. Sometimes I like things that I can't seem to get back, no matter how much I desire them again. Sometimes I like things only once. Sometimes I like things that come easily and often and fill me daily. Sometimes I like things and I don't know why. Sometimes I like things and the reason for the love is obvious. Sometimes I like things so much that I have to close my eyes to keep all the joy inside. And sometimes I like things better when I talk about how much I like them. And you? 11:47:57 PM    well, yes, but...  [] pot. kettle. Today I passed a man presiding over a donation kettle on the sidewalk.  This time of year, you see them all over, those kettles, but this operator was a touch different. He was wearing a purple wooly coat and wide legged pants that brought M.C. Hammer to my mind (until I forced him back out with a shaking fist and a canister of mace). His hair stuck out in as many directions as he had follicles and his eyes were as wild as rice or cherry Lifesavers or that Orchid movie with Mickey Rourke. But the most important thing you can know about this man is that he reeked -- reeked -- of weed. I'm a Vancouverite. We know. As people walked by him, he glared at them with an intensity that seemed at odds with his apparent drug of choice. If they dropped coins in the kettle, he smiled like an angel. If they didn't, he yelled, "CHEAP! CHEAP! CHEAP!" at a deafening volume. When one of the persecuted would turn back to look at him -- the gutsy ones -- he would flap imaginary wings and yell, "NO OFFENSE. I'M A @%$#% BIRD, TOO." After watching this happen a couple of times while I waited to cross the street, I began to laugh, and in doing so caught his eye. He winked at me and bellowed at my back as the walk signal began to flash. "ARE YOU A BIRD?" "No way!" I said, and stepped back to drop in some coins, missing the light. There was that smile again. He then did a modification of the bird dance with a bit more tailfeather and commented as I turned to walk away... "THAT'S RIGHT. YOU A CHICK." 7:13:13 PM    well, yes, but...  [] theory of unrelativity. I'm all a-boggle. Maybe it's post-cold somethingorother, or maybe just my standard whycan'tisleep. The brain ain't right, though. I was trying to think of a marvelously well-woven and highly relevant narrative to share with y'all, but the threads aren't slipping smoothly across my mental loom. Or looming across my smooth? Some random thoughts, then? Alrighty! Friday night is my work Christmas party, which should be an absolute hoot (I know, I have to keep using that word now -- it's addictive...) I'm looking forward to wearing my fancy-schmancy new black dress and tripping (over) the light fantastic until the wee hours. Since I am on the Social Committee, I was put in charge of collecting the RSVPs for the party. We are a company of just over 100 employees, I think. Somehow, in the course of collecting the RSVPs, this resulted in 400 emails. 400, you say? A good 30 of them related to the fact that I listed Trevor Linden as my date on the official guest list. For some reason, everyone wanted to "call my bluff" and claim this wasn't the case. Well, pfft. IT COULD HAPPEN, people! Just for that, I made sure all the chicken people got the fish, and the fish people got the chicken. HA! DON'T MESS WITH THE RSVP GIRL. Ahem. I don't actually work with fishpeople. Or chickenpeople. That would be a little weird. They're just normal people. Mostly. Today, as I stood on a street corner waiting to cross, a very attractive man came to stand directly next to me just as the "Hallelujah Chorus" sounded on my iPod, which led me to burst out in random, insane-seeming, uncontrollable laughter. I don't think he knew how to take my response to his friendly grin. I mean, if ever a man was worthy of the Chorus, he was... but still. I swear, there are so, so many reasons I will never be picked up on the street. If I'm not tripping directly into oncoming traffic, I'm singing along with Marvin Gaye or giggling nervously at complete strangers. The Chorus came up many times today, but this was among the most notable and ridiculous. I really gotta shake up the old iPod a bit. We're such a society of list makers; have you ever noticed this? Lists of favourites, lists of potential lottery purchases, lists of goals, lists of events, lists of errands, lists of wants and wishes and caviar dreams... even lists of things that drive us completely batty. I, for one, cannot stop making lists. In fact, I just made a list of lists. Speaking of things of things, I have been using that particular phrase construction (blank of blank) all day long. I drank the coffee of coffees. I wore the scarf of scarves (pale pink, soft like a bunny rabbit -- but not, of course, a bunny rabbit). I used the pen of pens (seriously, this pen was a smoother writer than Billy Dee Williams... I mean, if he'd been a writer. Did he write anything? Hang on, let me Google... holy cow! He IS a painter. Lando Van Gogh, dude). I think all this can be traced back to Handel as well. I mean, not Billy Dee... Today, when I was stirring a pot of clam chowder (chowdah!), I somehow managed to startle myself enough to send a small, hot clam skyward -- and directly between my eyes. The clam stayed there for a moment, burning into me with the kind of revenge only seafood can mete out. I now have a clam-shaped spot between my eyes. I mean, when you look at it, it doesn't necessarily put you in mind of clams. It also looks a bit like New Hampshire. I just read back and realized that I spoke of smoothness twice during this post. But one cannot speak of smoothness without bringing up, well... this. It's haircut time. Any votes on this do? Not the colour, mind you, nor the career. Just the hair. Well, I should be heading off to toss and turn and think overly meaningful thoughts at the wrong time of day. But before I head out, I have to send out giant, sloppy thanks to those of you who contributed to our little drive. You made a difference -- and you can continue to! Lines are still open! And... Nancy and I were talking today about how comments have nose-dived a little -- not the quality when they DO come, mind you, but just the amount. We know people are reading -- traffic says so -- but perhaps everyone is stopping by, smirking with avid disdain, and moving on to, like, Barbra Streisand's blog. I bet she doesn't update as much as I do! And my nails aren't as sharp. Seriously, anyone who blogs has to blog first for themselves -- just in case no one reads. The reality is that most only have two entries: One that says, "test", and then the next, three months later, that says, "Sorry I haven't updated lately..." But those of us that yammer away out here are putting it into the ether to begin a dialogue, my pumpkins. (yams and pumpkins -- am I hungry or something?) I miss knowing who's out there. Delurk! Delurk! If only to mock me. Okay, maybe don't do that. As my former boss used to say, "If you don't have something nice to say, then please say it about someone else." Now I shall go attempt to dream of hot wings, cashmere cardigans, and Jon Stewart. Oh -- and trees. Because I am Canadian. Love to all. For REALS, YO. 12:52:35 AM    well, yes, but...  []

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