Monthly Archives: July 2009

It’s the little things

>I’ve got a couple of fairly major things to be pleased about at the moment.

My job is going well and I have to say I’m enjoying it. I’ve been with Gumtree for 5 weeks now and I’m still happy. This is a new record, methinks.

Tomorrow I depart from Aurghville, never to return. I must, at this conjecture, allow myself the pleasure of a dignified wooting. Woot.

Seriously though, I can’t wait. You know your living situation has been bad when your move has so many perks (nicer location, much better flatmate, more space, shorter commute, no poop on the walls) and you are most excited about being able to put freaking food in the freaking fridge.

And still it is the little things that make me most ridiculously giddy about life in general. Like yesterday.

Yesterday work wasn’t all that exciting – I’m at the clean-up/wrap-up point of a few things and it is at the stage where I’m just chasing other people for the final pieces. But I got to leave 30 minutes early so I could make it to a shop in Covent Garden before it closed at 6:30.

London transit tried to make me late, but I was there by 6:20. Good thing, because it was the only shop selling what I was looking for. How exciting to find a shop in London that sells Canadian food (and beers – hoozah!) In addition to what I actually went in there for, I also bought ketchup chips. Mmmm… ketchup chips.

I walked up the Strand to my bus stop in Aldwych to catch my bus. Now I was no longer in a rush. The evening was gorgeous… blue skies and warm but not hot. The sunlight was golden and I was more than happy to wait for the bus which was not long in coming.

I always sit on the second deck of the bus if I can. I know I’ve been in London for almost two years and the double-deckers are ubiquitous. But I still get a real kick at sitting at the top at the front. You get a very different view of the city when you are sitting up there.

So, there I am, sitting in the front top-left seat of the 243. Cruising through the boroughs of London. Enjoying the quality of the light of the evening sun. And I reach into my bag o’ goods and pull out a bag of ketchup chips.

Ketchup chips are hard to explain to non-Canadians. I didn’t realise until I got to Korea that they were even a Canadian thing. How sad that the rest of the world hasn’t had the pleasure of staining their fingers a violent red whilst eating potato chips coated in simulated ketchup-ish flavoured powder goodness.

Now, the bag I had was Lays, which isn’t the best ketchup chip. Everyone knows that Old Dutch make the best ketchup chips, but hey! I wasn’t going to be choosy. I had a bag of ketchup chips. In London.

I’m not sure exactly what makes them my favourite flavour; certainly not everyone (read: careybatgirl) likes them. Some people (again, read: careybatgirl) think that they are kind of sick. They are kind of a weird flavour and only taste of ketchup in the wildest realms of the imagination. I love ’em.

I think it may have to do with the memories I have tied up with them. My moms was one of these “good parents” who wouldn’t let her kids gorge themselves on crap food all the time. She made us eat fruit and veggies and stuff. How cruel! However, when we went camping… all bets were off. Out came the mini-boxes of crap cereal which we were allowed to wash down with cream soda or root beer. We roasted marshmallows. We walked around in our bathing suits (which we were also allowed to sleep in – glorious!) clutching a bag of Old Dutch ketchup chips and covered in red chip flavouring, spilled soda pop, sunscreen and bug spray.

I loved camping with my moms and not just because the rules were relaxed. She always worked so hard but we never had a lot of spare money. Even so, she took us camping a lot. She believed that experiences in life are more important than things. And you know what? She’s right. Inadvertently I think those childhood camping trips may be responsible for all the traveling I’ve done as an adult. Because she was right then and she’s right now: experiences are worth far more than any possession.

Back to London, the bus, and my bag o’ memory-inducing ketchup chips. As I was sitting there enjoying all three last night I had a moment of pure happiness and couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. It didn’t last long… it is public transit in England, after all. But for that moment I was happy to be who I was and where I was. Which was all kinds of awesome. I’m going to try and hang onto that thought for a little while.

>That James Lipton Thing

>This has come to my attention courtesy of careybatgirl.

These ten questions originally came from a French series, “Bouillon de Culture” hosted by Bernard Pivot but they’re better known as the questions that James Lipton asks every guest at the end of “Inside the Actor’s Studio.” Here are my answers.

