Saturday, May 11, 2002

One week in May is way too long to spend in Toronto. Maybe during the summer for Caribana, or something, when hanging outside is more pleasurable, but otherwise, not too much going on (except, of course, for the typically touristy). I did see an herbalist, though, and got a mix of herbs and chrysanthemums to boil and drink the tea of to affect my blood pressure issues (and a little acupuncture for good measure). My boss called me in for a long talk about my health, (man, her just telling me some of the stuff she's been through made my pressure rise!), and how I needed to, basically, quit tripping, (and I think she may have been halfheartedly, backhandedly recommending Xanax or some such) the evening before I left for a week off. The conversation was topped off by someone from Advertising coming in the office and beaming "Congratulations" to my wondering eyes. Turns out I've been given another project! Hoo fucking ray. That's what I need, fer sure --and some different kinda herbs. I'm not even checking voice or email til Monday, no need stressing before then. I'm one of those unseemly types for whom vacation actually means vacation. A number where you can reach me? Ha! Sure! Why don't you pick one out?

Finding Meaning Where There is None Since 1962

I finally saw Amelie, at this great theater near U of Toronto, Bloor Cinema (two balconies!). Rainy afternoon about 4:00 on a weekday--one of my favorite indulgences. The guy in the booth gave me a $43.00 (CAN) membership for free--a random act of kindness, as far as I can tell; I wasn't angling for one, being cute or flirty or even chatting, for that matter. (Yes, I suffer the delusion that the middle two are even still possible, given that I am, er... belle age) Anyway, Amelie was disappointing, as I guess I should've expected given how long I've been wanting to see it. (Anticipation is a bad mutha...shutchomouf!) It was nowhere near as good imho, as Chocolat (the first movie I've LOVED in a long time); I can't imagine why Amelie's been so widely received and ravingly reviewed. (ravingly?) Saw The Royal Tennenbaums too. It was just weird. Next:Y Tu Mama Tambien.

The glasses first cracked the first time I went to Lynchburg. The crack made the view so diffuse I didn't know what the fuck I was seeing, so I finagled for clarity. When none came, I just patched the crack with some of that stuff they advertise in the little circulars in Parade, shrugged my shoulders and pretended it wasn't that big a deal. I could see rosely again. Other cracks came and I kept patching till more than 48 hours in proximity to each other ceased my tube squeezing (no pun intended). The glasses shattered entirely. Turns out the tint had been giving me depth perception where there was none. Shit. I hate it when that happens!

On Mother's Day

My pumpkin remembered! And correctly told his father, who no doubt, dispatched his partner who returned with my gift certificate for where I wanted it for what I wanted! WooHoo! Otherwise, my newly 8 year old continues to behave like an overindulged adolescent around whom the world revolves who'd benefit from having his ass cracked the other way! (That's an old school joke/threat euphemism for corporal punishment. I think it's called child abuse now.) If either of us has any recognition of the mutual adoration society where we once thrived before being crowded out by electronic games, tv and the hilarity engendered by belches on demand, and the words fart, doodoo and butt by the time he's old enough to go on Jenny Jones it'll be a miracle. I used to say, enthusiastically, of my own volition (and meaning it!) "Mommying is the best thing I've ever done". Haven't said that lately; mostly counting the years to high school graduation, nearly having accepted the fact that whatever I could do has been done, now it'll be up to some other woman who'll think she can change him.
Sheesh. I do need drugs.

Speaking of Mothers and Jenny Jones, "Are You My Mother? " is a kid's book of my era whose new millennium counterpart is "Who Da Daddy?"; it's televised nearly daily on the Maury Povich show. Teens and slightly older hos (some married!) show up daily on that show and tearfully acknowledge to their men that they don't know if such and such kid is theirs (the man's, that is.) The show thoughtfully has cameras placed strategically backstage, to catch the wronged in full rant when they run offstage on cue and also, thoughtfully, pays for a DNA test so the truth will out. A recent twist was a chica who was on the show for the 7th time, after dredging up yet another stooge she was trying to pass the kid off on. I'd rather hope that she just can't think of a cleverer or cheaper way to travel to New York than believe that she really has no fucking clue who her baby daddy is! (are you diggin the hipness with which I speak? And I don't even listen to rap music!)

The show's other staple is the girlfriend who thinks her man is cheating. Maury sympathetically listens to the girl, then expounds on the cad's numerous potential philandering opportunities and arranges for a lie detector test--then couples counseling when he fails it. Repulsive yet...intriguing. Sometimes I was late for the gym watching this crap! I need to get an agent and a schtick so I can make the talk show circuit--are those experts paid or just exposed? Wonder what Maury and Connie talk about over dinner?

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