M

We do so much in this world to create our own space, and distinguish ourselves from everyone else. "Consider yourself the rule, not the exception" is a horrifying concept to most of us. Myself included. Perhaps part of my crippling, debilitating fear of crowds stems from a deep-seeded hatred for being one of the masses. If someone manages (somehow) to convince me to leave the dirt at home for a night and go dancing, and they describe to me a new club as having "a lineup around the block," that does not make me want to go there. I want the Bar That Nobody Knows About. I want the secret hot spot that is full but not teeming. Where as I walk in, I walk all the way to the back and either find a table in the corner, perfect for people-watching, or as I walk back to the front, I pass someone who just happens to be getting up to leave. I want the bartender to recognize me after a few visits and remember my drink. I don't want to elbow and shove my way through a bunch of sweaty, grinding people to pay $4 for an Ex. My favourite thing to do at a bar is to make up stories about the people around me: the guy playing pool who hasn't shaved or cut his hair in weeks, in mismatched track pants and a sweatshirt... he's an out-of-work writer who is convinced that his next screenplay is going to be the one that gets sold. The three people sitting in the corner, two girls and a guy. One girl is rather large, wearing a lime green T-shirt. Her best friend is the other girl, and Big Lime is after the guy. Unfortunately, the guy and the other girl have been secretly seeing each other for a while, beause they don't want to hurt Big Lime. The attractive, somewhat ruddy looking guy sitting alone with his laptop? He's the architectural attache to Colombia, just back from three months working with the high council of the arts down there (oh, wait, no... I didn't make that one up. He told me.). But one of the things I always come back to is The Girl Who Thinks She's Different. You recognize her. You probably know her. Hell, I am her. She's the girl, dressed slightly off-kilter, taunting the guys. You can just see that she's thinking "I'm so cool, I'm so laid-back, I'm so different." But you know what makes me different? I get it. I'm one of the masses. I'm nothin' special.

But I digress. What I was trying to say, is since I started writing this silly blog, I've started reading other peoples'. Most of them I haven't left a trace. Some of them I have. It's maybe a little creepy, but there are about ten blogs I read on a daily basis, and only three of them are written by people I actually know (well, if you can consider Court's blog to be written at all, as in the three months of its existance there are a grand total of thr... make that two entries). It's strange that in the morning, we take the metro and cram iPods in our ears and bury our noses in books. We soundproof our apartments, we build fences around our yards, we don't make eye contact on the street. The last thing we want is people BUGGING us. We fly from the city to the suburbs, we go on "retreats", we all look for "peace and quiet." Meanwhile, there's a whole whackload of people in forums, on dating sites, reading and commenting on blogs, searching for a community. Myself included. (Except for the whole dating site thing. I tried that once. Not my bag.) I come into work, I get my coffee, I sit down, and I put in my earphones and crank up the CD of the day, and read my daily bloggishness. I get annoyed with the inane conversations of the real, actual people there are around me, but I check to see if some girl I don't even know who lives in Greece has updated her blog today. It's a little bit twisted. And sometimes I feel like I'm standing in a crowded subway, screaming at the top of my lungs, and everyone else is too busy listening to their stupid iPods to even notice the crazy girl.

I'm sorry, I don't want to be broody. Please don't think I'm broody. I was broody in high school. I don't really like broody people. I'm just stating contradiction.

If you were wondering, yup, I'm at work. Darn guilt.

After spending most of the day reading This Fish Needs A Bicycle, I'm feeling slightly more inspired.  I wouldn't say I relate, but I like her writing style.  As I'm feeling very under the weather, there's a high probability that I won't be at work tomorrow. 

I wonder if I've got it all wrong.  It seems like everyone else is looking for someone that will make them happy.  I'm looking to be happy myself so that I don't need anyone.