1. What is your favorite word?

Based on usage? Retard. But I really, really like the sound of marsupial. Mmmm… marsupial.

2. What is your least favorite word?

“Chunk” and any derivative of the word chunk (chunky, chunks) with “chaffing” in a close second. Sick.

3. What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?

Creatively: good stationery and/or new tech (like a new pen or laptop)
Spiritually: nature (like being in the woods or at the beach)
Emotionally: new hope where there was no hope (not “new hope” as in “star wars”)

4. What turns you off?

I shut down creatively, spiritually and emotionally when I’m overwhelmed. I have a tendency to just go to bed when life becomes to much and hibernate for awhile.

5. What is your favorite curse word?

Fucktard or assclown.

6. What sound or noise do you love?

My own voice (although when played back from a recording… not so much).

7. What sound or noise do you hate (dislike)?

That fake crying kids do in the grocery store to get their mother to buy them something.

8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?

Forensic anthropologist, travel writer.

9. What profession would you not like to do?

Anything that involves poking people with sharp things.

10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?

I can’t think of anything specific. I’d just like to hear him crack a joke.

>The new job

>Back in mid-May I was told that my contract at Songkick would not be renewed. I was gutted. Not because I had, in essence, been fired (ish). But rather because I didn’t have the opportunity to quit.

It was for the best they didn’t renew my contract or, heaven forbid, hire me permanently. Because I probably would have accepted that out of sheer laziness and the fear that I wouldn’t make magic happen a second time and find yet another job in London during a recession. And that would have been bad news bears for everyone involved. Because when I’m not happy, I’m not a nice person to be around. True story.

So I dusted off my CV and threw it out far and wide. I even posted it on Monster, even though that had never yielded me anything interesting before. I went back to the recruiters (curse them anyway… curse them all!) I had seen before. I signed up for job alerts with all the regular sites. I checked Gumtree and Craigslist every day. And there was nothing, nothing, nothing. I was approached by one company that never got back to me. I went to another interview and met the most horrific CEO I’ve ever laid eyes on.

::SIDE NOTE::

I had almost forgotten about that guy. And he was twatastic enough to warrant his own blog entry, really. He’ll have to settle for a side note in this blog entry.

I was interviewing with someone else when he came in the room. Tall guy, great big gut. Wearing black trousers and a white shirt tucked in with no jacket. Greased back hair. Mobile phone clipped into his belt.

I wish I could stop there. Nothing screams “I’m a twat” more than clipping your phone onto your belt. Unless, of course, like this guy you also have a blue-tooth earpiece. Oh yah.

But it still gets better! His tie. My good God, his tie. Imagine the worst, most douchey tie you possibly can. Now, allow me to describe a tie that is much so much more douchey than the tie you just imagined.

It had the torso of a naked woman on it, from just above the knees to just the bottom swell of the breasts. And where her cha-cha should be there was some sort of fig leaf. Class fucking act, this guy.

So, his Doucheness breezed in the room, picked up my CV, demanded “tell me about you” and looked over my CV whilst I talked to him. Not even 45 seconds go by and this a-hole’s mobile (in his belt, remember) rings. He answers it and walks out of the room. All while I was speaking to him. Oh yah, I wanna work for that guy.

::END SIDE NOTE::

So, that went nowhere. I went to another interview for two lovely gentlemen with a nice B2B online jewelry business. The office location was crap, but the job sounded vaguely interesting and so I thought I could tolerate it. I was very pleased when they emailed me back with a job offer. Until I saw the salary. Let’s just say that during a recession (and with my growing desperation) I was willing to take a hit on my salary. I am, after all, an expensive commodity. What can I say? I’m good at what I do. However, I wasn’t willing to take a job that was offering me less than half of what I was currently earning. That dog won’t hunt, Monsignor.

It was during this time that Gumtree got a hold of me. Ironically, I didn’t find the posting for the job on their site. The job wasn’t being advertised. Instead, they found my CV on Monster and liked that I had described myself as a “Superstar PA and Office Manager” (Hey, I’ve never been accused of being overly modest and as mentioned previously, I’m good at what I do) right at the top of my CV in big letters. They invited me to interview over the phone first.

Let me shorten this process or I’ll be here forever: I did six interviews. Two on the phone and four in person. These people are serious about their shit.