I've been going around and around, trying to come up with something worth reading for today. Granted, according to my recent poll, nobody actually IS reading my blog, however, I feel that should someone I don't know stumble accross it, it should be a step (a small step) above the mindless, self-indulgent dribble I seem to find most blogs to be.

Yeah, I hate my job and yeah, I have my issues, but this isn't the forum for them.

But I'm feeling a bit of a low in creativity lately and I honestly don't want to just keep posting for the hell of it.  So posting may become a bit erratic.  May this entry tide you over.

So here's my little blog about "management speak." In my humble opinion, if you are a manager, you are a lot less accessable if you hide every point behind a veil of meaningless words. We are technical people. Cut to the chase.

"loss of functionality": We're always worried about losses of functionality. Well, my manager is. I couldn't give a rat's ass. This is a fancy-schmancy way of saying "it doesn't work." But instead of saying, "when you unplug the lamp, it doesn't work," he says "if you disconnect the light fixture, there will be a loss of functionality."

"ramping up": Here in the Land of Slowly Moving Projects, we are constantly "ramping up" on stuff. Ramping up is a really good way to say "not doing anything, but anticipating starting to do something in the relatively near future."

"chase that down," "take that as an action item," "put you on the hook for that": All ways of saying "your responsibility." Reccomend change said phrases to "do it."

"essentially": For some reason, everything around here is "essentially" something. "Essentially, a sandwich is some stuff between two slices of bread." Where I'm from, that IS a sandwich. Cut the "essentially" unless you actually are paraphrasing and leaving some details out. (eg "Essentially, Wayne's World is a movie about two guys who have a TV show.")

"How you doing?": Come on, you don't care that I'm a little sore. You just want to know if I got your stupid drawings done.

I've been a little bit sick this week.  And really, for all my hardcore-ness and trash talking, I am really just one big, fat wuss.  Really, really, big wuss.  I admit it.  I get a little chest cold, and man, to talk to me, you'd think I was missing an arm and bleeding out.  Speaking of bleeding out, I was reminded today of an incident in health class in middle school.  We were discussing basic first aid, and the teacher was boring us all to tears, yammering on about tourniquets.  Being the little smartass that I was (am!), I raised my hand and, with a straight face I'm proud of to this day, asked if one was bleeding profusely from a headwound, would you put a tourniquet around their neck?  The kicker was she took me seriously and carefully explained to us that the brain controls all vital functions of the body, and to put a tourniquet around the neck was in essence hanging or strangling the person....

I've picked up some pretty odd habits since I started riding.  Hoarding ripped up, crappy t-shirts for rags, used toothbrushes to degrease my drivetrain.  I started bleaching my camelbak and water bottles (after I got a bacterial infection from not cleaning out the camelbak for a little too long!), and now I use bleach sometimes to clean dishes (particularly plastic ones that I brought lunch to work in then left in the car).  When I watch TV, I generally am either on my trainer or doing some sort of maintenance on my bike (I cleaned my road bike's chain with degreaser and Q-tips the other day.  I could have taken it off and soaked it, but cleaning it by hand was kinda zen, and I felt more connected to my bike afterwards).  When I'm tired and dehydrated (ie hung over), I pull my Camelbak or a plastic bottle into bed with me.  I've wondered if I can get away with wearing arm warmers with a tank top to a bar.  If you check the pockets of most of my bags and most of my coats, you can probably find at least one bar and gel, if not a bottle of grease and a stray allen key.  When talking about some idiot jumping off some tall building, I say he hucked himself.  I do gear checks.  I bunny hop my commuter bike over shadows (well, I try... I find it harder with flat pedals).  I curse and swear audibly at jackass commuters riding against traffic or not wearing a helmet.

A friend is doing a run in June to support breast cancer research.  75 MILES!  In one day.  That’s just crazy talk.  I will have details about how to support her soon, so let me know if you’d like to donate.