The good news is that they liked me and decided to hire me. I started at the beginning of July and I can’t believe I’ve been there nearly a month already. The time is flying buy; I’m busy every day but I don’t feel like I’m frantic or overworked.

I am aware that I’m in the “honeymoon” stage of my employment and it could turn out that the cake is a lie, but there are lots of things at Gumtree to be happy about. The people that work here are super friendly and so helpful. They’ve got great systems set up so that things actually get done. We had a kick-ass summer party and everyone (even managers, I’d like some of my past bosses to note) participated equally. There are free beers every Friday. There’s free massages (if you sign up fast enough) on Wednesdays. They provide breakfast, coffee, tea and soda. They are flexible in when you want to take lunch. My boss keeps emphasising that she wants me to have fun and really enjoy my work.

So, it’s good so far. There’s a lot more I could say, but I think I’m going to leave it there for now. I may give a few more specifics later on if I’m hard up for material (with the whole new “good about blogging” me, I have to be careful that I don’t run out of things to say). But for now I’ll say this: for the first time since teaching, I don’t mind going to work. Ace.

>*

>“A good traveler has no fixed plans, and is not intent on arriving.”

– Lao Tzu

The Wish Bracelet

In the spring my co-worker went to Brazil to escape work and London for awhile by doing some great work with kids who needed some attention. While she was there, she picked up these ribbons that are meant to be tied on the wrist like a bracelet.

She explained that you were to wish on the bracelet. That as she tied it on to my wrist, she would make three knots and I was to make a wish with each knot she tied. The idea was that when the bracelet fell of – “fell off”, not “was taken off” – the wishes would come true.

Why wouldn’t I want one of those? Especially since they came in orange. So the ribbon was tied on and I made my wishes.

How I made my wishes are so indicative of my personality it is ridiculous. Seriously. I made my first wish, my second… but when it came time to make my third I realised that the first wish could be misinterpreted by the universe (or wish faeries, or whatever) that I used my third wish to clarify the first. No mythical loopholes for me, Fate. I’ve come across too many stories with cheeky genies to fall for your crap.

I won’t, of course, share what I wished for.

That night someone brought up why we all seem to believe that we have to keep a wish secret or it won’t come true. What’s with that? Why does saying it outloud in front of others render it non-fulfillable?

I don’t have an answer for that, but I do have an answer for why I don’t share my wishes. I think your wishes – real wishes – expose a secret place in your heart. They illuminate your true fears and insecurities. Your weaknesses. Every wish you confess is another card you are laying on the table. So I don’t tell people my wishes unless they are silly and I don’t really mean them… or if they come true.

Okay, so I made my wishes and I went back to the party. Someone said to me, “Ah, I see she got you too”. I thought the ribbon bracelet was kind of cool and said so. To which was retorted, “Did she tell you how long that damned thing might stay on before she started making the knots?”

No, no she didn’t. That stupid ribbon is pretty resilient, apparently, and can potentially stay on a year or more. A year? Or more? No, no, no! I want my wishes NOW, damn it!

I wasn’t going to cut the bracelet off, even though it quickly got pretty ratty fairly quickly. It wasn’t tied on very tightly in the first place and as it rolled around my wrist it went from being a pretty orange flat ribbon to a dirty orangish rope. I think the situation was made worse by the work I was doing then at Songkick – carrying shit and constantly washing dishes probably didn’t help the state of affairs in regards to my bracelet (or in regards to my job satisfaction, for that matter).

The other people who had been given bracelets were fairing much differently than I was: either their ribbons still looked rather pristine or they had already punked out and cut them off. Mine looked like a dirty piece of string but was showing no signs of actually falling off.

Until it fell off.

I noticed Tyran’s bracelet (she got him, too) at the pub after Waiting for Godot last Tuesday and mentioned that it didn’t look half as craptacular as mine did. I pushed up my sleeve to show him my bracelet and it was gone. I actually had a moment of “oh my God, where is it?” before realising that it was a good thing that the ugly little wish-rope had actually fallen off. It means that my wishes will come true and I won’t have to wait a bloody year for it to happen.

Have my wishes come true? Well, one of them may have so I can share it. The wish that I double-downed on has decidedly NOT come true yet (although I am still hopeful) so I’ll keep that one a secret for now.