Until a marathon came on his radar

He'll run til he can't

He'll sweat and he'll pant

Cuz a marathon is real, real far

The weekend after his jaunt

His recovery week he will flaunt

He'll load up the car

with the gear for AR

"I'm the best!" he'll be heard to taunt

He'll get to the start of the race

He'll envision a breakneck pace

As he stretches his quads

He'll think of the logs

He'll jump over with agility and grace

But after starting to trek through the bush

He'll wobble and fall on his tush

His legs will cramp up

He'll have to give up

Through the pain he thought he could push!

I promise this comes to an end

But the message I simply must send

to our dear friend Andrew

is when the marathon's through

Don't do an AR the following weekend!

(ha, bet you didn't think I'd really do that...)

I'm #$%&*ing moving again.

The details: since I'm pretty bent on leaving Montreal, my roommate (understandably) decided that she didn't want to risk being saddled with a fairly expensive apartment alone after July 1. So she decided to take a friend's apartment, which is 3 blocks away, and cuts costs by about 25%. I don't really get a say in this, and it really is the best thing for both of us... this way, I can move with her if I'm still in Montreal July 1, and if I'm not she can still afford to, you know, eat and stuff. The downside to it is this is my FIFTH apartment since I graduated! Gah, it's a good thing I never really unpacked in this place. I had a feeling this was going to happen...

So I had an extremely drab weekend, save for being sexually harassed and objectified by a room full of gay men on Friday night. I got to speak Spanish! Que alivio, no he perdido todito, pero casi todo...

Anyway, came down with a bit of a cold Saturday, and was pretty much laid up in bed for most of the rest of the weekend. Much less fun than I would hope...

So, I realize the blogster has been a little bit lacking lately. Sorry, I've had a lot on my mind. But this isn't supposed to be my little forum to the world for whining, it's supposed to be my little forum to the world for stupidity and dry sarcasm! On that note, I will stew and moan and come up with something worth reading for tomorrow.

I'm carpooling for the next week or so... with a crazy person. Seriously, does anyone know of a good place to get a straightjacket installed in my passenger seat?

I've started to think about where I want to go. My brain is telling me West Coast. Good weather, good riding, good skiing, good jobs... it's perfect. But there's something in my heart that pulls me towards the Maritimes. I'm a midwesterner, so it's not like I want to get back to my seafaring roots or something, but there's just something that seems so right about the Maritimes, Nova Scotia in particular. I think this may have to do with my recently rekindled love for Great Big Sea. I bought Turn for the drive to Boston, but since I wasn't alone in the car, it was just background music. Now that I'm back at work, I've got it playing all day. There's something about the simplicity of the music and the harmonies that just makes me really happy. For a minute, I can pretend that I'm sitting on some rocky shoal with my four super talented friends, drinking Kieth's and hanging out. For some reason, I can't escape one song in particular; Trois Navires de Ble. It's (obviously) in French, but their accents are as bad as mine, and it's just musically a beautiful, silly song. So, like the man said, nous irons jouer sur le bord du l'eau...

*roll call*

OK, I have to admit, curiosity has gotten the best of me. I didn't think anyone was reading my stupid ramblings, but apparantly people are. So, count off... who's out there?

I just spent 2 1/2 hours painting picnic tables. Somewhere in the midst of that, I tried to kick a coworker in the head. I missed. Oh well.

Looks like a weekend of rain. I'll have to just catch up on sleep.  Gotta go get on the bike now!

So, I am back in my typical stressed out state, trying to find a job NOT in Montreal. Six months ago, my only stipulation was I would take any job in Montreal, now all I want is to leave. What is my problem? Is my entire life going to be like this, me running from my failures?