My second wish was to have a job where I look forward to coming in to work on Mondays. Now, I won’t say I’m looking forward to work on a Sunday night quite yet (I do so enjoy sleeping in), but I don’t dread it which is a marked improvement over my last two jobs. And I have a feeling that once my commute isn’t so long I’ll look forward to my weekdays even more. Further, I think that as I grow more and more comfortable in my role and with my co-workers, going to work could potentially get more and more pleasurable.

Although I’m pretty sure that the bracelet falling off and the new job getting fun happening at around the same time is purely coincidental, I’m still thankful for the Brazillian wish-bracelet. Here’s hoping that it works just as well on my other wish.

>Other people’s kids or: A Tale of Barely Constrained Anger

>Here’s a shocker: I’m not the most patient person at the end of a long shift and the middle of a long commute.

The trip home was going to be balls no matter what; I had been at work late trying to finish wrassling with the diary, then on the way to the train I spotted some boxes and swiped ’em (which were awkward as a summabitch to carry) and finally, because the train was on the platform and ready to leave I bustled with my boxes into the first car… and had to sit opposite the toilet. Ace.

But the icing on the cupcake that is my commute were the family of annoying little turds that were sat just a few seats ahead of me.

Cute as buttons with bugs on them (or whatever you are supposed to say about “cute” kids), three little girls with blond curly hair and cutie-pie British accents (I’m still not used to kids that don’t speak broken English in Korean accents… seems wrong somehow).

But holy sweet Jesus, I’d rather be completely unable to breed if it saves me from having to spend anytime around kids like those. Screaming, crying, fighting, back-talking little shits! I would have been less unhappy had someone gone into the toilet I was sitting beside and dropped a steamer.

It is times like tonight that I don’t really grasp how I was ever a teacher: A teacher who honestly liked her students. But then I remember that it isn’t kids that I hate; it is other people’s kids. I know, I know. That woman with the gaggle of little bastards probably loves her kids too, even though they should have been tied in a sack and tossed in a river for how they were behaving. That may sound a bit harsh… but you weren’t the one on the train with those little monsters.

I think I liked my students because they were well behaved, for the most part. They got up to no good once and awhile – they were children, after all. But by and large, they behaved. And that makes all the difference. I like behaving children. I don’t like little turd children who have absolutely no respect for other people and act like orangutans on public transport.

But you know… some of my students came into my classroom as little monsters. But they certainly didn’t stay like that. What makes kids so irresistibly cool to me is how quickly they learn and adapt. They’ll go the way you want them to (alright, not always) if you show them how to get there.

So it was with these little buggers. Their mother had absolutely no control. It was no wonder the little girls showed her no respect; she wasn’t commanding or earning it. Even without knowing her, I could hear the insincerity and lack of conviction in her weak threats of potential discipline.

So I take it back. Those girls don’t deserve to be tossed in the Thames.

But their mother sure as hell does.

PS: Only four more days of this commute.
PPS: I know. I said “positive” posts. I was “positively” pissed off by these damned children and thought I would share.

>Waiting for Godot

>I don’t remember when I found out about this show – but I do remember where. I was wondering around trying to find my way from Oxford Street to Trafalgar Square. Somehow I ended up walking past the Royal Theatre Haymarket. They had huge signs up for the show and I stopped and took a picture so I wouldn’t forget.

Samuel Beckett is one of my favourite playwrights. I’ve read a few of his shows and have looked into others. Waiting for Godot is a particular favourite as we studied it in University (although that feels like it happened a million years ago now). My friend Tabitha and I performed part of the second act and let me tell ya: Beckett is difficult.

So, in a nutshell: My favourite play by my favourite playwright. I’ve only seen it performed once before; I saw it in Korea with Orla and Joe and thoroughly enjoyed it. Imagine my joy when I saw that I could attend the show in London. Now times that joy by a hundred when I saw who was cast as DiDi and GoGo: Sir Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart.

Now, I’m not the world’s biggest LOTR or Star Trek fan (I’m a geek, but not *that* geeky!) but McKellen and Stewart are renown thespians. Heck, the Queen hit McKellen with a sword for being so good. The thought that I would see these two highly talented gentlemen in my favourite play was nearly more than I could stand.

Because he was awesome enough to take me to a play earlier this year, I invited Tyran to join me which he was happy enough to do, in spite of the steep ticket prices. It turns out we were smart to get tickets that far in advance; they sold out extremely fast.

The day of the play I ran away from work as soon as I could and headed into the city. I met Tyran at Trafalgar Square and we headed to the theatre. I was just relieved that we made it on time and there was no problem with picking up our tickets.

The inside of the theatre was gorgeous. It is something I love about London and can’t imagine getting tired of anytime soon – the splendid grandeur of the old theatres that I get to visit not just for plays, but for gigs as well.

The set was more complicated than I was expecting – it is a Beckett, after all. I was expecting nothing more than a dead tree and a rock (as called for in the script) but there were a few other pieces to this set – mostly to add interest to the wall behind them and to part of the floor. To wit, there was a brick wall at the back with concrete debris in front of it. The floor upstage was raked and had holes in it – one through which the boy at the end of the act popped up and another which they played with during the second scene with Pozzo and Lucky where they are all in a pile on the ground. Those set pieces, plus the dead tree and a broken piece of stone bench gave an air of a civilization passed on, of a city (or a part of a city) that was past it’s prime. The lack of detail still allowed for timelessness to the set.

The lighting was incredible. It was very natural and helped with the feel of the play (which good lighting should do). There were no fancy effects and it was never distracting. The sound was another manner. Although minimal, I think the few sounds they did use could have been done away with entirely. Or at the very least, should have been executed in a different way. Case in point, when Pozzo and Lucky left the stage, there was the sound of a crash. This was played over the speakers and thereby came from entirely the wrong direction. I would have much preferred an old-school rendering of the sound and believe they just should have dropped a bunch of shit offstage right.

I know! I know! Get to the performance already! How was the performance?

Mind-blowingly awesome. Just… wow. Wow, wow, wow. I was so impressed – I can’t remember the last time I was so impressed with the performance of a cast. Their timing and decisions were amazing. The script was beautifully interpreted and flawlessly presented.

Careybatgirl asked me if the rumours were true: Did McKellen out-perform Stewart? The answer is yes. Now, don’t get me wrong, Stewart was amazing. Absolutely top form. But if this was a contest he would have been out of luck – he was in top form but McKellen was perfect. His portrayal of Estragon was gorgeous. At no point did you ever think he was “acting”. If you had seen McKellen in character on the street, I promise you would have tossed him some coins instead of asking for his autograph. His character was that well constructed and performed.

Simon Callow as Pozzo and Ronald Pickup as Lucky were also brilliant. I don’t know the actors, but I really liked what they did with their parts as well. I always have deep respect for any actor that is willing to tackle the role of Lucky; I can only imagine the difficulty of having to memorise his long, rambling monologue.

After the show Tyran and I went to the Sherlock Holmes pub (right near Great Scotland Yard, naturally) and had a pint of real ale to discuss the show (and, unrelatedly, the 80 year-old man who was stood at the bar and dressed like a pimp). It was lovely to be able to discuss the show with someone who seemed to genuinely enjoy it every bit as much as I did.

>Last weekend with Step-step

>So, in general life has been picking up. Work is going well and I’m moving soon so with luck home will be enjoyable once again. I’ve been to some great gigs, some plays and the weather has been decent. But there was one thing that has happened that made me sad.

Step-step went home.

First, some history.

I met Stefanie in the airport on the way to China in the fall of 2006. I went to China by accident. In the summer, shortly before I was off to Cambodia, Brendan came to me and asked if I wanted to go to China for Chuseok (Korean Thanksgiving, kinda). I said sure… who wouldn’t want to go to China for Chuseok? But the travel agent needed a 100,000 won deposit (about £50) and I didn’t have any extra cash before my trip to Cambodia. Turns out I didn’t have to worry – not only had Brendan already signed me up before calling me on the hopes that I would be inclined towards going to Chiner – he had paid the deposit as well to ensure I had a spot (and to ensure he wasn’t on the trip on his own with a bunch of wankers).