On a brighter note, my cell phone stalker is back. For those of you who don't know, some crazy old lady has been calling me as many as eight times a day looking for Sharon. I've told her in person that I am not Sharon, nor do I know Sharon. I have also called her back at her home phone number and told her that I am not Sharon, and that I don't know where her check book is, nor can I drive her to the doctor. The killer is she keeps leaving messages on my voice mail, which has a message that very clearly says "hi, you've reached MARY..." Perhaps I should change my voicemail to "hi, you've reached Mary. If you are calling for Sharon, you should hang up and call another number, because this is Mary. I don't know anyone named Sharon, nor will I ever know anyone named Sharon. The only Sharon I've ever had contact with is Ariel. And I wouldn't exactly say we're friends. So if you are calling for MARY please leave a message, but if you're calling for Sharon please STOP CALLING ME!" I feel kind of bad, but what am I supposed to do? She's some crazy lady who either can't read her own handwriting or was given a fake phone number by the real Sharon. Anyway, I'm more than a little annoyed with this. It stopped for a few weeks, but now she's calling again. I think I need to find out how to block phone numbers.

I think it's about time I bought some new shoes. Mine actually stink. I can smell them, just sitting here. Yup, it's definately time for some new shoes.

Other than that, today I discovered that I am xenophobic. And by xenophobic, I actually mean Xenaphobic, as in fear of the Warrior Princess. She could totally kick my ass.

Oh, and I found what I'm doing for my next job.

Not much else to report, then. Happy Hump Day.

People who run marathons are crazy.

I was able to watch the Boston Marathon this weekend, and it blew my mind that 20,000 people would do something so absolutely rediculous. 42 kilometers (26.2 miles) is a long freakin' way. We watched men and women of all ages slog by, sweating bullets, in excruciating pain, all day. I have to admit, it can be emotional, when you see someone crest heartbreak hill, with victory and the finish line in their minds, only to suffer a debilitating cramp from overzelaously accelerating down the hill. We seemed to have placed ourselves about thirty feet from some strange line in the road where, if you were going to cramp, it was going to be there. But every single one of them, despite how defeated they looked, eventually kept going; walking, limping, or running. There were the crazies: one guy ran the whole race barefoot, another ran it in a pink tutu carrying a wand, and there were the inspirational stories: the father who has run Boston for 10 odd years, pushing his wheelchair-bound son, to the tune of 3:00-3:15, or the woman with an artificial leg I watched start the race on TV at about 9:30am, and watched her hobble by me at the 21 mile mark about five hours later. There's the dad who ran by with the shirt obviously made for him by his kids, the marker running all over his legs from sweat, and the guy with a subtle "in memory of" on the back of his shirt. Then, there's the personal adversity every athlete overcomes to finish, to qualify, and to train again for Boston. My two friends who ran it looked to the uninformed onlooker like every other mid-20's runner who went by, but I know one of them is running during law school finals, having not slept or trained as she hoped due to illness, while juggling more than I care to even think of... while the other is running a chapter of an international NGO, finishing a master's degree, and running through a pinched nerve in his hip. I know they were running when it was -20 and snowing out, I know they were running when they didn't sleep, and I know they never complained once. Watching the Kenyans is cool, but it's the Average Joes who really make Boston a special race.

Congratulations to Clarisse and to Christian. May you walk again soon.

Aside from watching the Marathon, I had a bloody fantastic weekend, and now feel acutely like I've been hit by a bus. I got to catch up with Becky and Jer, as well as John and Louise... also crossed paths with Kenny and Sam, who I wasn't expecting to see.  I was able to get out to ride with a Boston area shop on Saturday. The weather was perfect, the roads were smooth, and the company was good. I have only two complaints: 1) I got a flat. 2) Her name is not pronounced Jen-eh-veev Jahn-sen. It is Genvieve Jeanson, or Zhan-vi-eve Zhan-sahn. She's French.

It was ever so good to get the hizzle out of Montreal for the weekend and just not think about any of the crap that is plaguing my daily life here. I feel much better now that I've gotten out of this strange spatial warp, and reminded myself that there's a whole bunch of world out there that I have yet to see. There is talk about heading West in September, and I'm thinking about hopping on the bandwagon. My only fear is heading south of the border before 2008.