I warned Brendan before we met at the airport that I wasn’t going on the trip to make any new friends. I’m not sure now if something had happened shortly before the trip, but I was really hating white people. Maybe I was just thinking back to the last trip I went on with Brendan and a bunch of white people. I don’t know. But I can’t say I was not pleased when Brendan started chatting with two girls – two American girls – in the Gloria Jean’s coffee shop at Incheon International Airport.

Brendan knew Brittany from church and Brittany and Stefanie lived together. Brittany and Stefanie. I only remembered their names in the beginning because I thought that they sounded like a duet in a strip show. They seemed really nice but I really wasn’t into ruining China with people that could turn out to be idiots. American idiots, as it were.

Well, in the interest of making this long story a wee bit shorter – Brittany and Stefanie were of course awesome to have on the trip. The two of them and the two of us joined together to make Team 6, a legacy that endures to this day even though we are split by many, many miles.


Eventually Brendan and Brittany both very selfishly left Korea, leaving just Stef and I (and John, technically, but that’s something different). Stef was so much fun to hang out with once it was just the two of us. We did ridiculous things together (the least of which may not have been our adventures in North Korea). Eventually she went as well (leaving me, cruelly, with just John) and I missed her immensely. Buying pirate socks on a Saturday mornings in Itaewon just wasn’t the same after she was gone.

But then Stef came back to Korea. Her timing was terrible. She came back just as I was leaving. It meant that she could take my job and my apartment, but it also meant that we couldn’t hang out because I was going and she was staying. Worse, I was on my way to England and I thought then that she’d be going back to the States when she was done in Korea. Luckily, I was wrong.


After Korea, Stef went through a lot of bureaucratic nonsense and other obstacles to study at Oxford. I was ecstatic. Oxford is only an hour by train from London! Over the ten months that Stef lived in Oxford, I managed to get out there a few times and she managed to get to London a few times. Really, I think it was more than I would have ever dared to ask for.


On her last weekend in the UK, Stef came to London to visit. The first night we went to see Wicked – the third musical I’ve been to in my life. It was very entertaining and it was a lovely gift from Stef. After the show we went for pizza and then walked through London from Victoria to Waterloo, taking in the sights of London at night. Our destination station (Waterloo) prompted a lot of Abba singing… not from me, but from Stef.

::SIDE NOTE::

I currently go to Waterloo station every day on my commute. Now whenever I get there that damned Abba song gets stuck in my head. But because it is being sung in Stef’s voice, it makes me smile instead of scream.

::END SIDE NOTE::

On the Sunday we really just cruised around. Walked the canal for awhile but was driven inside to the Underground at Angel to finish our trek north because of rain. Explored Camden Market a bit and bought our customary matching bracelets. Traveled to Leicester Square and had dinner at a Korean restaurant before walking through the shops in Chinatown. Then through Covent Garden to the Maple Leaf where Colin met us. Then the three of us stopped in a Commonwealth shop (that had ketchup chips – oh my!) and then to the Porterhouse. Going to a Canadian pub and an Irish pub in the same day seems to be have been our regular MO for some time now. After that it was time to take Stef to Paddington so she could head back to Oxford and then fly away on the Tuesday following. It was a lovely weekend altogether.

Stefanie is someone that reminds me that certain people are brought into your life for a reason. It would be very irresponsible of me to treat our friendship lightly when the universe conspired so deviously and so many times to bring us together. Stef and I are very, very different people; sometimes in fundamental ways that you would think two people would not ever be able to look beyond. Additionally: We are different ages. We grew up in different countries. We don’t necessarily enjoy the same music, books or movies (although there is some cross-over, Stef is entirely on her own with the whole “Teenage Occult Romance” genre.) It seems both strange as well as serendipitous that we both ended up not only in Korea at the same time, but in the same Korean ‘burb. And that we each had a Catholic friend (neither of us being Catholic) that attended the same church. That those two would bump into each other in the airport on the way to China and bring the four of us together. That in the end, both of us would end up in England, of all places. I think we were probably meant to be friends.


So Stef…. I’d like to thank you friend. For the pirate chatter and laughs, the giddiness and the beers we inevitably always drank immediately after detoxing. For the wanderings through markets in Korea, China and England. For sending Korean Anytime candies to my moms. For not just tolerating my inane theological questions but for having the patience to answer them and to seek answers for them. For being generous of character and of heart. For a million other things both large and small. For being you. For being my friend.

Indiana may be happy to have you home. But England is just that little bit less sunny for having lost you. I’ll miss you, Step-step.

Positively Blogtastic? Blogtastically Positive?

>How often do I apologise for not blogging often enough? It feels like the majority of my posts address the fact that I’ve not been blogging enough. I’m not even sure most of the time who I’m apologising to. My moms, certainly, who has quit Facebook and who occasionally complains that she doesn’t know enough about what is going on with me because I’m not blogging enough. Sometimes other people (read: Lord Ameliar, new mother of Freddy!) ask me to blog more about recent changes in my life. I’m also apologising to myself: writing in my blog is an activity that I enjoy that is, for a change, not bad for me and I wish I would do it more.

I’m sorry I haven’t been blogging lately.

I felt with the last run of posts – funny though you people seem to find my misery – that although I may have been in top-form in lambasting the behaviour of the Citizens, I was being excessively negative. It seemed really weird to toss a post of goodness or happiness in amongst the posts of the living hell that my home life had become. It would have been like hiding truffles in a pile of shit.

Likewise, although I didn’t feel like I could top the story of the poop on the wall, things haven’t really improved either. Capt. Tuberculosis has, sadly, not been courteous enough to drop dead so I’m still in a state of constant annoyance and hatred. But because nothing worse than wall-poop and disgusting moldy toothbrushes has happened, I’ve given up writing about the Citizens.

Can’t write about the good outside-of-my-flat-life-stuff; can’t write about my bad still-horrific-inside-my-flat-stuff. What’s a girl to do?

Another topic that I usually hit in my blog is work. Good or bad, there’s always something to say. Except I couldn’t. Everyone I worked with at my last place knows where my blog is. I’m not so vain that I figure they are reading it all the time, but still. You know. Just in case. Now even though I’m not there anymore, I still won’t say anything bad about it. I don’t really have anything that bad to say about it. I still think they are a good group and although I wasn’t happy there, I don’t want to say anything bad about it. It just didn’t work. So, no bloggy about worky.

No more negative home posts. No negative work posts. No gems of positivity in the turdy turdness that was the turd-dom that I lived in. What’s in the future for Captain Turbotastic and her Turbotastical tales?

Well, things are looking up lately. My new job (more about that soon!) is awesome. You know what I was thinking today at 6:00? I could have technically been done at 5:30 as I started today at 8:30. And instead of watching the clock count down, I was frantically trying to get a few more things done at 5:58 because I had to leave at 6:00 to meet Alison. So as I was trying to get every thing sorted, I was thinking about what I could finish tomorrow and the rest of the week. And then I realised that there isn’t a rest of the week; tomorrow is Friday. And I actually thought to myself, “I wish it wasn’t Friday already!” Holy macaroni! That’s a thought that has never crossed my mind at work before. So yah, that’s going well.

And the countdown to moving to a new flat has been on for a good month now, but it seems real now that we’re down to just 10 days. I’m moving back out west, which will cut my commute in half. And instead of living with a trio of sub-human citizens, I’ll be moving in with my friend Tyran, who not only appears to be generally courteous to the people around him, he’s also not prone (from what I’ve seen so far) to spitting on the floor or wiping poop on the wall. He reads my blog and is worried that he’ll become my new target. I’ve told him that unless he can top my current flatmates, he’s got nothing to worry about. I hope to hell he’s got nothing to worry about. ‘Cause if he’s worse than my current flatmates, I’ll kill him.

I was worried about the future of my blog if things were getting better. What the hell would I write about? What would I complain about? If I was… I mean… “happy”… would I still get to be bitter? How ’bout cynical? Angry? Can one be angry and happy at the same time? Could I still be interesting and amusing (I’m assuming that if you are still reading this you must find me one and/or the other. Right? Validate me.)

I’ve decided to go back a bit to how I was keeping my blog before – a dump spot for the things that end up fluffing around my mind and cluttering up my thoughts. A place to rant and rave and shout and share. But I’m hoping that I’ll be able to do that about more positive things. So watch this space for that sort of nonsense.

And again: sorry for not blogging much. I’ll be working on that.